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Chapter Text

Celebrimbor blinked and cringed backwards habitually as he was shaken awake.

“Ionya, Ionya -” He sat up, as if struck by lightning, as startled by that nearly forgotten voice as he was the Telerin. Sauron often chose to weave around him dreams of finer times and places, all the better to try and coerce out Celebrimbor’s tightly held secrets. He would have thought the memory of his mother and her people in the swan havens too far gone for the Deceiver, lost even to his own mind as the centuries passed. 

Apparently not. Celebrimbor’s mother smoothed her hand down his hair, the light of the fireplace caught in her silver hair, and Celebrimbor drunk in the details of her face hungrily.

“Ammë,” he choked out, lunging forward to wrap his arms around his mother. Some distant, detached part of his brain noted that his stature matched the memory, arms and legs significantly shorter than they should be. 

“It is time to go, Ionya.” His mother said firmly, although her own arms came up to hold her son tightly. “Your atar would have you join him, and it goes badly with my people. Make yourself ready.” She pulled herself forcefully from Celebrimbor then and steered him forcefully from his bed. As she bustled around the room, preparing various items he would need for his travels, Celebrimbor took a moment to survey the room. He had forgotten this with time, for all that he had tried to recall his mother’s face – it was truly shocking Sauron was able to reconstruct this so accurately. It was dark still, he noticed, although the Swan havens glowed with a light of their own. Despite the earliness of the hour, there was disquiet in the city, murmurs of voices and the sounds of marching feet. 

Mechanically, Celebrimbor dressed himself in a warm tunic, dark with the colors of his father’s house, and a cloak that bore the star of Fëanor proudly upon the back. What interest would Sauron have in the first Kinslaying? Of all the times and places to return him to, why Alqualondë? 

His mother, finished with her work, returned to him and pulled the red cloak tight around his shoulders. Her hands were shaking as they settled the Satchel on his back, he realized, and grabbed his upper arms to stare down at her son. 

“Telperinquar,” she said sternly “The rest of your things await you with your father. I expect –” her voice faltered a little here, as she gazed down at him, eyes dark with the heaviness of the moment. The door to Celebrimbor’s childhood rooms rattled suddenly with a forceful knock, a loud voice demanding entry. His mother’s hands tightened to the point he could feel her fingernails digging through the weave of his tunic, and Celebrimbor was struck with the thought that this would likely be the final moment he ever had to see his mother, and his eyes welled up. How strange, to find some comfort in Sauron’s machinations even now. 

“ Melin tyë ilumë, ammë.” He got out around his tears, stepping forward to embrace her one last time. His mother took in a sharp breath, and clung to him in turn, before the pounding at the door began again. Drawing back firmly, Celebrimbor saw her wipe harshly at her eyes even as she turned from him to open the door. Three soldiers whose faces he didn’t know, dressed as the Noldor for war, awaited at the door. 

“My lady,” they addressed his mother respectfully. “It is time.” 

“Go, Tyelperinquar. Be good for your father.” She told Celebrimbor, pushing him out the door. Two of the soldiers led him off with his things, and if they made any note of his tears they said nothing of it.

“My lady, you too could sail with us. It is not too late,” Celebrimbor heard the third say in a low voice, but his mother’s voice came quickly.

“I will remain with my people. Leave me now.”

Half-dazed still, throat clenched with remembered sorrow, Celebrimbor blindly allowed the three elves to lead him down the streets. Noldor elves were marching around them, a force preparing to press forwards on the city, Celebrimbor remembered. This was the assault that Fingolfin’s company would join, ultimately winning the Swan-ships for the Noldor and leaving many of the Teleri slain in their own city. 

His body wasn’t in pain. Usually whenever Sauron saw fit to put him in a memory, he could just feel the truth of his condition, the broken bones and torn skin no matter how flawless the vision. Celebrimbor felt almost like he could float away, so unused to the lack of the weight of irons and protests of his body was he. Although there was something at his right hand – not fetters, not physical, but some weight or warmth –

Celebrimbor stopped dead in the streets, gazing with horror at Narya and Vilya, resting innocuously on his fingers as if they should rest on the hand of their creator rather than be literally anywhere else in all of Arda. 

It was no illusion either, Celebrimbor could just tell – No, no, no, nononono– if Sauron the Deceiver truly had laid claim to the Three, then truly all was lost, all of that pain, for nothing –  

“My lord?” One of the guards asked, concern clear in his voice. 

Was this all, what, a mean trick of Sauron’s to gloat over Celebrimbor’s failure? Were Ereinion and Elrond dead, then? And Galadriel –

“My lord,” a different guard intoned, as if Celebrimbor wasn’t at present less than half his height and undergoing a very visible breakdown. “We must keep moving, your father would have you at the docks when his forces strike the city.” Under the guard’s firm grip, Celebrimbor stumbled sightlessly after the three elves, utterly unaware of his surroundings. 

Vilya and Narya were not on his hand, not really, he realized. The power and energy he had poured into them, certainly, the great strands of song that bound them up in his will, to their great purpose – the core of what they were burned heavy on his right hand, but the actual metal he had wrought that power too was not there. 

Impossible. Especially if Sauron had overtaken them, impossible that he would bind them to Celebrimbor like this. And where was Nenya? With its keeper, surely, it had been more a part of Galadriel than even Celebrimbor after he had gifted it to her –

Celebrimbor stopped dead in the streets once again, his understanding of the events shifting and reshaping into something insane.

“Great knowledge of craftsmanship, and powers such that could halt the decay of this Middle-earth,” Annatar had once whispered in his ear. “The power even to harness time itself, to preserve that which the Valar deem beautiful.”  

…Oh. 

“Oh, fuck .”

Chapter Text

Before the expletive had fully even left Celebrimbor’s mouth (in Khuzdal, for such words were not yet even developed into elvish speech, what –) the distant sounds of screaming and ringing weapons filled the air. Right. Kinslaying. 

As his father’s guards were briefly distracted by the commotion, four key thoughts established themselves in his mind.

• Galadriel, bearing Nenya, had likely returned also
• His father and all of his grandfather’s people would be setting sail by morning
• Galadriel would not be 
• Celebrimbor could not be aboard one of those ships, else he would lose the chance to speak with his cousin for decades if not centuries. 

One of the guards approached him rapidly, with the face of an elf ready to throw a little princeling over his shoulder and book it if needed. Mind made up, Celebrimbor turned the other direction and ran for all he was worth down the cobbled road of Alqualondë. Shouts of surprise rang behind him, and soon after the clatter of armor as the guards gave chase. 

Alqualondë was not a city that lent itself well to evasion, Celebrimbor thought absently as he ducked into a narrow alley between two buildings, making vaguely for the sounds of fighting. His guards were hot on his heels, and had both speed and training that far surpassed his physical ability at this age. He would have to pull something clever, and quick, if he did not want to be dragged aboard his father’s ship. The thought established, Celebrimbor turned another series of building corners rapidly, the last of which was narrow enough to slow the guards a little. Once out of sight, he turned to the building itself and scaled the side, throwing himself inelegantly through an open window on the second story.

Tragically, the room was not unoccupied. A Teleri elf maiden screamed, yanking blankets around herself and brandishing the book she had been reading as if it were a weapon. Celebrimbor backed away from her with his hands up in the universal sign of I-mean-no-harm

“Aplogies, my lady – I will be leaving immediately” he stammered out and rapidly exited the room. The book sailed through the air past his head as he exited. The house had a balcony on the third floor, which Celebrimbor made for – once he was standing on it, as closely concealed to the side of the building as he could be, he watched as his three guards ceased circling the area below and decided that he must have run back to his mother. Two departed back the way towards his mother’s home, while one split off to carry the news to his father. 

Celebrimbor sagged against the wall in relief, and turned towards the ocean, visible in its vastness before the city. The docks, he knew, are where the fighting would press to. Back a ways, he could just start to see the dark red encampment of the Fëanorians. Past that, set a little apart, would be the blue company of Fingolfin’s folk, and past even that, he knew, Finarfin’s people. Galadriel. Mind made up, Celebrimbor swung himself down from the balcony to scale the building once more. 

Actually finding his cousin took more time than he cared to admit, and in the ensuing hours the fighting had grown in violence and in size. Once, in another lifetime, a young Celebrimbor would have been sickened and terrified to stillness by the sight of so much blood, and elvish bodies strewn across the streets in parts where they had been slain. 

As things were, Celebrimbor had spent a lifetime fleeing from besieged city to besieged city. He skirted the worst of the fighting, although he was eventually forced to pack his red, loudly Fëanorian cloak back into his satchel when it was clear it made a target out of him. 

Celebrimbor was out of the city proper when the sound of clear horns and the war cry of Fingolfin’s people rang through the city. Fingon had joined the fray, and the battle would soon be determined. 

Celebrimbor ran without being impeded now, as soldiers from Fingolfin’s encampment rushed to rally the battle, and made good time to the encampment of Finarfin’s folk. Here, too, he only faced delay when he was at the very shore of the ocean near one of the largest command-tents.

“Halt!” A tall elf in shining armor called to him, and he and his fellows brandished long spears at Celebrimbor. 

“I would speak with the Lady Galadriel!” Celebrimbor called to them, and after a moment of awkward fumbling pulled out his cloak with its Fëanorian star marking his identity. “I bring tidings of the utmost importance to my cousin!” The guards hesitated, and a clear voice rang from inside.

“Let him enter.” Galadriel herself opened the door and stood outside on the small deck. Celebrimbor froze where he was at the foot of the stair, and his eye was drawn immediately to the immense well of power resting on his cousin’s ring finger. Likewise, her eyes fell to where his right hand clutched the satchel to his chest, and they understood each other. “Welcome, cousin.” Galadriel said at last, and descended the stairs to draw Celebrimbor into a hug. She was smiling a little when they drew back, but her eyes searched his face intently. “We have much to discuss.”

Galadriel led Celebrimbor into her makeshift tent-house, where, to his surprise, Celeborn waited at a table with a cup of tea. 

“You–!” Celbrimbor cut himself off in surprise, going rigid. Celeborn looked back at him equally speechless, eyes wide.

“So it is as you thought, my love.” He said at last, turning to Galadriel, who still had the hand bearing Nenya resting on Celebrimbor’s shoulder. 

“Indeed.” She said, drawing Celebrimbor to the table and pressing him into a seat. “Melleth nín , would you be so kind as to bring our guest a drink?” Celeborn stood and made his way to the kitchens, clapping a hand to Celebrimbor’s shoulder as he passed. 

“What do you remember?” Galadriel asked Celebrimbor, moving to sit across from him at the table. Celebrimbor swallowed roughly and looked down at the table.

“Angband. I was with- there. It was some time after Sauron took Ost-in-Edhil, and he wanted the Three.” Celeborn returned quietly to the table carrying a cup, which he set next to Celebrimbor as he took his seat. Galadriel placed her own hand over Celebrimbor's. “I didn’t tell him anything,” Celebrimbor hastened to add, glancing furtively between both of his dear friends. “He knew the location of the nine and the seven, but he had no hand in the three and I didn’t- I would never- ”

“We know, we know.” Celeborn hushed him, and Galadrial’s fingers curled around his. 

“Sauron was trying again to wrest the information from me, and I thought I fell asleep.” Celebrimbor continued, returning his eyes to the table. “I assumed, when I awoke here, that he was playing some game of coercion- he has before, although I thought it strange that he should take interest in the events of Alqualondë. Only then I realized,” he gestured vaguely to his right hand, where Vilya and Narya shone on his fingers. “And realized what had happened.” 

“It went much the same with me,” Galadriel said. “I awoke here and was disoriented. I too, first considered this a dream, only the power of Nenya persuaded me otherwise. Did you awaken to yourself at the beginning of the second siege on the Teleri?” 

“Yes, just then.” Celebrimbor agreed. “Anna- Sauron- when he was instructing us in the matters of ring lore, he spoke of power over time itself. It was with this instruction and reading through grandfather’s notes in the creation of the Silmarils that I wrought the Three. But, my friends-” he was seized by a sudden anxiety and turned back to Celeborn. “What became of the three? I see Nenya made it to you, Galadriel - what of the other two? What happened? I have had no knowledge of the doings of Middle-earth since I was dragged from Eregion, what of the survivors?”

Celeborn and Galadriel made eye contact over his head, and Galadriel released his hand to lean back in her chair. It was silent for a long moment. 

“Vilya came to Elrond, as you intended.” Celeborn spoke at last. “Narya passed to Gil-galad, and eventually to Mithrandir, who used it to great end.” 

“Mithrandir?” Celebrimbor questioned, and Galadriel surprised him by laughing quietly. 

“Never mind that, I will tell you later,” she said, and then leaned forward again with a serious countenance. “The survivors of Eregion made their way to Lindon, and Gil-galad and Elrond rallied a great host that marched to meet Sauron in battle. They were joined by a great company of men from Numenor. Together, they managed to cleave Sauron’s treacherous Master Ring from his hand, and vanquish him from the world, for a little while.”

Celebrimbor gaped at his cousin in shock.

“I-” he stopped to collect himself. “Ann-Sauron was vanquished? I only just saw-” he broke off as comprehension began dawning on him. Galadriel’s lips thinned and Celeborn reached across the table to rub his arm. 

“Yes,” Celeborn said gently. “I rather think what you perceived as falling asleep was rather you remembering the moment of your death. It has been an Age since Galadriel and I heard the tidings of your passing.”

Celebrimbor sat for a while, stunned into silence. Galadriel and Celeborn allowed him his moment, with Celeborn still rubbing his arm gently. The touch was grounding, as Celebrimbor collected himself. The sounds of shouting and swords clashing against swords continued from the distance, morbidly atmospheric in their little circle of firelight. 

“Neither of you died.” Celebrimbor said at last. “I assume neither of you- since you haven’t spoken of your own deaths.”

“Not to my knowledge,” Galadriel tapped her fingernail against the table. “It was odd. I was awake and in my quarters when I felt as if I were tugged away from myself. I assumed it was the Enemy, at first.”

“I was asleep,” Celeborn admitted. “I, too, assumed I was dreaming and went looking for my Lady immediately.” The look Galadriel sent him was unbearably fond. 

“But wait!” Celebrimbor blinked and whirled abruptly on Celeborn. “You were never a ringbearer. How did you come to be here?” Galadriel laughed again, the familiar, bell-like noise settling something in Celebrimbor’s soul that had been off-balance since he first awoke. 

“Your mind must still be shaken, my friend!” She said at last. “I expected you to question that much sooner. Can you really not make a guess?”

“Did you let him wear Nenya occasionally or something? Did someone else  pass Vilya or Narya to him? Because if so,” Celebrimbor straightened, turning a disapproving eye to Galadriel’s amused face. “If so, you both really ought to know better, magical rings shouldn’t be juggled around like that, the intent and nature of the ringbearer matters-”

“ Tyelpé, really now.” Celeborn interrupted. “I am here because Galadriel is my wife.” Celebrimbor blinked at him. 

“Yes? I know that?” He said, still bewildered, and Galadriel laughed again. 

“Tyelpé. You were there at our wedding, and many others besides,” Celeborn continued patiently. “Did you think ‘ two hröa, one fëa ’ were just for poetry’s sake? Or that when I could tell you my wife’s mind while I was in Eregion and she in Lindon I was merely guessing?”

“Yes, a little,” Celebrimbor said and cast an unfriendly look at Galadriel, who had begun laughing even harder. “It was the preservation of Arda, not marriage, that was my field of study!” He defended himself. Galadriel finally subsided with many chuckles. 

“Quite so, my friend. And speaking of the nature of ringbearers.” All eyes turned again to Vilya and Narya, where Celebrimbor rested his hand on the table.

“My best guess,” Celebrimbor said hesitantly, “is that since Ereinion and Elrond have not yet been born, the two bound me as their ringbearer instead. How precisely they were bound to my fëa, which by the way Sauron had thoroughly ensnared in Angband, only the Valar know.” He hesitated again. “Are you quite sure I truly passed? I thought I had many times, only for Sauron to call my fëa back to my body. He even tried to put me in a jar once, which obviously didn't work. I am not doubting your word, only the Enemy is skilled in necromancy-”

“You died.” Galadriel’s voice was frigid now, all traces of merriment gone from her voice. “I am sure. The Enemy… Made sure we were aware.” Celeborn’s face looked a little green, even in the firelight. Celebrimbor took a deep breath and then nodded. 

“Very well, I died. I doubt sitting around and making guesswork on how we three came to be here will help us much further, as fascinating as it is.”

“I agree,” Celeborn said, and Galadriel nodded sharply.

“We came too late to stop the first Kinslaying, else I would have. Fëanor and his sons will sail, along with their people-”

“-Not me, though,” Celebrimbor put in hastily.

“-with most of their people.” Galadriel amended. “I doubt much that this will prevent your father and uncles from burning the Teleri ships again.” Celebrimbor shook his head. 

“It will not. Father will assume I stayed with my mother in Alqualondë, and Fëanor never once guessed that his kin would cross the Helcaraxë rather than remain in Valinor. 

“So we cross the Helcaraxë,” Galadriel said thoughtfully. “That does not change. Fëanor, Amrod, and Amras die in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath , that too will not change.” Celebrimbor stirred at this, realizing suddenly that he had sacrificed the ability to save his grandfather and uncles in his haste to reach his cousin. Celeborn caught his line of thinking and shook his head. 

“You would have been unable to do anything, Tyelpé.” He said firmly. “You are brilliant, but you are one elf – one elfling, even – and you know your family would not have listened to you.” Celebrimbor swallowed and nodded. 

“I am glad you came to us,” Galadriel said, and reaching across the table, lifted his right hand so that Narya caught and reflected the light of the dancing fire. “This, I believe, along with Vilya and my own Nenya, will be of great help to us during the passage of the Grinding Ice.”

“I can’t actually see the rings, you know,” Celeborn said thoughtfully, staring at Celebrimbor’s hand. “I can perhaps feel their power, if I truly try, but that is all.” 

“The ability to conceal was one of the early enchantments I laid on the rings, it’s woven into the intersection of the power of the ring and the will of the ringbearer,” Celebrimbor replied automatically. “Will they really be of much help? I confess I always intended Vilya for Elrond and Narya for Gil-galad, one to heal and one to embolden, I never meant to wield either myself.”

“Silver-hand indeed. I will tell you, sometime, of how your generosity helped drive Sauron from Middle-earth,” Celeborn smiled at him, and Celebrimbor’s ears heated. 

“They certainly will. With Narya’s warmth and courage, Nenya to protect us, and Vilya to offer relief from the ice affliction, we will be far better off this time,” Galadriel said, eyes far away. “Furthermore, we only prepared a little over a decade worth of supplies – it was our lack of equipment and food that killed many. We won’t be unprepared this time.” She stood abruptly from the table and began pacing, arms folded behind her back.

“I know how to make staffs that will test the ice,” Celebrimbor offered. “Durin’s folk often travelled over the mountains, they had many tools to avoid meeting an icy demise.” Galadriel hummed in acknowledgement. 

“Very good – there is much to prepare. We have much more to discuss, Tyelpé. You will likely have to join my company with some stealth, no children were allowed to cross during the first pilgrimage across the ice, and there is still your mother in Alqualondë.” She turned rather suddenly on where Celebrimbor still sat and advanced on his chair. “Do not leave my dwelling.” She said rather fiercely, towering over him. “If you have business, send one of my people to attend it. If you were to remain behind or, Valar forbid, drown in the ocean or some such nonsense, I will be most displeased .” Celebrimbor nodded quickly, thoroughly cowed. “Good.” She said, and drew back for a moment, only to suddenly lean down and gather Celebrimbor up in a hug. “We saw your body, you know. He displayed it. It was deeply upsetting.” 

“I apologize?” Celebrimbor offered, but hugged his cousin back just as fiercely. And to think, not even yesterday he was in his cell in Angband convinced he would never see his dear friends again. Galadriel huffed and released him, placing him back into his chair. “It will not happen again. Stay put. Celeborn will keep you out of mischief.” She said, and patted him on the head. 

“I am not actually an elfling you know,” Celebrimbor muttered, face heating in embarrassment. His cousin was not listening to him, but kissed her husband (future husband?) briefly on her way to the door. 

“Farewell, my love. I will return after Fingolfin and Finarfin hold council.” 

“In dartha cín dandol bē ára tiratha i anur.” He replied, catching her hand to press a kiss to the back of it as she departed. Celebrimbor scrunched his nose despite himself and took a sip from the cup Celeborn had given him to distract himself from the obnoxious couple. 

He immediately spat it back out. 

“Celeborn! Is this wine?”

“Yes? I assumed, given the circumstances- oh no.” Galadriel left the tent laughing as Celeborn hurried to wrest the cup from their (now significantly younger) friend. “Oh no, are you even within a century of your age of majority? I forgot – Tyelpé you give that back-” 

“I think I deserve it, 'given the circumstances'!” Celebrimbor replied cheerfully, managing to take another swig as Celeborn tried to wrestle the cup away. He wrinkled his nose as Celeborn successfully pried it loose. “Although I will admit I had forgotten that the taste for alcohol was an acquired one.”

“You can wait to acquire it!” Celeborn said sternly, returning the cup to the kitchen. “I certainly won’t be distributing alcohol to elfings anytime soon, rings of power and traumatic memories nonwithstanding.”

“Once again, I feel the need to point out that I am not actually an elfling,” Celebrimbor countered. 

“Could have fooled me.” His friend returned and stood Celebrimbor up. “Try and get some sleep. Galadriel will be gone long, and I will send word to your mother that you are with us and have decided to remain with your father’s kin, though he has sailed. We will doubtlessly be preparing for a long journey when you wake.”

“I am rather tired,” Celebrimbor admitted. “Is there nothing I can do to help our departure? I could see if I can put together some of Durin’s contraptions.”

“Leave me a list of materials, and I will procure them,” Celeborn led him over to a low couch of some sort, immediately in front of the fire, and went to gather some blankets and pillows. Far too sleepy, and heart too filled with joy at having escaped Angband, Celebrimbor allowed the coddling as Celeborn pushed him down and even knelt over him to remove his boots as he laid back. His friend’s face was unlined and his shoulders more unburdened than Celebrimbor remembered, even in Eregion during those precious times of peace. On impulse he reached out and squeezed his hand. 

“‘M glad it was you n' Artanis,” he yawned. “I’m glad I get to see you both again.” Celeborn looked down at him with soft eyes. Smoothing Celebrimbor’s hair back, he pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“My heart sings to see you alive, dear friend. Rest, Tyelpé – My wife and I will handle things for now."

Chapter Text

Galadriel had tolerated much in her thousands of years of living, but tedium had rarely been one of them. 

The events after the First Kinslaying played out precisely as they had during her previous life – the week had been filled with nearly non-stop councils for the Lords of Houses Fingolfin and Finarfin, the exact same arguments and conversations being hashed out. The make-shift encampment on the shore of the sea was bustling with soldiers and courtiers, all keeping a watchful eye (but otherwise staunchly ignoring) the smoking ruin they had made of the Swan Haven in the distance.  Galadriel had been in the thick of it once, a lifetime ago, and by necessity she must be again if her and her brother were to lead a company of their people across the Helcaraxë. Still, the events of the week were more or less determined already, the true work lay back in her quarters, where a young elfling was stashed like a secret diary. 

Celeborn and Celebrimbor had not been idle in her absence, and by a stroke of genius Celeborn had arrayed Celebrimbor all in grey and made sure to be seen here and there in camp introducing the elfling as “ Tithenmel ” and ordering him about as if he were an attendant. Most of their time, they spent preparing for the long journey ahead surreptitiously while Galadriel (and Finrod) loudly drew the spotlight as they demanded alongside Fingolfin’s house that they pursue Fëanor’s folk. 

At the beginning of the second week since the first kinslaying, Galadriel opted to skip one such conference she had been summoned to in favor of sitting on the shaded tent-deck of her quarters overlooking the ocean with her two co-conspirators. 

“ Amille was one of the casualties, you know,” Tyelpé said almost casually in response to a remark Celeborn made about possible retaliation from the Teleri. “I thought she might have been, even all of those years ago. She was dressed for war when she sent me away, and very nearly couldn’t look at me.” He took a sip of the tea Celeborn had steeped for him as his two friends grimaced. 

“My condolences,” Galadriel said cautiously.

“She took up arms against her husband’s people?” Celeborn questioned, a disturbed furrow in his forehead.

“I would say rather that her husband’s people took up arms against her and hers,” Tyelpé replied easily. “I can’t find it in myself to blame her. I empathize, even.” The subject stalled for a little while as the three friends sat and listened to the sounds of dusk falling, the ocean water lapping at the sand before them. Galadriel strained her eyes at the horizon. 

“How come the councils?” Celeborn asked, and Tyelpé tilted his head curiously. 

“The same. Rather exhausting, if I am honest.” Galadriel flicked her hand dismissively. “Father has been happy enough to supply the heavy blankets and copious winter wardrobes I have requested. I expected he would ask more questions, but in his defense he has been rather preoccupied.”

“I have finally found a good way to ensure we will have all the boots we need,” Celeborn volunteered. “Your Father’s people expected to join the siege on Alqualondë, and their militia found themselves with something of a surplus now that they did not participate.” 

“Good, good, that should cut back on the number of frostbitten toes Vilya and I will have to heal,” Tyelpé said absently. “I too have been – oh look, it’s begun.”

Indeed, the horizon across the ocean had begun burning a dull red, blending warmly with the indigo of the sky. The three companions sipped their tea peacefully as first concerned murmurs and then shouts filled the camp around them. 

“They're burning the ships!” Someone yelled behind them, and something very much like pandemonium erupted. 

“You know, this is very likely the closest we will have to a proper sunset for sometime,” Tyelpé said thoughtfully into his cup. Galadriel frowned at him. 

“My lady!” A voice came into the tent, muffled behind the doors. Galadriel sighed and stood, setting her cup aside. 

“That will be Father’s summons for me to come to the council. This should be the last one, thank the Valar.” She paused suddenly, a new thought occurring to her. “Celeborn, you should accompany me. Tyelpé, keep yourself concealed.”

“Yes, yes.” Tyelpé grumbled, still watching the burn of the horizon harshly reflected in the inky ocean. Celeborn followed back into her quarters as she placed a circlet of gold on her head and arrayed herself in her finest jewelry.

“Melleth nín ?” He questioned as he made his way behind her to the door. 

“I don’t believe you ever had the opportunity to meet my Father in our first life.” She smiled at him, and Celeborn sucked in a sharp breath and immediately set about tidying his hair. 

Two guards in the gold and green of her father’s house awaited at the door, and between them her brother Finrod. Galadriel’s heart panged a little with an ancient, familiar loss as it did every time she looked upon him in this life. Things will be different this time, she vowed to herself even while smiling in greeting. 

“Father has summoned us again – Have you not seen! Those Fëanorians have burned the ships rather than return for us…” Finrod’s rambling cut off rather abruptly and he blinked at the silver-headed elf following his younger sister out of her dwelling. “Artanis. What – who…?” 

“This is Celeborn, son of Galadhon. He will be accompanying us,” Galadriel returned peacefully. Finrod stuttered a few more times before managing out a “Len suilen! ” which her husband returned. 

“We will be having words about this later, Artanis,” he hissed in her ear as they made their way to the largest tent at the center of both camps, the informal command center where most of their meetings had been called. Galadriel hummed in acknowledgement, probably a little too amused. Oh, well. Her brother had come around in one lifetime, he could do it again. 

The guards drew the flaps of the tent aside for them but remained outside (with a host of other such royal personnel). Galadriel made her way to where her father Finarfin sat with all their people opposite Fingolfin and his. Finrod took his own seat at his father’s right, with Orodeth next to him. Galadriel sat at her Father’s left while her husband hovered unobtrusively behind her shoulder. 

“-Betrayed us all! And after we came to his rescue at Alqualondë!” A tall elf she recognized as Turgon was shouting, leaning over the table with his fists clenched. “This is not to be borne!" 

“And yet what would you have us do, sprout wings and fly across the ocean to demand retribution?” Orodeth returned, red in the face. This must have been going on for sometime. Fingon, normally the first to defend Fëanor’s house for his great friendship with Maedhros, was abnormally pale and reserved. He alone sat quietly as his brother and sister stood shouting with the others. 

“Enough,” Fingolfin spoke finally, raising his head. He was leaning on the table with his hands folded, the same dark circles under his eyes that Galadriel could see in her own father. “It is clear that Fëanor has left us but two options: we may remain in Valinor and beg pardon of the Valar, or we may pass the Helcaraxë as the Enemy himself once did.” 

Silence fell for a time at that, and although some of the assembled lords murmured anxiously among themselves, Fingolfin’s eyes were locked only on his brother’s face. 

“My house will remain, to make what amends we can to my wife’s people, the Teleri, for the house of Finwë has done them great harm.” Finarfin spoke at last, and his eyes were sorrowful as he looked at his brother. “But you and your house, my brother, must face the Grinding Ice. The Teleri will demand blood to recompense the lives taken in Alqualondë, and I fear for you if you remain here.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Fingolfin said heavily, resting his forehead against his clenched hands once more as he broke eye contact with Finarfin. Two great kings of their people, and they were both so young , Galadriel realized suddenly. She had lived both of their lives many times over by now, and in much less peaceful times. This was the beginning of the end of those times, and Fingolfin and Finarfin realized it even if their kin didn’t. Galadriel herself hadn’t the first time, too hot with righteous fury and determined to chase down Fëanor that he may answer for his wrongdoings.

“I will offer aid, of course,” Finarfin spoke again, voice subdued. “Supplies for your journey. And there will be those of my house who wish to accompany you.” 

“Orodeth and I will wish to be a part of your number,” Finrod spoke up, voice strong and confident as if he knew what he sent himself to. 

“I, too, will pursue Fëanor and his son. They have much to answer for,” Galadriel said, not quite able to summon the heat she had spoken with her first life. This time, she forced herself to look at her father as he gazed at his children with proud but heartbroken eyes. She hadn’t been able to bear it last time. 

“I also know what it is to watch your children go where you cannot follow Atar,” she thought to herself bitterly. May he find comfort in Galadriel’s mother and whatever of their house would remain in Aman. 

Fingolfin nodded in acknowledgement and stood, sighing. 

“There is much to prepare. I will begin seeing to our departure – let us meet again to work out the finer details, just you and I, brother.” Finarfin nodded, and Fingolfin left the tent with his sons, along with Finrod and Orodeth. Finarfin settled deeper into his seat, face more shadowed than it had been even during the meeting. 

“ Atar, I would speak with you,” Galadriel spoke quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder. 

“I am not angry, hinya. If that is what this is about,” her father walked by her left along the beach, arms folded diplomatically behind his back. Celeborn trailed far behind, just out of earshot, and although her father’s confusion had been clear he hadn’t questioned the young elf following. “I knew you and your brothers have long desired to see the shores of Middle-earth. It was why I offered what I did to my brother, and I do not begrudge it though he takes the best and brightest of my house.” 

“I know, Atar. You are too kind.” Galadriel said quietly. It was a trait not common in the house of Finwë, and indeed not one she would ascribe to herself or her husband. Perhaps in Finrod and in Fingon, the great heroes of legend that they became (might still become). Certainly in her son-in-law Elrond, one day. “I merely wanted to say goodbye, and to warn you before you speak again with Fingolfin. The journey will be long and perilous, but more so than either of you believe. I have seen it.” 

“Have you?” Her father turned to her in concern. “Are you and your brothers in danger?”

“Not from the ice, but Fingolfin will lose many of his number if he does not prepare abundantly,” Galadriel said and hesitated. “He will want to prepare for a decade and a half of travel. I would ask he consider an additional decade of supplies.” It was a little too specific, for all that she had been counted wise even at this age. Still, her father nodded his agreement. 

“I will make him aware.” He stopped here, and turned to his daughter, placing his hands on her shoulders. “I am proud of you, Artanis. More than you will ever know.”

“ Nanyae mána ná sëldelya. ” She replied. They embraced for a moment, with the tide bringing in cool, salty water to lap gently at the hem of Galadriel’s green dress. Finarfin took a deep breath as he drew back. 

“Keep an eye on your brothers, if you can spare one.”

“I will,” Galadriel promised, and privately thought that it would be a more daunting task than Finarfin, third son of Finwë in the realm of the Blessed, could possibly imagine. 

“Very good,” he said softly. “And I’ve been meaning to ask, who is the young elf who follows us? He has the look of one of the Sindarin emissaries who travel from Alqualondë to Middle-earth.” 

“Oh yes I’ve been meaning to tell you!” Galadriel spoke now in a more merry voice, turning to gesture Celeborn over. “This is Celeborn, who will be my husband.” 

If a loud squawk was heard by the passing soldiers, they put it down to the loud sea-gulls that made their nests on the shoreline. 

Galadriel, flanked by her brothers, drew her heavy fur cloak more tightly around herself as the exiled Noldor began crossing the first stretch of icy wasteland before them. Carts creaked, laden with the surplus of supplies Finarfin sent with them. (If Fingolfin was a little bewildered by the increased baggage, he put it down to his brother’s protectiveness of his departed children). 

This was not, admittedly, a stretch of her life she would have relived given the choice. Not that the Valar consulted her at any point before she was flung back in time. 

Somewhere in the company behind them, little Tyelpé was hidden among her husband’s luggage, and would be until any talk of returning the young elfling would be completely impossible.

“Second thoughts, nésa ?” Finrod teased from her side. Both of her brothers were red-nosed in the cold, bright-eyed at the prospect of the adventure ahead of them. Again, so painfully young. 

“Hardly.” Middle-earth would be kinder to her family this time. She would ensure it.

Chapter Text

Celebrimbor had never been one to defend the actions of his Father, much less the actions of his Grandfather. He had known in his heart even in his first life that forcing Fingolfin’s folk across the Helcaraxë had been petty and cruel, even if Fëanor hadn’t known it was the path they would choose. 

Now in his second life, Celebrimbor thought he could grasp Galadriel’s wild hatred for his grandfather a little better. 

In the morning it was cold. They would pause the march after endless hours, and Celeborn would slip him a half-frozen bite of shortbread, which was cold. Even sequestered in as many layers as possible and stashed in a cart bearing Celeborn’s things, sleep came rarely and when he did wake he was still cold. 

That was to say nothing of the sheer, oppressive bleakness surrounding the exiled Noldor on every side. Sheer white stretched out on either side, as far as the eye could see, against an opaque grey sky.

In fact, he reflected rather sourly, it was only shocking more of Fingolfin's people hadn’t attempted to kill his father and uncles on sight. May the Valar grant him the same strength of character when he reunites with his father. 

He hadn’t seen Galadriel since they departed, and only could speak to Celeborn on the rare occasion the adult elves finally wearied themselves and pitched tents to rest. Then Celeborn would pull his wooden cart of belongings and unload Celebrimbor like he was a rug safely concealed in the privacy of his tent. It had been funny the first couple of times, being rolled out of a sleep-mat onto the floor by his friend, but as they pressed on further into the icy wasteland it was all they could do to huddle for warmth and whisper quietly, afraid of being detected. 

“My retinue is going to think I’ve grown more humble in our time at Alqualondë. Caundor is very thankful to not be carrying my cart, I believe,” Celeborn whispered, voice hushed. “He had to the first time we did this.” 

“Always happy to help you build character,” Celebrimbor whispered back, only to be abruptly hushed by Celeborn as footsteps fell just outside the tent. Low voices murmured to each other in Sindarin. Celeborn's small company had made their displeasure known on being forced back to their home in Doriath on foot across the Grinding Ice rather than by boat, as was customary, and Celeborn was careful to keep his grey company as far from Fingolfin’s folk as possible until tensions settled a little. Better yet, the grudge the Sindarin elves bore the Noldor suited the process of elfling-smuggling just fine.

The footsteps passed, and Celebrimbor breathed a little more easily. 

“What do you think about in the cart all day while I do all the labor?” Celeborn questioned. 

“I try to use Narya, mostly. And I would happily switch places with you and bear the cart, if you can bear being stuck as an elfling not even thirty yet,” Celebrimbor snarked back, digging his cold feet into Celeborn’s shin in retaliation. Celeborn hissed and kicked back.

It was true that Celebrimbor needed far more sleep than he remembered ever requiring. It was a good thing Galadriel had recommended the “Celebrimbor in a cart” plan, he would never have been able to keep the pace the elves were setting had he been following behind. 

“I think it is working,” Celeborn said at last. “I cannot remember with certainty, but I don’t believe we had covered this distance so quickly last time.”

“What distance,” Celebrimbor shrank miserably under the covers. “It seems we haven’t moved at all in ages.” Celeborn patted his shoulder in commiseration, and the two settled into silence as the older elf took a well deserved rest. Celebrimbor, restless from the hours motionless in his cart, focused instead on Narya. 

He had told Galadriel truly that the Rings had never been intended for him, although he was their maker. He had never actually used them, though he knew the theories better than any save Sauron. He tried to apply those theories now, willing the power on his finger to surround the great encampment of elves. 

Guard against weariness , he tried to command it, and couldn’t tell if he was just thinking loudly or truly accomplishing anything. Surround-protect-encourage. Warm. 

Celeborn let out a pleased hum in his sleep and dragged Celebrimbor closer to him, so maybe something was working. 

The days passed (if days did pass, time was impossible for Celebrimbor to measure here) in such fashion, largely with Celebrimbor bundled up among Celeborn’s possessions and concentrating Narya on the marching elves. He slept too, more than he ever had in his life, and whether it was due to magical exertion taking its toll or his age, he genuinely could not tell. When he was awake, Celeborn would often sing in Sindarin or play word-games with his company. Often he told stories loudly, or encouraged others to do the same. 

All of the songs were in praise of Doriath, or travelling-home marching songs, or purely invention by the singer. Sleepily, Celebrimbor wondered at the lack of the histories recounted – not once did anyone launch into the Lay of Lúthien or the Noldolantë or any of the old laments. Mournful though they were, they had long been favorites among the elves in Middle-earth, and were certainly long enough to pass the time well. It was only after he had fallen asleep and woken up once more that he realized Oh, none of that has happened yet. It left him feeling displaced and isolated, even more than the lack of conversation did. 

Celeborn and Celebrimbor’s little ruse was bound to fail eventually, and the day finally came. It was during one of the rare moments, when Celeborn had been called off to oversee some matter or another amongst the Sindarin or else to receive some news or council from the Noldor, that the cart was left unattended and Celebrimbor was discovered. 

It happened while he was sleeping, naturally, and he woke when his face was suddenly uncovered to the biting wind. As he blinked against the harsh white light, dazed, shouts of surprise came from above him. 

It was Celeborn’s attendant, Caundor, he recollected, and he and the dark-haired elf stared at each other equally stupefied for a moment. 

“Tithenmel?! ” The elf asked incredulously, voice a few octaves too high. Celebrimbor winced, both at Celeborn’s selected name for him and for his pounding head. 

“Ah. Master Caundor - it’s nice to see you again?” Celebrimbor tried, but was immediately interrupted.

“How did you come to be here? Does the prince know you are here? Where are your parents???” Caundor’s squawking drew others of the Sindarin company over, who gawked at Celebrimbor also. He winced. 

“Prince Celeborn knows I am here! It’s a little difficult to explain –”

“What is the meaning of all this,” Celeborn’s voice called, and Celebrimbor was relieved to see him jogging over hastily. 

“What is the meaning of this !” Caundor returned, gesturing wildly at Celebrimbor’s sheepish form. 

“This is my young friend Tithenmel, if you will recall,” Celeborn replied, finally reaching them and laying a hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “His mother was slain in Alqualondë, and his father is in Middle-earth – I agreed to help him reach his kin rather than remain orphaned in Aman.” The explanation was evidently to the liking of the others, but there were a few laughs all around at the deception. 

“Rolling an elfling up in a carpet, honestly!” One called from the back. “I pray the Valar watch over any future children you may have, Prince.”

“You could have at least put him in the wagon with the blankets!” Someone else called, and Celebrimbor relaxed as the tension dissipated. Celeborn helped Celebrimbor out of the cart, and he was finally allowed to stretch his legs and walk a little ways. Several elves, including Caundor and a merry elf with red hair who introduced himself as Laslaith, plied Celebrimbor with questions and stories in turn, delighted by the interruption to their monotonous day. 

“If you have dwelt your entire life in Aman, you must not have heard much of Middle-earth!” Laslaith was telling him animatedly. Celebrimbor shook his head (as if he hadn’t spent thousands of years dwelling there). 

“I haven’t - I listened to your songs of Doriath while you walked, though.”

“Doriath is wonderfully fair,” Laslaith said. “The silver fountains of those halls make music that echoes across the stone, and there is dancing in the streets by day or night.”

“You really live in a cave?” Celebrimbor questioned. He had never been to Doriath himself before it’s fall, although his friends had told him of it. Celeborn frowned at him for the description from over Laslaith’s shoulder.

“A cave he says! Not at all, not at all my friend. You’re thinking of nasty little areas with no light and no room to breathe. No, the dwarves made us a great labyrinth of tunnels in central Beleriand, and there in Menegroth our Queen Melian protects the land from any evil that would beleaguer it.”

“So it’s true that King Thingol really married a maia?” Celebrimbor asked, mostly to keep the conversation going.

“It is true. I could sing the story for you, if you like, of how he came upon her in the woods and was so enchanted that he fell into a deep trance for many years?” Celebrimbor nodded, and the other Sindarin elves cheered and even joined in as Laslaith lifted his voice in a rhythmic ballad. Clearly a popular choice in song among the elves of Doriath. 

Narya warmed his right hand, unseen to all but him as the grey company walked singing through the ice. This wasn’t a song he had heard before – the events of Doriath had touched him little, save for their impact on his dear friends, and Celeborn and Elrond both had refused to sing of it. 

Understandably. His young friend/cousin-by-dubious-adoption(?) was ever smiling and diplomatic in Celebrimbor’s fond memories of Lindon and Eregion, not at all one to bring up the messy family histories between them. Such as his father’s city being destroyed twice over a Silmaril. Or Celebrimbor’s uncles and father being entirely responsible for the loss of both of Elrond’s parents. Or said uncles then immediately kidnapping him and his twin for reasons only they knew.

For example. 

Celebrimbor’s head began aching again even as he forced himself to smile at the last verses of the cheery song. 

“- And that is how our dear King came to be married to her Highness, most beautiful and gracious of the maiar,” Laslaith finished grandly, entirely unaware of Celebrimbor catastrophizing beside him. “May they live together protected by her girdle until the end of Middle-earth!”

The words girdle and end were some of the things Celebrimbor deeply did not want to think about right now in connection to Doriath, so he changed the subject quickly.

“What of the dwarves? I have never heard of them,” he said, staunchly ignored Celeborn’s incredulous gaze burning into the back of his head as Laslaith launched back into his stories. (In truth, Celebrimbor often preferred the company of dwarves over elves in his workshop, and created many feats of engineering with the help of his friend Narvi.)

Narvi who may also have died for Annatar's betrayal. Celebrimbor had no way of knowing. 

“- And did you know, too, that the dwarves keep large winged creatures under the mountains? They send them flying up and down mine shafts.” 

“What?” Celebrimbor cut in, truly taken aback for the first time. “...Like bats?” He had never such in his travels. 

“Like bats,” Laslaith nodded solemnly, and then extended his arms and flapped them ridiculously. “Only nearly as large as this! And do you know what the dwarves do with these giant bats?” 

“What?” Celebrimbor asked, thoroughly confused now, although he could hear snickering behind him for some reason. 

“They snatch misbehaving elflings of course!!” Laslaith said brightly, and in one smooth turn plucked him from the ground, whirled him around once, and flung him up into the air before setting him safely back on his feet. Celebrimbor’s shriek was as genuine as it was humiliating. 

He straightened his tunic and cut a sharp glare at Celeborn and anyone who was laughing too openly. 

“I suppose no such creatures exist?” He asked haughtily with whatever remained of his dignity. It wasn’t a lot. 

“No, no, forgive me Tithenmel!” Laslaith laughed. “I have a sister just your age back in Doriath, whom I love dearly and love to torment even more.”

“My sympathies to your sister!” Was all Celebrimbor could reply, to a renewed chorus of laughter. 

At least he wasn’t confined to the cart anymore.

Chapter Text

The first casualties still took Celebrimbor by surprise.

At first there was only a noise not unlike wind whistling through the snow, indistinguishable from the frigid howling winds around them. The pitch of the noise climbed into an eerie crackle, and Celeborn suddenly fisted Celebrimbor’s collar and shouted something that was lost to the wind and the grinding of the ice. Far to their right, on the other side of Fingolfin’s company, part of a large jagged glacier broke free and crumbled to the frozen ocean below with a horrible rumbling noise. The impact kicked up an icy spray, and Celeborn forced Celebrimbor and Caundor both to the ground, wrapping his cloak over their heads. The screams and shouts of the elves around them were swallowed as the spray hit them, and for a horrible moment all Celebrimbor could hear was the labored breathing of the two elves crouched over him and the grinding of the ice below his hands. 

“I think we’re clear,” Celeborn rasped out when the ground stopped trembling, and drew his cloak away from their heads. As Celebrimbor shakily climbed to his feet, he saw glittering shards of what looked like glass mixed liberally with snow tinkling to the ground where Celeborn let his cloak fall. Around them, too, a fine layer of sparkling debris had fallen, and there was a horrible crack in the ground a few paces away. Celeborn quickly ushered the two away, calling out to his company. 

Grey-cloaked elves all around them struggled to their feet, dragging their comrades up with them. Nearby, Laslaith began hauling up a cart that had been overturned in the chaos, his red hair haloed by silver and white. 

“Is anyone injured?” Celeborn called as the group clustered in closer. A cursory look showed a few slashed faces and clipped ears where the jagged ice had made its mark, and more than a few bruised and bloodied hands and knees. Still, the group filled the air with murmured “fine”s and “just a scratch, my prince,” though they were still wide-eyed and shaking in shock. In the distance, they could hear the beginnings of frantic shouting and wailing. Celebrimbor exhaled shakily. “Good, good,” Celeborn said finally. “But this will happen again. If you hear the ice groan, crouch to the ground in groups and pull your cloaks around your heads. No one walk alone from here on out.”

Celeborn swallowed and looked over to the blue-cloaked elves who had been closer to the crashing glacier. To his horror, Celebrimbor realized that a part of Fingolfin’s company had been buried under. He could faintly hear cries of distress and wailing on the wind. He turned to look at his friend, who was already looking at him. 

“We should offer our support,” Celeborn said. “Thalcâm, you stay back with any injured, no matter how minor. Laslaith, see to the carts. The rest of you come with me.” 

As they made their way to the larger string of elves, Celebrimbor tugged on Celeborn’s sleeve until he leaned down. 

“I’ll try to use Vilya,” he whispered to his friend “But I need you to look out for Fingolfin or any of my relatives.” Celeborn pondered this for a moment, and then tugged a forest-green scarf from around his soldiers. Stopping Celebrimbor with a hand on his shoulder, he knotted it around his lower face, and then pulled Celebrimbor’s hood firmly down over his ears to shadow his face. 

“There we are,” he said, patting him on the shoulder, and then they were off again. 

It was truly a horror show. Elves were staggering to their feet, shredded palms clutching at injuries where the ice had daggered through their thick winter cloaks. Names were screamed out in the wind as people rushed to find their loved ones, mixing with the sobs and screams for help from the injured. Further out, icy water rushed around where the glacier had pierced through the ice, tearing chunks away and pulling them out of sight. 

Celebrimbor steeled himself and bent over an elleth who lay slumped against a cart-wheel, eyes glazed. Dark red was pooling under where her right hand lay listlessly against the ice, and her shoulder dropped far lower down than it was supposed to. 

“Nanyë hí asya.” He tried to assure her, but there was no spark of recognition in her eyes. Celebrimbor gently moved aside her cloak and a few layers and winced, a large rock or some other blunt object had shattered most of her collarbone and shoulder. 

Okay, okay. He had once been a great master of lore, and while he was known more for his handiwork in stone and metal, organic matter hadn’t escaped his attention. Granted, Eldar anatomy hadn’t ever been his exact field of study, but Elrond had once gotten him interested enough in medical prosthetics to spend some time studying the hröa . 

So. A shattered clavicle, which led to the Humerus wrenching at an angle against the scapula. Bone fragments piercing the intervening muscles and joints – nonono, never mind. Always start with the framework, leave that for later. Celebrimbor brought the hand bearing Vilya to her temple and willed the elleth to sleep - this was going to be painful work. 

Celeborn dragged him up by the shoulder when the woman’s clavicle had been repaired and her Humerus and Scapula set back to their correct position. The muscles were still torn open, but Celeborn remedied that with some tight binding. 

“Save your strength, she doesn’t need her arm to live or to walk out of this Heleg-dûr ,” Celeborn said darkly, and directed him to the next prone form. The chaos had managed to be leashed into a controlled frenzy, Celebrimbor noted. The injured were being lain on blankets around them, far from the black rushing water. What had been manic digging against the buried section of elves had turned into a proper search-and-rescue, with supplies and elves both being pried out of the snow. Celebrimbor noticed the unmistakable flash of gold in dark braids: Fingon was leading one of the teams and freeing an elf whose legs were trapped. Celebrimbor quickly turned back around, though his face was covered, and focused on this new patient. 

Okay, that was much worse. Blunt trauma to the rib-cage, causing a collapse of the left lung. A hairline crack in the temple of the skull, likely from hitting the ice. Elrond’s voice echoed in his head from those finer times of leisurely study, young and disapproving: “Never, never try to heal a head or spine injury if you don’t know what you’re doing.” Mentally apologizing to his friend, Celebrimbor put Vilya back to work - this elf wouldn’t survive the time it took to find someone more knowledgeable.

Celebrimbor huddled half-slumped against Celeborn as Caundor and the others pitched their tents. They had opted to combine the make-shift structures as much as possible, allowing the Sindarin elves to pile all together rather than sleep alone exposed to the frigid air. The rushing water had brought with it an even worse draft of biting wind, and they were setting up camp against one of the tall caraxë stabbing upwards at the dark grey sky.

Thalcâm, the acting healer of Celeborn’s small party, stumbled to sit facing them. 

“Lord Fingolfin has ordered no fires until we are on thicker ice,” he reported, looking exhausted. “There were many healers who were lost to the water, but enough that they will not need my help at present. Twenty-three more have been lost to their injuries.” It was grim news, and the Sindarin elves clustered more closely together. 

“This was a foolish venture from the start,” someone muttered from the back. 

“And yet there was no other option,” Celeborn said tiredly. “Offer use of our carts for any of the sick and injured that need transport. Rest well now, we will likely have to keep moving soon.” 

“This is not a good place to linger,” Caundor agreed, and the elves shuffled into the tent to sleep. Celeborn waited a moment with Celebrimbor. 

“Last time, we lost more to injuries.” He said quietly to Celebrimbor, clasping him firmly on the shoulder. “You did well. Do not try to use Narya tonight, you can ride behind me again tomorrow and try then. You will need your rest.”

“Will this happen many times again?” Celebrimbor asked, and Celeborn looked grim. 

“Yes, and the worst is yet ahead of us. We draw close to the middle of the frozen ocean, where the water fights the ice. We will travel with Fingolfin’s company going forwards, it is too dangerous to flank them now on either side.” 

Celebrimbor said nothing in response, but climbed into the tent and settled down by Laslaith with a heavy heart. The red-haired elf raised his blanket sluggishly for him, and Celebrimbor fell asleep as soon as he was horizontal to the sounds of the howling wind and Celeborn sealing the tent behind him. 

There were more catastrophic glacier crashes, as Celeborn had warned. Sometimes, Celebrimbor thought miserably, it felt as if the moment they had fully recovered from the last disaster, another one would strike. Fingolfin was leading the great host forward at a daunting speed, and Celebrimbor had to rest on Celeborn’s cart twice as often as they were allowed to stop for rest. 

“We’ve made much better time,” Celeborn would constantly encourage him, or “our numbers were greatly diminished at this point the first time, your and my wife’s work is paying off.” Despite this, Celebrimbor was disheartened more often than not, feeling rather like he was throwing his entire will against some intangible and far-fetched goal whenever he tried to use Narya’s warmth to protect the great host of elves. 

Besides the power of the Three and the comfort of each other's company, the Noldor had one other solace: very rarely, the bleak grey sky would be illuminated by ribbons of magnificent green and blue light. 

The first time it had happened, the host had erupted in shrieks of fear and delight. A few elves reached their hands up as if they may touch the ribbons, a rare glimpse of star-shine just visible beyond them. 

“The dwarves of Mount Gundabad reported this once,” Celebrimbor said in awe. “They said the light dances over the ore there -I never thought I would see it.” Celeborn said nothing but kept his face tilted upwards, smiling.

Stars were the first light elves ever beheld, and were the subject of a vast amount of poetry and song. These new arcing lights that joined them quickly were also put into verse by Fingolfin’s people, dubbed the “Lilta e lenría” in Quenya and more simply “Calengalad” in Sindarin. The rare sightings would now signify a halt to the long march for the elves, so that they may properly enjoy the heaven’s light display. 

It was during one such stop, with the elves mingling among themselves, passing out rare mouthfuls of miruvórë to warm their limbs and lifting their new verses up in song, that Celebrimbor finally saw his cousin Galadriel again. Caundor was resting and Laslaith was animatedly explaining the virtues of Sindarin syntax to a small group of Fingolfin’s folk when Celebrimbor left them. He was looking around for Celeborn, walking among whispering elves wrapped in blankets and singers forcing their frozen fingers to play harps and flutes as they looked at the green and blue-lit sky. Eventually, he found Celeborn standing hand-and-hand with his wife near an icy pillar that caught and refracted the light around them.

He was just turning to give the couple their privacy when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder and turned him suddenly around, knocking his hood off.

“Well, there’s a face I would know anywhere in Arda.” 

Celebrimbor froze as his scarf was tugged down further, leaving him staring at the green-lit face of his cousin Finrod.

Chapter Text

“I take it Uncle doesn’t know you have joined us,” Finrod said gamely, and although his voice was light, his hand was like a band of steel on Celebrimbor’s upper arm.

“I - no, I - well met, cousin Findaráto,” Celebrimbor stuttered out, voice high and thready in his shock.

“Well met indeed! Let’s go make our uncle aware of the situation, shall we?” Finrod replied, voice pitched to soothe. Still, Celebrimbor’s heart pounded in his throat. Galadriel and Celeborn had warned him to stay concealed among the small group of Sindarin travelers – which he had, he would like to point out – but there had been no time to cobble together a plan in the event of discovery.

Finrod was guiding him along with a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder, and Celebrimbor’s stomach turned a little more as they passed lines of armored guards. For once he was thankful for appearing to be a young child. Crossing the ice was miserable enough without being held culpable for his house’s numerous sins, thank you.

“Oh Finno! Look, I’ve discovered a stowaway – would you please fetch your father?” Finrod called out pleasantly, and Fingon gaped at Celebrimbor in front of them.

“That can’t be young Tyelpé! How in all of Arda –” Fingon shook his head in bewilderment and ducked his head into the large tent he had just exited. “Atar! You will want to come see this!” He called into it, and Celebrimbor twisted non-existent rings around his fingers nervously. Finrod squeezed his shoulder twice, likely in an attempt at comfort.

“If you are referring to the elhíse ría, I have had my fill and would prefer to take some rest,” Fingolfin said wearily, joining his son at the flap of the tent. “Oh, Findaráto. Is all well-” Fingolfin stopped abruptly, sharp grey eyes pinning Celebrimbor in place. Celebrimbor froze, frantic inner monologue cutting off abruptly. Fingolfin was arrayed for sleep rather than in the armored finery and jewels Celebrimbor remembered him in, but somehow seeing the once-high king of the Noldor without the crown didn’t even slightly detract from the air of severe authority. He had meant to greet Fingolfin, explain the situation, say something, but his jaw remained firmly locked against his will.

“I see,” Fingolfin said eventually. “Tyelperinquar. Elen síla lúmenn omentielvo, although I will admit this is unexpected. Would you come inside?” It was very clearly an order, although politely phrased, and after clumsily returning the greeting along with a short bow, Celebrimbor ducked into the tent. Fingolfin, Fingon, and Finrod all followed immediately behind him.

Inside, Aredhel and Turgon sat at a low table, accompanied by an elleth Celebrimbor had never met. Aredhel made a noise of surprise, and rose to her feet.

“Curufinwë?! No, no, it’s his little Tyelpé,” she said and strode towards him. Celebrimbor flinched back instinctively, jostling Fingon behind him, only to be pulled into a warm embrace. “You weren’t even waist-high when I last saw you! But how did you come to be in this wretched place?”

“I think we would all like to know that,” Fingolfin replied for Celebrimbor, and steered him to sit at the table. Aredhel settled to one side, and Finrod pressed a cup of water to his hands, which made him feel marginally more at ease.

Turgon was watching him with narrowed eyes, which did not make him feel at ease.

“I apologize for the surprise, and thank you for your hospitality,” Celebrimbor began after a drink, desperately falling back on the years he had spent politick-ing with Ereinion and Elrond. With a bolt of inspiration, he rose from his seat and folded neatly into a formal bow on his knees. “I can’t speak with any authority for my father or grandfather, but since there is no one greater than me here, I would like to formally apologize for the evil my house has committed against yours. I don’t – I don’t know what drove Haru to burn the ships, but it was wrongly done.”

“None of that, now,” Aredhel said sharply, scooping Celebrimbor up off the floor and back into his seat. “We are confused, not angry. No one here would hold an elfling guilty of actions you couldn’t possibly have participated in.”

Fingon nodded and Finrod smiled reassuringly from across the table, although the effect was somewhat ruined by Turgon’s flat expression.

“We are indeed confused. Tyelperinquar – Do you prefer Tyelperinquar or Tyelpé?” Fingolfin interrupted himself, gentling his voice a little.

I prefer Celebrimbor! He thought hysterically to himself for a moment, before mumbling out “either is fine.”

“Tyelpé then. My brother is guilty of many things, but I doubt he or your father would have sent you to this place knowingly. Will you tell us how you came to be here?”

Okay. Well, ‘I was sent back here thousands of years before you all died horribly and also I died horribly because Sauron showed me how to accidentally time-travel' was absolutely the wrong answer. Hmmm.

“Atar wanted me to come with him,” he began, staring down at his cup to hide his frantically racing mind. “He sent guards. I heard the fighting start, though, and I was afraid for Amille, so I ran back to check on her. She was already –” Celebrimbor cut himself off here, allowing his very real (if also very old) grief for his mother to resurface momentarily. Aredhel murmured something sympathetically and rubbed his arm. “And then there was fighting everywhere, so I hid. Atar was gone when the fighting stopped, he must have thought Amille refused to let me leave Alqualondë. They had argued about it before. I – um. I kind of wandered around after that, and Celeborn – one of the emissaries from Doriath – found me. I told him what happened, and he agreed to help, and I’ve been travelling with him ever since.” Finrod started at the mention of Celeborn, but said nothing.

“I am sorry to hear about your mother,” Fingolfin told him sincerely, and Celebrimbor forced himself to meet his eyes as he nodded an acknowledgement. The tent fell into a brief period of silence.

“Well. It isn’t as if we can send him back,” Turgon finally spoke up, grudgingly. “We ought to keep an eye on him, though. The Fëanorians and all of their ilk have caused us enough trouble as is.” The woman he didn’t recognize – Turgon’s wife, maybe? – slapped his arm lightly in reprimand.

“Celeborn’s company has been accommodating,” Celebrimbor rushed to say. “I would hate to be a burden on your resources –”

“No.” Fingolfin cut in firmly. “You are family and will travel with us. And, forgive me, I would not have Fëanáro accuse me of neglecting his only grandchild, or of line-theft, or any other such nonsense when we reach Middle-earth.” Well. There goes his (comparatively) care-free days with the Sindarin elves Celebrimbor thought, wilting a little.

“Cheer up, we’re not that bad,” Fingon chuckled at his reaction, and Celebrimbor quickly straightened.

“I didn’t mean to imply –! It’s only that I’ve made friends with Celeborn and his people,” he said hastily, and added after a moment “they’re probably looking for me right now.”

“I will have words with the Doriath emissary later,” Fingolfin said.

“Or I could!” Finrod volunteered quickly, and Celebrimbor only grew more anxious. Hopefully his discovery wouldn’t make too much trouble for Celeborn, or Galadriel was going to make the already grim days before him hellish. Probably. Then again, she had been markedly less prone to violent retribution lately. He genuinely didn’t know if it was due to his young age, or the whole viewing his presumably desecrated corpse thing.

“Very good. Findaráto, if you would also collect any of Tyelperinquar's belongings, I would be obliged. Now,” here Fingolfin stood, looking sternly down at Celebrimbor, “I’m afraid with circumstances as they are, I will insist you remain with one of my children or else someone they deem a fit guardian at all times. You are far, far too young to be travelling on your own in lands as harsh as these. There will be consequences if you make things difficult. Am I understood?” Celebrimbor nodded quickly, thoroughly cowed.

“He can stay with me! I have plenty of space since Turukáno is spending so much time off with Findaráto,” Fingon volunteered, and Fingolfin nodded.

“Excellent. Telperinquar will stay with Findecáno. Now if you excuse me, I would have some rest while we may. I encourage you all to do the same.”

Fingon ushered Celebrimbor into his tent after explaining the situation to his personal guard outside.

“Are you tired? You should rest, we’ll doubtlessly be on our feet again soon. You know, Turukáno has a little one only barely older than you? I suppose you two will meet soon enough."

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor said awkwardly, accepting a blanket roll Fingon handed him as he rambled. Fingon moved quickly around the tent, animatedly sharing stories of his niece as he removed his earrings and hair ornaments for sleep.

Fingon had never been one of the grim figures that Turgon or Fingolfin cut in Celebrimbor’s mind, and he had been more familiar than either. Although Celebrimbor had rarely spoken to Fingolfin’s oldest, he had ever been a constant, steady presence at Maedhros’s side in Tirion and Middle-earth both.

The Helcaraxë was clearly weighing on Fingon. He was leaner and more tired than Celebrimbor recalled. Then again, weren’t they all.

“Here, wrap your feet in this,” Fingon instructed, handing him a heavy fur wrap. “And sleep with your hands tucked under you, although I’m sure you’ve already learned that.”

“Again, thank you,” Celebrimbor replied, and then hesitated as Fingon settled in next to him on the sleeping mat. “I don’t think Uncle Nelyo would have wanted that, by the way. What haru did.” Fingon smiled at him, but his eyes were tight.

“Thank you Tyelpé, but you don’t need to apologize for your family. I’ll expect to hear it from Nelyafinwë himself when we catch him.” The last part came out a little more bitter than Fingon likely intended. Celebrimbor nodded and settled back.

“Sleep well.”

“You too, cousin.”

Fingon’s breathing evened out quickly in sleep, but Celebrimbor’s was racing too much for him to drift off. He had lost count of the days ages ago. For all he knew, Maedhros could be hanging in Thangorodrim at this very moment. He probably was. For a horrible moment, Celebrimbor wondered if Maedhros was suffering Sauron’s personal attention even as he had, and the thought made bile rise in his throat. Curling himself tightly around Vilya and Narya, Celebrimbor spent a few moments counting his breaths and keeping his mind forcefully blank.

If he fell asleep now, he would probably only wake everyone nearby with the screaming his nightmares would inevitably lead to. Might as well use the time to plot how he was going to get his family out of this mess.

Chapter Text

On the whole, Fingolfin’s household was taking to Celebrimbor’s presence unexpectedly well. The first week of Celebrimbor sticking to Fingon’s side he had noticed a few hard glares and caught a couple hard words edgewise, but once the novelty of his presence wore off the guards and staff settled into the new status quo. 

It probably helped that both Fingon and Aredhel had made clear their willingness to loudly berate anyone who carelessly let them overhear words like “traitor’s son” or “Fëanorian spy.” Or maybe it was the fact that Celebrimbor was very visibly suffering the consequences of his father’s actions alongside the rest of them.

“Foolish words from foolish elves,” Aredhel told him dismissively near the beginning, after she handed out the first of verbal lashings to an unwary attendant. “Don’t take them to heart.”

“I think this cold would turn anyone a little foolish,” Celebrimbor replied easily. “I might not hold this over Atar’s head forever, but only if he talks very fast when we catch up to him.” Aredhel had laughed out loud at that, sounding surprised even as the noise escaped her. 

“Well, that makes one of us,” she replied, tousling his hair. Celebrimbor had naïvely let her get away with the hair abuse, and now Aredhel and Fingon both had made a horrible habit of it. 

Aside from that, both elves proved themselves shockingly good company. Fingon made excellent conversation walking alongside him during the day, and was always cheerful and boisterous. (Celebrimbor admired that, especially when it was so obvious how much of the attitude was a ruse for the sake of Fingon’s people. At each rest stop, Fingon collapsed in the privacy of his tent like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut.)

Aredhel seemed to have declared herself Celebrimbor’s de facto Aunt, with none of his more immediate blood relations around to contest it. With Fingon more often than not called away to oversee the leadership of his men, Celebrimbor spent as much if not more time in her company than his. 

“Írissë, your brother is looking for– gracious, is that a knife?” Elenwë said rather mildly as she approached. Celebrimbor hastily lowered the throwing knife Aredhel had handed him – Turgon would “accidentally” drop him into the ocean if he thought for one second Celebrimbor was a danger to his family. 

“Yes, Tyelpé’s about at the right age to begin learning his way around a weapon or two. Eru knows he’ll likely need it when we reach Middle-earth,” Aredhel replied absently. “Tyelpé, you’ve lost the balance point. Find it again with your fingers.” Celebrimbor dutifully readjusted his grip while Elenwë settled to a seat far away from where the two had set up a make-shift target out of an old barrel. “Good, good, now without actually throwing it, show me how you get to the release point.” Muscle-memory, apparently, had not travelled back in time with Celebrimbor, although admittedly knife-work had never really been a strength of his. 

“It slips too much in your palm when you twist it,” Elenwë remarked from behind him, and Aredhel twisted to face her sister-in-law. 

“I’m sorry, which of us is doing the instructing?” She asked incredulously, and Elenwë laughed. 

“The archer, apparently. I didn’t know this was an interest of yours, Írissë.”

“It’s come in handy now and again. It does slip too much in your grip, kid, try it like this.” Under the watchful eye of the two women, Celebrimbor ran through many such drills until eventually Aredhel deemed him learned enough for the day. 

“Not completely terrible,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And we’ll have plenty of time to work on it.”

“She means you did well!” Elenwë offered cheerfully. At some point during the lesson, she had brought out her knitting-needles and begun what looked like a scarf. “Turukáno tells me Írissë nearly lost a finger the first time she began playing with blades.” 

Any retaliation from Aredhel was lost as Turgon appeared as if summoned, accompanied by an elfling not much older than Celebrimbor. 

“There you are Elenwë, did you find my sis- oh.” 

“I found her!”

“I can see that,” Turgon said, glowering down at Celebrimbor. Celebrimbor quickly handed Aredhel’s knife back to her. 

“What did you need me for?” Aredhel asked.

“Atar wants us to all share a meal before we set out again. Why does the Fëanorian have a knife?”

“I don’t anymore,” Celebrimbor put in hastily, while Aredhel rolled her eyes.

“Really, Turukáno. The kid’s basically knee-high to you.” Okay, Celebrimbor kind of resented that. “And someone needs to get around to his education while he’s out here. As a matter of fact, keep this. Practice your grip.” Aredhel handed the knife back to Celebrimbor, who pocketed it hesitantly. 

“I thought you said I’m too young for combat lessons, Amme.” The elfling accompanying Turgon complained, peaking curiously at Celebrimbor from behind her father’s leg. This was Idril, then, he realized suddenly - they had met often in Gondolin, but he hadn’t ever seen her this young.

“You definitely are, my dear,” Elenwë said, standing as she tucked her project away. 

“He’s younger than I am.” Idril pointed out. 

“Tell that to your Aunt. I stayed to supervise so we wouldn’t lose any young elfling fingers today,” Elenwë responded, and Aredhel squawked in outrage. 

“I know perfectly well what I’m doing!”

“Atar is waiting,” Turgon said impatiently. “Curufinwë’s kid might as well come, if the other option is leaving him unsupervised.” 

“Turgon.” Elenwë said, voice heavy with disapproval, and Turgon shrugged defensively. 

Celebrimbor couldn’t help but miss Celeborn and his company, as the days marched on. Although the chance to get to know Aredhel and Fingon was as wonderful as it was unlooked for, it was undeniable that there was a grim tension hanging over Fingolfin’s household. 

Not to mention, there had been no elflings to bother him in the Sindarin company. Idril seemed to have developed some fascination with him despite her father’s clear disapproval. With Elenwë spending so much time near Aredhel and therefore Celebrimbor, and Celebrimbor as the only viable playmate of Idril’s age, Turgon had grudgingly allowed for the two to strike up a friendship. 

Much to Celebrimbor’s chagrin. He could remember liking his (something-something removed) cousin distantly during his time in Gondolin, but unlike him Idril was an actual elfling. While she was technically closer to her age of majority than Celebrimbor, it didn’t stop him from being pulled into games of tag and guess-the-song against his will. 

Not to mention, Idril hadn’t yet learned to guard her words the way she would need to in Middle-earth, and Celebrimbor’s dignity was suffering for it. Questions like “Does your atar hate you? Were you in time-out when he sailed away?” and “If you’re a boy, why aren’t you taller than me?” left Celebrimbor gaping. 

Between Aredhel and Idril, his scheming time was being cut down dangerously. Celebrimbor tried to rest a little more than he strictly needed to during the day so that he could spend the night thinking. It helped that Fingon dropped immediately into a heavy sleep the minute his tent was pitched, rarely trying to pull him into conversation. 

In Celebrimbor’s first life, one of the many downsides of having the most talented singer-songwriter of the Noldor for an Uncle was that every single one of his family’s (numerous) misdeeds was forever recorded in perfect chronology and tragically catchy verse. 

Now in his second life, this was rapidly becoming an unexpected boon. Details of what all six of his uncles were up to in the First Age may be at best blurred in Celebrimbor’s memory, but the Noldolantë’s inescapability was finally paying off for the years of psychological torment it had wrought on him. 

The Oath had been sworn before he had travelled, there was nothing to be done about that. Fëanor was dead, the ships had been burned, and Maedhros was now a captive in Thangorodrim, none of that was now within his ability to prevent. For Maedhros’ rescue – hard feelings or no, Celebrimbor was confident his valiant cousin would make the exact same venture to rescue his closest friend as he had last time. Now, surely he could do something to prevent any inconvenient bits being chopped off his uncle? His and Elrond’s work into medical prosthetics had never become fine-tuned enough to replace the use of an entire hand, after all.

“Cousin, do you think I could take a look at the smithing equipment?” Celebrimbor asked Fingon innocently the next day. “It’s what Atar wanted me to study – I don’t want to get too far behind.” 

“Smithing…? Oh, of course,” Fingon said absently. There were still dark circles under his eyes despite him having rested hours ago. “Here, Sintamel likely is nearby and not packed again yet…” 

Sintamel turned out to be a brisk blacksmith responsible for what equipment repairs she could manage with limited access to fire. At Fingon’s request, she began showing them around her toolkit and supplies, explanations interspersed with comments like “of course, that’s under normal circumstances,” and “not that I can do that without a proper forge.” Despite having been the leading expert in smith-work since Fëanor, Celebrimbor made sure he listened attentively as he was walked through the basics. Fingon allowed him to stay with Sintamel for a while as he was called off again to his duties, and the blacksmith was pleased enough to have an attentive ear that Celebrimbor quickly graduated from “active-listener” to “unofficial apprentice.”

He hadn’t wanted to spend the next few weeks repairing pots and pans, per se, but even such basic work allowed him to return to his first and most loved craft. It was an improvement over childhood song-games, at least.

Not to mention the true prize of the venture: he was eventually gifted a few of his own tools from the smith – most importantly, an iron file and a small pair of steel shears. 

Celebrimbor had been walking again with Aredhel and Idril when the ground shook under his feet. 

Depressingly familiarized with the natural disaster, all three elves immediately threw themselves to the ground. Aredhel dragged them partially under a nearby cart. From somewhere in front of them, Fingon called out 

“Glacier fall! Everyone down!” Before all other words were lost to the roaring of the ice. The cold mist stung Celebrimbor’s cheeks as it rushed around them, and the lurching ground underneath knocked his head against the wood of the cart several times before the ground settled. 

“I think it’s over,” Aredhel finally breathed out, and allowed the two elflings to scramble out. As everyone around them regained their bearings, Turgon and Elenwë sprinted over to their daughter. 

“Itarildë! Hinya, are you hurt?” Turgon asked her urgently, dropping to one knee to look her over anxiously. Elenwë sighed in relief as Idril shook her head, pulling both her husband and her daughter tightly to herself.

“That looked as though it were near the rearguard,” Aredhel said quietly, and Turgon drew his sister into the hug as well. Celebrimbor shifted on his feet, feeling fairly awkward. 

“Írissë? Turukáno?!” Fingon’s voice called frantically, which Aredhel answered back with a quick “we’re over here!”

“No injuries? Good, good,” Fingon said, looking relieved as he clapped first his sister and then Celebrimbor on the shoulder. “We’re needed at the back. Turukáno, it looks like half of our supplies got pulled into the water –”

“I can help!” Aredhel volunteered immediately, climbing to her feet.

“Get together anyone you can,” Fingon agreed, leading his siblings away. “Tyelpé, stay with Elenwë!” 

The three siblings were gone before Celebrimbor could agree. 

“Well,” Elenwë said shakily, releasing her grip a little on her daughter. “Let’s –” Whatever she had been about to say was cut off as a horrible whining noise filled the air once more. Horrified, Celebrimbor lurched towards Elenwë even as Idril scrambled past him back towards the safety of the cart. Celebrimbor and Elenwë stumbled as a deep crack split the ice under their feet, and suddenly the entire world jolted, flinging Elenwë backwards with a scream. Celebrimbor was dragged after her, clutching onto her skirts with an instinctive death grip. 

The icy bank bearing the Noldor company and Idril still under her cart seemed to shoot skywards past them as Celebrimbor and Elenwë tumbled down, accompanied by a shower of falling ice and stone. Celebrimbor’s voice caught as his entire right side struck something hard, and his grip on Elenwë was wrenched away. Seconds later the burning pain disappeared entirely as he was plunged into icy water. 

White filled Celebrimbor’s mind and he sank for a moment, submerged in perfect silence. The dark, violently tossing waters around him were stirred with shards of light as icy fragments crashed into the surface. The waves had just begun to slam him against the rocky base of the cliff when something warm radiated from his right hand. The sensation hurt compared to the frozen numbness that surrounded the rest of his body, and Celebrimbor blinked dumbly at his right hand. It was wreathed in gold and red, the colors bold and bright against the surrounding inky waters.

His mind jolted back into action seconds later, panicking when he failed to take in a breath. Celebrimbor kicked frantically against the water until his head broke the surface. His right hand, bearing Narya and Vilya, scrambled for purchase on the rocky cliff to hold his head over water as he harshly coughed and hacked up the frigid water in his lungs. 

“ELENWË!! El-” A wave covered his head, and Celebrimbor struggled to the surface again, spluttering in the frozen water again. To the side of the cliff he clung too, he could just make out a prone figure slumped among the fallen ice that sloped upwards to where they had once stood. Gasping in the cold, Celebrimbor kicked numb legs to struggle towards the slope. He just managed it, bracing himself when possible against the cliff. 

It was indeed Elenwë, who had evidently struck solid ice rather than the rushing water. Celebrimbor dragged himself weekly up out of the water, only for the ice Elenwë was lying on to tilt dangerously upwards. Both elves slid back into the water, and Celerbrimbor only barely managed to catch Elenwë around the waste as he scrambled for a grip on the ice. In a fit of inspiration, he fumbled for the dagger Aredhel had given him, the movement sending both of them below water once more. He stabbed up and outwards blindly, and the blade buried itself to the hilt in the slab of ice. He used his grip to haul himself and his burden on top again, breathing heavily at the effort. He wrenched the blade free and stabbed further up again, hauling them excruciatingly slowly out of the frigid waters. 

Once it was clear that he could go no further without dislodging the ice flat from where it was pinned to the slope, Celebrimbor finally allowed himself to collapse fully. Elenwë was still and unmoving beside him, and Celebrimbor scrambled to feel for a pulse with frozen fingers. It was there, if he pressed, but her chest made a horrible creaking noise every time the elleth breathed in, and her feet were still partially submerged in the icy waters behind them. 

Celebrimbor bit out a curse and tightened his grip. 

“Help!” He called out desperately. He couldn’t move forwards without releasing Elenwë, and Eru only knew how much time he had before the rushing waters tore their perch free and they were both swept away. “HELP!!” The sound tore at his throat, and Celebrimbor devolved to coughing harshly for a moment, before renewing his efforts. “We’re down here!! We’re down…”

Time passed. Hours, for all Celebrimbor knew. He had shouted until his lungs gave out, and although he thought at one point he heard some commotion above them, it just as easily could have been the wind and the waves. 

He hadn’t honestly thought he was at risk of dying here. It stung more than a little - after living through everything, he wouldn’t even get the chance to see his father again, nevermind prevent the various ugly deaths his family were headed towards. It was enough to make tears bite at his eyes, although thankfully they didn’t fall to freeze his cheeks further. 

Celebrimbor thought he felt the ice lurch, although it seemed to be moving forwards, pulled onto the snowbank rather than away from it. Was the ice moving again? 

Hands were tugging at his shoulder, and he thought he could distantly hear voices from over his head. “Help.” Celebrimbor weakly croaked out, just in case, and rested his forehead against the ice. It was warm to the touch, hadn’t it been cold moments ago?

“...Got you, can you… ….let go of Elenwë, now…hear……pé?”

Celebrimbor lost consciousness just as Elenwë was finally dragged out from under his arm, and his last coherent thought was that Turgon would kill him for sure once he discovered how Celebrimbor had left his wife to die alone in the ocean.

Chapter Text

“that’s a common misconception about the Silmarils, actually,” Celebrimbor told his friend. The moon was full and white beyond the arching glass windows cut into the walls of Celebrimbor’s observatory workshop, illuminating the tools and minerals scattered about the room in glowing silver. “It makes a kind of sense, to say Grandfather did all of those horrible things because he lost his soul when he lost his Silmarils. I guess. But it’s a cheap explanation and not even slightly correct.”

“It is easy to dismiss the subversive as insane, rather than take the steps necessary to understand,” Annatar agreed. His friend was lounging with the fire at his back, haloing pale hair. One gold-edged thing in all the silver starlight. 

“Admittedly Fëanor wasn’t acting particularly sane after the Silmarils were stolen, but no. That wasn’t because they contained his fëa.” Celebrimbor hesitated, turning the words over in his mind. “Okay, that’s not EXACTLY accurate either. I’m sure you’re already aware of the connection that exists between a creator and the creation, yes?” Annator flicked a hand, gesturing for him to continue. “It’s commonly said among the Noldor that your spirit goes into your work, and that’s not quite flowery words alone. It’s why experienced craftsmen can tell the maker of a fine linen, or one of my father’s jewelry sets, or a painting or some such without the need of a visible signature – the signature is there in the composition.”

“I come to your workspace inquiring about the pinnacle of Noldor smithlore, only to get lectured about the basics,” Annatar said drily, and Celebrimbor threw the pen he had been gesturing with at him. Annatar plucked it out of the air with a smile. “Get to the point, my friend.”

“The point is that yes, your greatest works will inevitably be tied to your spirit in one way or another.” 

“But not the fëa.”

“Not the fëa, no. The fëa of the Eldar, as far as I can tell, is tied inextricably to the hröa. Now if you want to be lectured about the hröa or the fëa, it’s either my cousins or Master Elrond you will need to consult and not me –”

“No thank you.”

“I’m never going to understand what your grudge with Elrond is, he’s genuinely the only pleasant one out of our whole miserable lot,” Celebrimbor said reproachfully. Annatar shrugged indolently with one shoulder and smiled. 

“I disagree, as present company can attest.” Celebrimbor grinned back, more than a little flattered. 

“Fine, fine. But anyways, no the Silmarils did not contain Fëanor’s soul if I had to give my best educated guess. They were meant to catch the light of Telperion and Laurelin, of course, but most people don’t grasp the enormity of that. They focus on the part about the Trees, understandably, but really a gem being cut to HOLD light rather than to reflect is where a large part of the Silmaril’s novelty comes from – it’s essentially trapping energy in eternal movement inside a very small glass. I don’t know how he managed it exactly, but some sort of double-faceted cut to allow the light in and then to trap it must have been necessary.” 

“They were gems then?” Annatar asked curiously. “One sits even now as a star in the sky, I don’t know how far we can push the word.”

“I am absolutely not arguing word etymology with you,” Celebrimbor lied. He had done so yesterday. “For the purpose of conversation, yes. Gems. Synthetic in composition, though, they were certainly not harvested from any mine or alluvial deposit. Quenched carbon is the next best thing on the Mohs* scale in terms of hardness, and it and the Silmarils alone outstrip diamonds.” 

The two fell into silence for a moment, pondering. 

“Energy, then. It was only a large amount of his energy, alongside of course the energy of the trees.” Annatar said at last, leaning back contemplatively. “I thought as such.” 

“I don’t know why he decided to pour so much into one place. At least it was three, and not one singular item, but still,” Celebrimbor huffed, looking down at his notes. “Ill-advised. It isn’t as though his own power would out-strip that of the Trees.”

“I could understand the appeal,” Annatar replied thoughtfully. “He made them truly his own, no matter the materials he began the work with. Surely you can respect that.” 

“I can res-”

“Tyelperinquar,” Annatar interrupted, smile stretching frozen across his face. Celebrimbor blinked at him, the voice had seemed wrong somehow. 

“I can respect -”

“TYELPÉ.”

Celebrimbor jolted where he lay, hissing in a pained breath. He was lying down flat on a medical cot, and his clothes were tacky with sweat. 

At his side, Galadriel sat back in her chair. The two said nothing, merely staring at each other as Celebrimbor drew in a few harsh breaths. 

Right. He was crossing the Helcaraxë with the Nolofinwians. His rings had pulled him and his cousins back – he still needed to look into that. He and Annatar hadn’t yet argued lore and metallurgy late into the night, and likely never would. Right. 

“Elenwë?” He rasped out finally as his thoughts organized into something manageable. 

“Will live,” Galadriel told him, and settled forwards grimly with her elbows on her knees. “She will never walk again – the healers had to amputate, her feet had been in the water too long and the infected tissue was spreading. Still, thanks to you she will live.”

“I can make her a wheel-chair when we get to Beleriand,” Celebrimbor said automatically, and Galadriel smiled at him. 

“I owe you an apology, cousin. I had been too focused on the larger scale – what to do when we reached Middle-earth, how to prevent the greatest loss of life as we passed the ice – I didn’t even think about Elenwë.” Galadriel confessed, dropping her head and sighing deeply. 

“It happened a very long time ago for you, to be fair.” Celebrimbor pointed out. “And I’m glad one of us had been planning for the days to come. I know I have not.”

“We will have to meet again, the three of us,” Galadriel agreed. “There is much to discuss, and not much time now. Privacy is hard to come by here, but when we reach the shore no one will notice if I steal you away for a little while.” 

“Not much time now?” Celebrimbor sat up, hissing as his right shoulder protested. “How long have I been out?”

“A little over two weeks,” Galadriel told him, and Celebrimbor’s eyes widened. “We are within eye-sight of Middle-earth now.”

“Two weeks?!” 

“Yes, yes, you’ve had everyone very concerned. Fingon and Aredhel have been guarding you in shifts - I had to convince them I could assist with your healing to be allowed in. Really, between those two and Fingolfin everyone seems to think I’ll take one look at you, remember all of my anger for your grandfather, and toss you right back over into the water.” 

Celebrimbor snorted. 

“Please restrain yourself, once was plenty. Has Elenwë woken up?” 

“Not since her surgery. Turgon and Idril have refused to leave her side.”

“I could– with Vilya–” 

“You can’t walk right now, shut up.” 

Fair enough. 

Galadriel’s diagnosis was this: multiple shattered bones from his right shoulder to his hip where he had struck the ice and bounced off into the water, extremely broken legs, frostbite affecting all limbs but his right hand, and vast areas of tissue necrosis where the cold water had done its work. The blackened skin had, thankfully, already been cut away in his sleep. 

“Oh, that is disgusting,” Celebrimbor said, staring at his unwrapped leg in fascination. “I have never respected Elrond more. Healers must have stomachs made of steel.”

“You can likely accelerate the skin re-growth with Vilya, although I would first focus on restructuring the affected bones,” Galadriel said sympathetically. “It wouldn’t do for a smith to have a crippled shoulder.” 

Further conversation was cut off as the flap of the tent was drawn back, and Aredhel’s surprised gasp filled the air. 

“FINNO! He’s awake!!” She called behind her, and Celebrimbor squeezed his eyes shut as a pounding headache made itself clear. Aredhel broke into the tent, Fingon’s smiling face following shortly behind her. “Tyelpé, how are you feeling? We’ve been so worried!”

“I’m alright,” Celebrimbor returned her smile. “A little tired.” 

“You’ve slept for two weeks,” Galadriel said flatly. 

“And he can sleep for a year if it means a full recovery,” Fingon chided her. He gently picked up Celebrimbor’s uninjured hand and squeezed it. “It is a relief to see you awake. But tell us really, are you in pain? Our supplies are greatly depleted, but I can call for some more eucalyptus oil or white willow bark. There is always wine, too.” 

“My head hurts a little, but I can’t feel anything else. I don’t need anymore pain relievers,” Celebrimbor told him, and frowned. “There were two glacier-falls, right? One was at the rearguard, with the supplies?”

“We lost most of our food. Things are about to get tight,” Aredhel admitted. “Artanis, we are beyond fortunate that you insisted we keep some of the supply trains in the middle and front of the march, else most of us would have starved within eye-sight of the shore.”

“Írissë!” Fingon said reproachfully, and quickly turned to Celebrimbor with a reassuring smile. “It’s not quite as bad as that, don’t pay her any mind.” After a moment of hesitation, he added “Meals might be a little smaller until we reach Middle-earth, though. We can see it already, did you see?” Celebrimbor shook his head. 

“Here, let me.” Aredhel stood and held one flap of the tent back so that Celebrimbor could look out. Indeed, far in the distance, he could just make out land. He smiled. 

“We’re almost there!” 

“Keep up that attitude, kid.” Fingon said, ruffling his hair. "And focus on getting better. Let the grownups handle everything else."  

Celebrimbor’s time rapidly became very boring. Most of his time was spent in the care of a rotating group of healers who poked and prodded at him and murmured soothing words but would urge him to rest every time he tried to spark up an actual discussion.

Fingon and Aredhel both were frequent visitors, although less often than Celebrimbor had thought they’d be. He had a feeling Fingon had been dramatically downplaying the supply issue. 

This feeling was increased as he was only served shortbread in small, sparing clusters, not at all the dried meats and iron-rich soups broken bones need to mend properly. Celebrimbor made sure to tuck away half of his shortbread the second time.

“Here,” he said, offering it to Fingon when the elf next slumped into the seat by his bedside. “Food makes my stomach turn, and I’m full right now.”

“I’m fine, thank you, how are you feeling,” his cousin mumbled, not at all acknowledging what he had said. Celebrimbor rolled his eyes and tossed the shortbread at Fingon’s head. It was a testament to how unwell the elf was that the projectile struck, bouncing off his forehead to fall into his lap. “Wha– really, Tyelpé, I’m fine.” Fingon said, a note of irritation finally seeping through his tone. It was gone a second later as Fingon leaned over his bed, offering back the shortbread. “Here, you need this to regain your strength.”

“Nope.” Celebrimbor said, swiveling his head in the opposite direction. “Not hungry.”

“Tyelpé.”

“You eat it, I’m not hungry.”

“Tyelpé.”

“Is… this a bad time?” Turgon asked, lingering uncertainly at the entrance of the tent. Fingon and Celebrimbor blinked at him in surprise from where Fingon was still trying to force the food on the bed-ridden elfling. 

“Not at all!” Fingon said quickly. “I was just here for a brief visit, you can have my seat.” Fingon left quickly, patting Turgon on the shoulder as he left. He took the bread with him, Celebrimbor noted smugly.

An ensuing silence fell over the tent as Turgon and Celebrimbor each fidgeted. 

“Is Elenwë awake?” Celebrimbor asked finally. He knew she wasn’t, from Aredhel and Fingon, but Turgon seemed to be struggling for something to say. 

“Not yet,” Turgon said, hunching forwards. “Artanis assures me it’s a good thing, and that she should sleep as much as possible for now, but it fills me with fear.” 

“I’m sure she’ll be okay,” Celebrimbor ventured awkwardly. 

“Thank you,” Turgon finally said, looking up intensely into Celebrimbor’s eyes. “She wouldn’t be alive if you hadn’t gone in after her, so thank you. For as long as I live, I will be in your debt.” 

“That’s not necessary!” Celebrimbor said quickly, deeply uncomfortable. “It was just instinct, anyone would have tried to grab her. We’re family anyways, surely there’s no debt between family?” Turgon studied him for a moment longer, face inscrutable. 

“Right. Family.” He said at last, leaning back in the chair. After a moment longer, he asked “Why were you throwing food at my brother?” in a much lighter tone of voice. Celebrimbor flushed. 

“You saw that? I mean, um. I’m just not that hungry, and I heard his stomach growl, but he was being stubborn.”

“Finno is always stubborn,” Turgon empathized, an honest smile tugging at his lips. He had the same dimples his brother did, Celebrimbor realized, and it lifted his face into something much less grave. “I’ll keep in mind that throwing my food works in the future.”

They were on the march again, evidently as recovered as they were going to get from the latest disaster. Celebrimbor’s team of healers bundled him up into a mattress aboard yet another wooden cart, canvas walls stopping the frigid wind. Still, enough furs and blankets were piled around him that he was buried nearly to the neck. 

Fingon had volunteered to walk along with the soldiers pulling Celebrimbor’s cart, and Celebrimbor had rapidly developed a game of throwing bits of his meal at his cousin whenever his guard was down. At this rate Fingolfin's eldest was going to look more twig than elf by the time they arrived at Middle-earth.  

To his delight, Fingon’s personal guards rapidly got in on the game. Whenever Celebrimbor was under suspicion, he could pass bread off to a nearby gold-and-blue soldier and it would reliably be launched at the prince from an unexpected angle. 

Celebrimbor had laughed so hard that he nearly wrenched his shoulder again the first time it happened, with Fingon whirling around in a desperate attempt to figure out where the offending bread had come from. Just as he was beginning to subside, the captain of Fingon’s guard said;

“My Lord, please. If the Valar themselves are sending you food from the sky surely you must eat?” With a perfectly straight face, and Celebrimbor collapsed in laughter once again. 

Whenever he wasn’t harassing Fingon, Celebrimbor had received a small journal and pen upon request that he spent his time scribbling in. When one of his healers had tried to peek over his shoulder, he immediately switched to writing in his own Sindarin short-hand, as he had kept notes in Eregion. 

Galadriel was right that things would begin happening much too quickly once they reached Middle-earth, and he wouldn’t be caught unprepared. 

The rings would need to be reforged at some point. Once Elrond and Ereinion were born and had grown a little, Celebrimbor fully intended to regift the rings to their original holders. However, the Three clearly held more properties than he originally had thought, and that would bear a significant amount of investigation. Nearly as importantly, he had time to redesign the exterior of the Three all over again. It was a thrilling prospect. He had always regretted forging Narya in gold rather than adamant. 

Maedhros likely would not need prosthesis if he could contrive a way to convince Fingon to carry his tools, which would save Celebrimbor a good deal of time. Hmmm, actually. Come to think of it. 

“Cousin! Findecáno!” Fingon ducked into view, scanning him anxiously. 

“Yes? Did that bump hurt your injuries?” Yes it had actually, but not the point. 

“No, it’s not that. I just needed to talk to you. I need to ask a small favor.”

“Oh!” Fingon said, relaxing visibly. “Of course, whatever you like.”

“It might seem silly, but I’m going to ask you to swear this,” Celebrimbor said seriously. His meager belongings were strewn around his sides, and he found the bundle containing the two smithing tools. “Here. Take these. I want you to promise me that you will carry them with you at all times.”

“...Alright?” Fingon agreed, smile a little dampened by Celebrimbor’s intensity. “If you’d like?”

“At all times,” Celebrimbor emphasized, handing the tools over. “Even if you go on a very long journey, and travel light.”

“Okay, I promise Tyelpé.” Fingon said, and made a show of tucking the tools away into his pockets. “See? I’m all prepared now.” 

“Thanks,” Celebrimbor said, relaxing. There, that hadn’t even been hard. Fingon exchanged a bewildered look with the soldier pulling his cart and wandered away. 

Elenwë woke up days into their marching. Celebrimbor wasn’t allowed to go see her, as the healers tutted that he was absolutely not to be moved. Idril carried her thanks over to Celebrimbor, as well as her concern for his condition. It rapidly devolved into them scribbling notes back and forth, with Idril thrilled to act as courier. 

“If it isn’t Tithenmel!! You’ll forgive the late visit, I hope. We were only recently cleared to come see you.” Celebrimbor dropped his pen and gasped as Celeborn and Laslaith of all people ducked into view. 

“Celeborn! Laslaith! It’s so good to see you!”

“You as well, my friend,” Celeborn expressed, although his smile tightened as he looked over the many bandages wrapped around Celebrimbor’s chest. 

“I look away for two seconds and our stowaway turns into a Noldor prince and begins cliff-jumping!” Laslaith complained loudly over Celeborn’s shoulder. He was grinning, and Celebrimbor was happy to see that the redhead’s cheery attitude hadn’t been damaged too badly. 

“The cliff jumping was a one-time thing, I’m afraid,” He said “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth sooner.”

“Don’t worry about it, I understand why you would want to keep that under wraps,” Laslaith waved off easily. 

“How are you? Really,” Celeborn cut in, eyes still concerned. 

“I won’t be able to walk for a while, but I should be able to use my shoulder again soon!” Celebrimbor reported. “I’ll make a full recovery eventually. Once we’re in Middle-earth.” And he had access to things like vitamins. 

“Thank the Valar,” Celeborn said, eyes closing. The two walked with him for some time, with Laslaith volunteering to relieve Fingon’s guard of cart-pulling duties. Thankfully, the little Sindar company – now travelling mingled with the Noldor – had not been greatly harmed by any of the glacial disasters. Thalcâm had broken an arm and a cheekbone during one fall, but was already healed. Caundor, according to Laslaith, had fallen madly in love with an elf maid in the Noldor company. 

“He’s now useless even for entertainment,” the red-head complained. “All he’s been doing is writing poems about her dark hair and her dark eyes and her lovely face. It’s horrible.” 

“Being forced to be alone in the company of two lovebirds is uncomfortable,” Celebrimbor replied, staring directly into Celeborn’s eyes as he said it. Celeborn arched an eyebrow unapologetically. 

A new voice, merry and familiar, interrupted the three’s reunion. 

“Little cousin! I’m so sorry that I haven’t been by to see you yet – what.” Finrod stopped abruptly, staring with open suspicion at Celeborn. 

“Mae govannen, Prince Findaráto!” Laslaith volunteered quickly, dipping into what bow he could manage while still bearing Celebrimbor’s cart. “May I introduce my Lord Celeborn, son of Prince Galadhon of Doriath!”

“Why are you everywhere,” Finrod said despairingly to Celeborn, and Celebrimbor had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. Turgon appeared from behind Finrod, one hand steadying his shoulder. 

“Manners, Findaráto,” he hissed, before bowing formally to Celeborn. “Mae govannen,” he replied to Laslaith, pronunciation just slightly incorrect. “My Lord Nolofinwë has given us permission to take a short rest, so my cousin and I are here to help Tyelperinquar settle in. Will you be joining us?” 

“We should be getting back to our company.” Celeborn demurred, and Laslaith handed off the cart once more. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my Lords. I trust that our friend is in good hands, my people have become very fond of him.”

Turgon and Finrod helped disassemble the cart, thankfully removing the canvas walls. Celebrimbor was grateful for the obstruction against the wind, but they did admittedly make his view pretty boring. 

“Your healers told me that your shoulder was likely well enough to move you. Elenwë would be glad of the visit, if you are willing,” Turgon told him. Celebrimbor perked up immediately. 

“Yes please!”

“Now hold on my Lord!” A healer popped up behind Turgon and Finrod. “I said he was well enough to be moved, very carefully, and it would likely cause some irritation to the leg injuries. At least allow me to look over the bindings once more.” Turgon allowed it with a nod, and the healer bustled over to check at the bindings around Celebrimbor’s shoulder and legs. They tutted for a while over the leg bindings in particular, tightening them where they had fallen a little loose. “Alright. If the pain becomes too great, come and fetch me immediately,” the healer said at last, drawing back. 

“Are you sure? If it will hurt?” Finrod asked, concerned. “We could wait a little while.”

“I would like to now,” Celebrimbor protested quickly. A part of his brain had been horribly fixated on how Elenwë had felt as a cold, heavy wait under his arm, the rattling noise her chest had made with each breath. It was distracting him from his work. 

“Very well.” Turgon knelt by his side, drawing a blanket tightly around his body. Celebrimbor hooked his right arm around the man’s neck as the man finished bundling him up. “This will be the painful part, let me know where it hurts,” Turgon instructed, and then braced him with one hand behind his back and the other under his legs. Celebrimbor sucked in a breath as Turgon stood, the pressure shifted onto his hips and legs made white-hot pain lick up his spine.

“It’s fine,” He gritted out as Finrod fluttered around him anxiously, clearly unsure what to do to help. 

“I won’t jostle you as we walk.” Turgon assured him, and indeed he and Finrod walked slowly and cautiously. 

“Soooo how do you know the Doriath emissaries, little cousin?” Finrod asked. “I doubt Uncle has been letting you run loose.”

“I s-smuggled myself in with their things,” Celebrimbor confessed, teeth chattering a little. The wind was even colder than he’d remembered it being. Turgon thoughtfully tugged a little of the blanket around his ears. “In a carpet. The found me eventually, though.” 

“You rolled yourself up in a carpet?” Finrod questioned, and threw his head back in laughter. “Excellent! No one had mentioned that to me!”

“It was extremely reckless,” Turgon said disapprovingly, although a corner of his mouth was twitching. “Don’t encourage him.”

Idril was with her mother, and although it was near excruciating to be set back on the ground, the visit was well worth it. Elenwë had drawn him into a gentle hug as soon he was within grabbing distance, and the feeling of her heartbeat had dismissed the lingering worries in the back of his mind. 

Turgon and Finrod settled furs around Elenwë and the elfings to brace against the cold, and then they too sat down and struck up conversation. Idril was arguing animatedly with Finrod over whether the harp or the flute was a better instrument with Turgon mediating tiredly. 

“This is how all conversations with these three go,” Elenwë whispered to Celebrimbor conspiratorially. She had pulled out her knitting project again, and the dark blue scarf was nearly complete. Idril had devolved to throwing things at Finrod, who collapsed into Turgon’s lap, wailing loudly. “Never a dull moment.” Celebrimbor smiled at the domestic scene. 

“Are you really alright?” He whispered back, and Elenwë’s smile dimmed a little. 

“I won’t deny that this was difficult to accept,” she told him, gesturing to where the furs concealed her legs and the stumps where her feet used to be. “I still haven’t, truly. But I have my family and I have life yet, everything else is a luxury.”

“I have an idea for when I have access to a forge,” Celebrimbor told her, and rustled around for his notebook. He flipped rapidly to the page bearing the designs for the wheelchair, complete with suggestions for engineering upgrades. 

“Oh my.” She said, looking over his shoulder. “That is a bright idea. Turukáno dear, come look at this!” Tugon took the notebook from her, and his eyebrows shot up. 

“This is impressive, Tyelperinquar. Would this really work?” 

“I think so,” Celebrimbor said, embarrassed. The wheelchair had most certainly not been his invention, although he had made a few alterations to the standard design. Oh well. Better it be made sooner rather than later, he guessed. 

“We will have to add a little table for your yarn, love,” Turgon pressed a quick kiss to the side of Elenwë’s head as she laughed. 

“Is this a family get together? Without us?!” Aredhel demanded, striding into the little circle with Fingon at her shoulder. Fingolfin trailed a little ways behind them, smiling deeply at the sight of his family all clustered together.

“My Lord!” Celebrimbor greeted quickly, making the closest approximation to a bow that he could while sitting bundled up in furs. 

“There is no need for that, Tyelpé. How are your injuries?”

“Healing.” Celebrimbor replied, and Turgon and Finrod shuffled around so that the three newcomers could join their circle. Turgon moved behind his wife, bracing her back, and Aredhel dropped next to Celebrimbor. 

“Speaking of, kid, here.” She handed him another knife, of a better make than the first one. Celebrimbor could tell that this one was a personal tool, a beautiful deep blue sheathe encasing the blade and an intricate gold guard embossing the handle. “Since you lost the first one.” 

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the knife. “The first one saved my life, you know. So. Thank you for that, too.” Aredhel smiled at him a little sadly, and pulled Celebrimbor’s blanket up to his chin. 

“Stop being depressing. It looks weird on your baby face.” 

“He does have a baby face,” Idril agreed, and Celebrimbor groaned into the blanket.

Thankfully, the conversation soon turned to other matters. Finrod and Elenwë carefully steered the conversation to avoid any more stressful topics until even Fingon and Fingolfin were laughing along with the group. Finrod shared a story of his first hunt alone, which had wound up with him accidentally falling into a river. Elenwë shared Celebrimbor’s wheeled-chair design, and it was oohed and ahhed over by the group to his satisfaction. 

“We should set it with aquamarine gemstones! To match your eyes,” Fingon suggested enthusiastically.

“With matching cushions!” Finrod agreed, and the two rambled over the design for a little longer. 

“Is that Sindarin? I can’t read it,” Fingolfin asked curiously, looking over Celebrimbor’s scribbling. 

“It is! I picked some up from Celeborn and the others. It’s shorthand, though, and my handwriting isn’t the best,” he admitted. 

“You will make quite the inventor yet,” Fingolfin praised him warmly. “Don’t let my son and Findaráto steal away all of your design control.” 

The evening passed pleasantly, and although the bitter cold never let up and his stomach was cramping for how long it had been empty, a warmth had set into Celebrimbor’s stomach that had nothing to do with Narya. 

“We will need to depart again soon,” Fingolfin said regretfully. “Only a couple of short weeks, perhaps not even that, and our journey will be concluded.” 

“We will need to throw the king of all parties at the shore,” Finrod said brightly. “With bonfires and dancing. We’ve more than earned it.” 

“You would say that,” Turgon said, smiling at his friend in exasperation. 

“I doubt we will have much time for revelry, but we shall see,” Fingolfin allowed. 

With the coast so soon in sight, and Middle-earth growing larger on the horizon each day, the great company moved quickly. Every elf in the throng could now feel the pangs of hunger in their stomach alongside the constant ache of the cold, and whatever injuries they had sustained during the shifting of the glaciers. Still, with the end in sight (and Narya and Nenya working in tangent to boost morale), the elves pressed forwards.

Chapter Text

The day they finally entered Middle-earth, Fingolfin ordered his banners unfurled and the silver trumpets sounded. The ice melted first into a sludge and then into shallow ocean waters a mere few meters from the beach, one last obstacle before they reached the shore. Aredhel had insisted on carrying Celebrimbor through the tide, and at the deepest point when she was waist-deep Celebrimbor reached down to touch the salty waters. 

Home at last, he thought, and couldn’t help but allow a few tears to stream down his face. Even as the thought crossed his mind, a brilliant white light filled the sky. Aredhel staggered back in the water, and Elves cried out all around them as slowly the moon rose over Arda for the very first time. 

At Fingolfin’s order, the trumpets sounded again, and the half-frozen company finally staggered onto the sandy beach of Middle-earth, weeping and embracing each other in the moonlight. 

“A fire! Let us set a fire!” Fingon called, and a great cheer rose among the company, many of whom were still wading through the frigid ocean. The Captain of Fingolfin’s guard set out to establish a perimeter, and rudimentary hunting parties were quickly thrown together with Finrod as the enthusiastic leader. Tents were pitched on the beach, and some elves began constructing a large table in the middle of the camp in preparation for the coming feast. Not a few elves actually cried to feel the warmth of fire after many long years without. 

Aredhel began moving Celebrimbor towards the large table once it was finished.

“You stay right here,” She instructed. “I’m going to go check on the perimeter to help Finno.” She just wants a better look at Middle-earth Celebrimbor thought, but nodded easily. 

“My lady if I may,” Celeborn appeared from nowhere, smiling charmingly. “My company would be more than happy to host little Tyelpé one last time while we wait for food.”

“Alright, but mind his legs and his shoulder,” Aredhel agreed easily, and Celebrimbor was transferred to Celeborn just like that. Once she was out of sight, Celeborn set off to a large tent Celebrimbor recognized as Galadriel’s. 

“Little Tyelpé,” Celebrimbor parroted unhappily, pulling at Celeborn’s collar. 

“Yes, well. If the boot fits. If you don’t like it, grow taller,” was Celeborn’s retort, and then they were ducking into the tent. No fire crackled inside, but Galadriel had prepared a table with three chairs. One of them was heavily cushioned to accommodate Celebrimbor’s legs. 

“Tea?” Galadriel offered, as Celeborn carefully sat Celebrimbor down. “It’s freshly brewed.” 

Hot tea. Celebrimbor cupped his hands around the cup greedily although it was too warm to drink yet. The delicate scent of jasmine and lavender rose from the cup, easing his mind. 

“Is this to be our war-council, then?” He asked as Celeborn and Galadriel settled into their seats. 

“Our last for a while, unless you can suddenly come of age and escape your family,” Galadriel said. 

“I am sorry to miss the beginning of the festivities, they were wonderful the first time,” Celeborn said wistfully. A faint cheer rose from outside the tent, presumably welcoming back the first of the hunting parties. “Will we have privacy here?”

“I have sent word that Tyelpé’s injuries were bothering him, so you brought him to me,” Galadriel replied. “My guards have been instructed to alert me if anyone approaches.” 

The three paused for a moment. Celebrimbor sipped his tea, burning his tongue a little, and waited for his cousin to organize her thoughts. 

“I have advised Fingolfin to meet with Fëanor’s sons before marching on Angband. I believe he will listen, although we still need to pass through the Lammoth to reach the lake and the Fëanorian camp. That will prevent some needless loss, at least. Our number is greatly improved this time as well, that will help us too.” 

“And it isn’t as if we will be caught unawares a second time at Lammoth,” Celeborn pointed out. Galadriel nodded. Celebrimbor nodded as well, but in truth he hardly knew about the events under discussion. His Father had kept him practically under lock and guard at Lake Mithrim during his first life. 

“The real question I have concerns you directly, Tyelpé.” Galadriel addressed him. “A part of me opposes your return to the Fëanorians, knowing how history played out once.”

“The Oath won’t begin the worst of its work for centuries yet,” Celebrimbor protested immediately. “And you know as well as I do how Atar would perceive it if I stayed here.” There would be open war between the camps in days. 

“We don’t have to tell him you came with us,” Celeborn pointed out. “Fingolfin could also make several fair arguments for keeping you as a ward of his House. Both to ensure your father and uncles don’t commit anymore acts of treason and for your own safety – accidental or no, a parent leaving their child to the Helcaraxë is worthy of alarm.”

“He’s already considering it. Turgon told him weeks ago that you should be raised alongside Idril,” Galadriel informed him. 

“I’m needed with my father and uncles,” Celebrimbor insisted, voice firm. “All the foreknowledge in the world won’t help me if I can’t actually act on it. Already I gave Fingon the tools to rescue Uncle Maedhros’ hand along with the rest of him, I won’t watch my family fall to death and madness a second time.”

“You might not have a choice,” Celeborn told him gently. “Our primary opponent is Morgoth, and the preservation of what was lost in our first wars. My friend, you know I do not hold it against you, but your father and his brothers were responsible for no small amount of those wars.” 

“Without the Silmarils, the Oath will compel them to kill again.” Galadriel agreed grimly. “We must not be unprepared for it. I would keep the events surrounding your family as near to what we know as possible. I want to know where they will be and when they will choose to act.”

“If they will be compelled to act in pursuit of the Silmarils, then we should simply retrieve the Silmarils! We could prevent any bloodshed entirely,” Celebrimbor retorted hotly. His stomach was in knots. If he had to sit back and watch as one by one his loved ones lost themselves entirely to the destruction of the Oath a second time, he was certain it would end him. Celeborn, he knew, had overwhelmingly loved his city Doriath. Friendship had taken centuries of work between Celebrimbor and Celeborn, as the latter wrestled with the grief and fury he bore because of Celebrimbor’s family. “It was King Thingol’s own actions that first brought a Silmaril to Doriath, and the dwarves who first killed him and weakened the city,” Celebrimbor argued, desperately structuring his thoughts as he went. “We will need to prevent one Silmaril from coming to Doriath anyways, we might as well return it. It would do far more good than harm.”

“And the other two?” Galadriel asked him, unyielding. “Would you have us wrest them from Morgoth’s crown?”

“A human did once, for love,” Celebrimbor replied. “It isn’t hopeless.” 

“Nothing is hopeless,” Galadriel conceded, and the three silently looked into their cups for a moment. “You are set on this path?” Galadriel asked him, finally. Her voice sounded resigned but not particularly surprised. “It is likely that you will fail. Fëanor’s sons are many, and they are strong and proud.” 

“I am, and not just for their sake,” Celebrimbor said. “Many evil things will never come to pass if the Oath is held fulfilled.” Celeborn said nothing, but his face was twisted in a grimace of remembered hatred. 

“Then we will help you where we can,” Galadriel said, finally. “But enough about that. The Silmarils will sit and wait for us, the future will not. You will be returned to your Father then – assuming Fingolfin and Turgon can be persuaded – and the Siege of Angband will likely play out much as it did the first time.”

“We will need to plan for the protection of Nargothrond and Gondolin, as well as Doriath,” Celebrimbor said. “I, at least, will be fully grown and quite able to meet with you both without supervision by then.” He paused, struck by a thought. 

“As a matter of fact, I might look into creating some sort of long-distance communication for us three. Haru had his palantír, the principle is already there.”

“Very good,” Galadriel replied approvingly. “I suggest a division of labor. Celebrimbor, you may devote yourself to this project and any other you deem necessary while you wait for your age of Majority.”

“The rings will need to be re-wrought, as well.” Celebrimbor mentioned. “I fully intend on gifting Vilya and Narya to Ereinion and Elrond once more.” Celeborn waved his hand. 

“Yes, yes. You will work on that, as well as keep an eye on the Fëanorians and plan for the reacquisition of the Silmarils. Galadriel and myself will fortify Nargothrond and Doriath. Gondolin we will discuss closer to time – I’m sure you would be welcome to reside there when the time comes, Tyelpé. We will meet as opportunity allows, and confer what help and advice we may.”

“That is quite enough to keep us occupied for now, I think,” Galadriel said and Celebrimbor snorted. An understatement if he had ever heard one. “One last thing. I would strongly advise no one else is told what we three know. Ereinion and Elrond will inevitably join us, but the more who are brought into this secret the more perilous our position becomes. 

“Agreed,” Celeborn said, and Celebrimbor nodded before blinking suddenly.

“Wait, where did Ereinion come from again? I’m assuming you both will keep an eye on Elrond’s line, but I would feel better if we had both accounted for.”

Silence fell.

“I heard he was Fingon’s son?” Celeborn ventured, but he did not sound confident. 

“Not biologically, if so.” Galadriel replied. “Ereinion was far too pale, and Fingon never married.” 

“I’m sure it will work out,” Celebrimbor said finally, after another long pause. He absolutely was not sure, but what else was there to do. The three fell into silence as the sound of heavy footfalls approached.

“My Lady,” It was a guard’s voice. “Lord Turgon and Lady Elenwë have requested Tyelperinquar join them at the table.” 

“He will be one moment longer,” Galadriel called back, and the guard left to carry her message. “Well. There goes our time.” 

“At least I am not being accused of kidnapping again,” Celeborn said with some amusement. 

“...Again?” Celebrimbor questioned and Celeborn gestured dismissively. 

“Lord Finrod has a more active imagination than I remembered. Not important. Shall I carry you to your meal, Tithenmel?” Celebrimbor glared, but accepted. 

“Before you go, I would say one more thing,” Galadriel said as Celeborn carefully picked Celebrimbor back up. “We will not meet again for sometime, and our obligations carry us now on different paths. It bears saying that no matter what, if you find yourself in any peril, only send word and Celebron and I will do everything in our power to aid you.” 

“I would say the same to you as well,” Celebrimbor said, smiling at his two oldest friends. “And thank you.”

Galadriel was relieved that Fingolfin continued heeding her advice about a heavy guard and holding a firm perimeter as they travelled, despite the palpable exhaustion of the company. 

The survivors of the Helcaraxë were given three days of relief on the shore; the initial day to rest, one to mourn absent loved ones who had not escaped the ice, and one to celebrate. She did not see Tyelpé again, but heard that his injuries had been slightly irritated by the crossing and was resting with Elenwë and Idril. 

After their small council, Galadriel had only allowed herself one full night of rest with her husband. The two sat a little away from the enthusiastic celebrators at the shore, quietly basking in the light of the new moon and all they had accomplished. Galadriel spent nearly every moment after with Fingolfin and his Lords, planning for the upcoming siege and urging caution. She herself had taken to wearing full plate-mail and her sword, now that doing so would not mean freezing. 

Fingolfin took the hint, and when the company finally pushed southwards they were fenced by a heavy guard and watchful scouts. The attack at Lammoth was no great battle this time when it came, and the orcs of Angband were beaten back in a crushing rout with nearly no loss of life. 

The skirmish had dampened the boisterous mood of the company despite the easy victory, and they pressed forwards even more quickly. The wonder of the Noldor beholding Middle-earth for the first time was a treat despite the dire circumstances – her brother Finrod spent more time on hunting parties and scouting ahead than he did in the camps, now. A short time after the moon first rose, Arien made her own first journey in her fiery vessel. The company had paused with much song and shouts of joy to enjoy the first painted sunrise on this new world, staring in wonder as their surroundings were bathed in light. 

 Lake Mithrim was in sight within a mere few weeks, counting by the new sun and moon. Galadriel had just been straining her eyes to the North shore for a glimpse of the Fëanorian encampment when she was summoned to Fingolfin’s command tent. 

Inside, two messengers cloaked in Fëanorian red were standing before Fingolfin and his lords. Galadriel quietly slipped into her brother’s empty seat. 

“-me and my people,” Fingolfin was saying, apparently in reply. “Still, we share one enemy. I would meet with my brother so that we might make amends and become one force to contend with our father’s murderer.”

The taller messenger shifted in place, and Galadriel knew what he would say before he spoke. 

“I regret to tell you, my Lords, but King Curufinwë Fëanáro fell in the Dagor-nuin-Gilliath before the gates of Angband. Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs and vile lieutenant of Morgoth, smote him there. He succumbed to his injuries not long after.” The messenger hesitated, face darkening even further. “Not long after, King Nelyafinwë too was ambushed by the enemy. He has long been captive or else slain, and the crown has passed to King Kanafinwë who guides us now in these dark times.”

A ripple of shock travelled through the assorted lords. Fingolfin sat frozen at his table, and although his face betrayed nothing Galadriel knew him well enough to see how his face paled and his jaw clenched at the news. Fingolfin’s eldest wore his grief far more openly, covering his mouth not quite in time to catch a choked cry. 

“These are grievous tidings,” Fingolifin spoke when he had at last regained his voice. “I had thought-” he broke off here and shut his eyes, breathing in deeply. “But never mind. We would meet with your King Kanafinwë – our journey has been long and perilous, but vengeance lies heavy on our hearts and minds even now. Is this acceptable to you?” 

“This is acceptable. I would propose we meet at the middle-shore of the lake two days hence. I would further propose each company come only fifty strong in a show of good faith.”

“Agreed,” Fingolfin rose from his chair, and although his face was as still as though it were carved from stone, Galadriel thought he looked like he had aged fifty years. “Tell your Lords we will camp on the south bank for now. And tell them every drop of my father and brother’s blood will be paid for with an ocean of our enemies’ in time.” The statement was met with approval, murmurs and hard nods of agreement around the tent. 

The messengers bowed and left escorted by guards. Fingolfin lingered to address his sons and commanders with his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Findecáno, select the guard who will accompany us. Arm them heavily, but select men who have not lost loved ones on our journey, I would have peace between our camps yet if we may. Turukáno, I leave leadership to you while we depart. All of you, speak nothing of what we have learned until the negotiations have taken place. You are dismissed.” The elves nodded and began filing out, faces downcast. Galadriel stayed back, and quietly poured a cup of wine for her uncle. Fingolfin had dropped heavily back down into his chair, and was covering his face with his hands. 

“I was so angry with him. I am still angry,” he said abruptly, still not looking at her. “He has spurned me and my household at every turn, and rashly led our people into danger needlessly. But I thought we could be angry with each other, at least. Perhaps in time we could have reconciled.”

“Perhaps,” Galadriel said, handing him the cup. He took a large drink of it, throwing his head back. 

“I expected harsh words or even blows when meeting again in Middle-earth. This is far worse,” Fingolfin said again, voice rough from the alcohol. “His sons will be suspicious and quick to anger in the face of all of their losses. Nelyo at least I could have counted on to be reasonable.”

“Makalaurë is not known to be hard-hearted either,” Galadriel pointed out, more to encourage her uncle than to defend Fëanor’s sons (Valar forbid). 

“No, but he is at the mercy of his brothers. This might yet end in disaster for us all.” 

“Or perhaps they will be thankful for the reinforcement. With so much lost, truly it is plain that uniting our strength is the only path forwards,” Galadriel comforted him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Fingolfin sighed deeply, and removed his golden circlet from his head to the table so that he could massage his temples freely. 

“Thank you Artanis. You will be joining us, of course. Your eldest brother, too, if he returns in time. Go and prepare whatever you may.” Galadriel nodded and exited the tent, leaving Fingolfin to whatever mourning he might find some comfort in. 

There was genuinely very little Galadriel needed to prepare. She already knew the arguments the two groups would trade and was ready for them (with the slight deviance of Celebrimbor’s presence among the Nolofinwians, although she hoped the topic would not yet be raised). Fingon marshalled his men quickly, and the gold-and-blue company set out in no time at all. 

The bronze and red of the Fëanorians rode out to meet them. Guards assembled a large table, with high-backed chairs on each facing each other – handily removing issues of dubious etiquette, such as who ought to be kneeling or bowing to whom, and what it might mean if no such action took place. 

Fingolfin strode forwards to take his seat at the middle of the table, with Fingon at his right and Galadriel taking her place at his left (Finrod had not, in fact, returned from scouting in time to accompany them). Captains of the guard and other lords settled in around them, as six hard-faced Noldor lordlings strode forwards from the Fëanorian line. 

Fëanor’s sons were out in full force, barring Maedhros who of course had other commitments and Caranthir who was presumably minding the camp, Galadriel noted. She had not seen this set of cousins in thousands of years, and looked long at them as they approached. Maglor was first, a heavy bronze crown weighing down his head. He walked proudly, but there were deep circles under his eyes and a stoop to his shoulders that she had not remembered seeing in him. He was flanked by Celegorm and Curufin - Galadriel’s eyes lingered on the latter. He truly did resemble his son in nearly every way. Despite this, she doubted she would ever mistake her friend for this man – there was a sharper slope to his nose and jaw, and something hard and dark in the eyes. The twins capped the line on either side, one (she truly didn’t know which) with a perfectly blank face and the other with a demeanor of blatant suspicion. 

“Well met, Lord Nolofinwë. I present King Kanafinwë,” The blank-faced twin said, pulling Maglor’s chair out for him. Fingolfin nodded in acknowledgement from his seat. 

“Well met, Makalaurë. First I would like to offer you my condolences for the losses you have suffered so far, we were made aware of them very recently.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Maglor returned emptily. His eyes swept the table once, noting all of those assembled. “This is a meeting I will confess came unlooked for, it was assumed your company had remained in Aman.”

“We were given rather few options,” Fingolfin said mildly, and Maglor winced even as Celegorm and Curufin scowled. “No, my people would not be denied their vengeance for King Finwë, nor a chance to dwell in this land.”

“You entered Middle-earth by the Grinding Ice, then?” Maglor questioned, and Galadriel was satisfied to see him shift uncomfortably in his wooden chair. 

“Many of our number was lost in the Helcaraxë,” Fingolfin confirmed, looking sternly down at Maglor who seemed to shrink in his seat. 

“How regrettable. It was certainly a valiant decision to cross the ice, you must have greatly desired to see this land,” Curufin cut in smoothly. “The choice was ultimately your own, however. Dangerous journeys are rife with misfortune, although we grieve for your losses.” 

“Do you,” A captain snarled from somewhere down the table, but was quickly hushed by Fingon. 

“Many regrettable decisions were made, all of which led to such tragic loss of life. Still, we are here now, and would lay siege to Angband to exact our vengeance,” Fingolfin replied. “I will speak honestly with you Makalaurë, your people have wronged my own greatly, and there is great resentment yet between us who should be family. I would not have us present a divided front for our enemy to strike at.”

“And yet what solution would you have, Uncle?” Celegorm sneered. His face had appeared wrathful and sullen to Galadriel once, but now with the weight of thousands of years at her back she could see lines of grief etched into the boy’s face and an almost hunted light in his eye. “Would you have us betray our Father’s line?” Celegorm continued, flicking a silver-blonde braid over one shoulder. “Swear allegiance to you and your household? Perhaps thousands of years of service in recompense? We cannot unburn the ships, though we could certainly waste time trying, if you like.” 

“Tyelkormo.” Maglor said despairingly. 

“Nothing quite that dramatic,” Fingolfin replied mildly even as his captains bristled. “I would have peace between our two peoples, and yet I admit mine will not hold you who they resent as king.”

“Treasonous words,” one of the twins cautioned. 

“But it is the truth nonetheless. Still, time might heal all injuries, and a common enemy might amend what time cannot. It is madness to lay siege to Angband separately from the same land and cause, surely,”

“You are welcome to go elsewhere,” Celegorm muttered, and Maglor smacked him in a very un-kingly motion under the table. 

“Do not listen to my brother,” Maglor said to Fingolfin. “In such perilous times, it is true that we must learn to look out for one another and put the past behind us.”

“Indeed,” Fingolfin said. “My company will remain on the south bank of the lake for now, to prevent infighting. Perhaps over time we might bring the two back together, and so be truly reunited.”

“Yes,” Maglor said, looking deeply relieved. “That would likely be for the best. Might we establish some sort of in-between encampment, for our lords and generals to take counsel with each other?"

“Perhaps we shall leave the table, then,” Fingolfin replied. “It will be done. I will find a guard willing to fortify such an encampment, perhaps you might send a guard of equal number?”

“Yes,” Maglor said again, looking truly exhausted. “We will find some.” 

“Wonderful. I confess that is all I hoped to achieve today, with one small matter remaining.” Fingolfin said, settling his hands palm down on the table. Galadriel tensed. “Half-way into our journey across the Helcaraxë, a stowaway was discovered in my company.” 

“No business of ours, surely,” Celegorm interrupted drily. “Unless you feel the need of our King’s approval to enact your laws.”

“I’m afraid it rather is your business, or more accurately Curufinwë’s,” Fingolfin replied, smiling calmly. Curufin looked up sharply, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Was young Tyelperinquar perhaps discovered to be missing only after the ships were burned, or was he instructed to remain in Alqualondë? Surely those are the only two possibilities.” 

Silence fell. Galadriel rested her forehead on her hands. Of all the ways to breach the topic, really Uncle. She had hoped they would stick to frigid niceties in this lifetime as well and call it a day. Oh well. 

The shouting started all at once, with Celegorm and Curufin shooting to their feet and Maglor paling rapidly. 

“You have my son?!” Curufin snarled, his chair thudding to the ground behind him. 

“Tyelpé? You have Tyelpé?!” Celegorm questioned simultaneously, and threw his head back in harsh laughter. “You come talking of peace while you hold one of our children hostage, is that how it is Uncle?”

“If a single hair on his head has been harmed,” Curufin threatened, gripping his sword with one shaking hand while he leaned over the table. Galadriel heard the distinct shhhing of weapons being readied behind her as she continued rubbing her forehead. 

“Tyelpé has been in mine and my sister’s care since he was discovered,” Fingon said quickly, rising to his own feet and raising his hands placatingly. “We have grown very fond of him, we would never harm a young elfling.”

The angry twin – Galadriel was guessing Amrod – rose to his feet too. “You would claim your people harbor resentment for us, and then claim my nephew has been treated as one of your own in the next breath?” 

“Give him BACK,” Curufin hissed, and Galadriel absently noted that he very likely would lunge for Fingolfin’s throat if this continued.

“Everyone take your seats!” Maglor shouted over the commotion, voice raised. “Tyelkormo, Ambarto, be silent. Curufinwë, please, let our uncle explain the situation.” It took one more ‘please’ from Maglor for Curufin to sheathe his weapon and sink back into his chair, although his dark eyes remained fixed with murderous intent on Fingolfin’s face. 

“Lord Nolofinwë, thank you for bringing this to our attention,” Maglor turned to Fingolfin, eyes wide and worried. “My nephew’s absence has caused much distress among his family – you spoke rightly that he was meant to join us, and we did not know he was not aboard any of our boats when we set sail. It was thought he remained with his mother.” 

“Evidently, that was not an option,” Fingolfin said evenly, wary about breaking any more hard news to the volatile brothers. Curufin’s expression did not change. “He informed us that he petitioned a group of Sindar emissaries from Doriath for aid, and thus joined our march without my knowledge.”

“Then he is in your camp?” Maglor questioned anxiously, casting a quick look at his younger brother. “We could send some of our guards to retrieve him now, then. I would go myself if our business here is concluded. He must have missed his family terribly.”

“I am sure. However, he cannot be moved just yet,” Fingolfin said carefully. 

“What.” Celegorm bit out, more threat than word. 

“As I have said, the Grinding Ice is at best perilous. There were many times when it would break under our very feet as we walked, or that sharp debris would suddenly assault my company. The worst disasters occurred when a glacier would break loose and shatter everything below.”

“Get to the point,” Amrod said tersely. Curufin was white and as still as if he were carved from stone. 

“I’m afraid no person was safe from such conditions. A mere few weeks from the first sighting of Middle-earth, two such disasters happened concurrently. My son’s wife and Tyelperinquar were among those thrown into the water. Both survived, and are recovering admirably even now, but my healers know the child’s condition best and I would not have him removed from their care until I am certain of his safety.” Fingolfin said succinctly. 

Curufin said nothing, merely sat frozen and drawn tight as a bowstring. 

“How soon can he be moved?” Maglor asked. 

“I am afraid I cannot say. He is expected to make a full recovery, you will be glad to hear.” Fingolfin replied. “Our meeting goes long, but in the future perhaps we could arrange a visitation.”

“Yes,” Maglor said hesitantly, very clearly eying both Celegorm and Curufin to see if they would need to be physically restrained. “We will revisit the point.”

“He has made many friends, including my own niece Itarildë,” Fingon offered, likely in an attempt to soothe. “He will be far from lonely until we can arrange for you to visit.” 

“I believe that is all I wished to discuss at this time,” Fingolfin said firmly. “Perhaps we may reconvene this coming week?”

“I- next week, yes,” Maglor replied, stumbling a little over his words. He stood and drew Curufin up with him, one steady hand on his shoulder. “We will be in contact until then.” Maglor attempted to tug Curufin back towards the line of bronze soldiers behind them, but the dark-haired elf remained firmly rooted in place, staring at Fingolfin. “Curvo?”

“My son is a Prince of the Noldor and your brother’s only grandchild,” Curufin said finally, eyes locked with Fingolfin. His fists were clenched at his side. “If he has been treated as anything less, I will discover it and I will act accordingly.” Fingolfin dipped his head in acknowledgement, and Curufin stared him down for a single moment longer before allowing his brothers to pull him away.

Chapter Text

The brief but painful flare-up of Celebrimbor’s injuries had his small team of healers demanding to house him in the healing tents by a copse of trees, far from Lake Mithrim. Apparently the cold ocean water had been the culprit of the pain. Turgon and Elenwë both had argued fiercely against this decision, claiming that he ought to remain within their household, but the healers would not be budged.

Celebrimbor’s little canvas tent was rather more elaborate than he expected, complete with a little side-room that hosted the numerous relatives that cycled through. At first he had thought Fingon and Aredhel and the others were merely worried about him once more, but he began to suspect that he was instead being kept under guard as a new cousin appeared without fail each evening. 

Tonight it was Galadriel. 

“Are you my warden today, then?” Celebrimbor grumbled, dropping the book he had been reading back into his lap. 

“Yes,” Galadriel said plainly. “Don’t be so offended, it’s from a place of genuine concern. My husband will be by tonight also.” 

“So long as you two let me sleep,” Celebrimbor returned. Sure enough, Celeborn showed up several hours later, and he and Galadriel retreated to the side-room where Celebrimbor could make out only the distant murmurs of conversation.
Annoyed, Celebrimbor reached out to Vilya once more in the hopes of speeding along his recovery. 

Within minutes he was drooping in his bed. His last coherent thought was, not for the first time, that once Elrond was born he would chuck Vilya at his friend’s head and then never think of collagen or debridement ever again. 

One of his healers woke him some hours later and would not let him fall back asleep before he had swallowed some bitter medicine, which was typical. 

He was awoken again deep in the night with a rough hand firmly covering his mouth, which was not. 

Celebrimbor started in bed, a shout muffled in his throat as he grasped for Aredhel’s dagger. A large hand encircled his wrist before he could so much as unsheathe it, and a familiar voice rasped

“Shhh, shhhh. It’s just Uncle Tyelko,” quietly into his ear. Celebrimbor stilled, and through the muted fire-light from Galadriel’s room could just make out the face of Celegorm. 

The last time he had seen his uncle, he had been furiously trying to free his wrist from his father’s grip in Nargothrond. Celebrimbor had seen Celegorm’s face over Curufin’s shoulder, twisted into a snarl of rage. The terrible light of the Oath burning red through his eyes. When Celebrimbor had wrenched free, spitting his defiance at both of Feënor’s sons, Celegorm had thrown his head back and laughed harshly.

“Let the kid go, Curvo,” he had told Curufin. He was gesturing wildly at Celebrimbor with his unsheathed blade, as if Celegorm were slashing him to pieces in his mind. “Why should he come? There’s no Oath to bind him, and no loyalty besides. Why should he?”

“You remember me, don’t you kid?” Celegorm said now, voice soft despite the roughness of it. “It hasn’t been that long.” Celebrimbor made some involuntary noise, maybe his uncle’s name, but it too was smothered by the palm pressed to his jaw. “Shhhh,” Celegorm said again, but his eyes were now darting around the tent, narrowing furiously at where Galadriel and Celeborn’s low voices could be heard from the other room. “Let me get your things. You’ll be nice and quiet, won’t you? We’re going to see your Atya.” 

Celebrimbor nodded, eyes wide, and the hand was drawn away. Celegorm hovered a moment longer, staring at him, and then drew back to begin packing Celebrimbor’s meager belongings into a satchel he wore around his back. His uncle was outfitted with a bow also, Celebrimbor noted, and long hunting knives strapped to his thighs. 

“I’ll need to lift you, Tyelpincë,” Celegorm muttered, coming back to him. He lifted Celebrimbor’s blankets to inspect the bandages wrapped around his legs from heel to hip. “How bad are your legs?” 

“Not bad,” Celebrimbor whispered back, and lifted his arms up. Celegorm wrapped an arm around his back and scooted him towards the edge of the bed. He stopped and kept him like that for a moment, half on the bed and half squeezed against his chest, in what was unmistakably a hug (if far gentler than the ones Celebrimbor was accustomed to receiving from this particular uncle). The moment passed, and Celebrimbor was lifted into the air, oddly nostalgic for the times Turgon had performed the same act.

“There we are kiddo,” Celegorm whispered, taking a careful step back. “We’ll talk later, but we’ve got to get clear first. Can you stay very, very quiet for me?” Celebrimbor nodded solemnly and then immediately whipped his head towards the side room.

“Artanis!” He called. “I’m leaving to go see my Atar!” He heard Celeborn’s heavy sigh even as Celegorm clapped a hand too late against his mouth. 

“If you must,” Galadriel called back. “I’ll let the others know.” Celegorm was already half out of the tent by then. The night air was cold, although nowhere approaching the cold of the Helcaraxë. Celegorm crouched in the shadow of the tent, Celebrimbor still immobilized and silenced in his grip, as two healers passed by. The next moment he was slipping out into the open, practically sprinting for the forest beyond.

At one point, they passed a guard slumped over unmoving near what must have been the perimeter of the Nolofinwian camp. Celebrimbor lurched a little and made a noise of protest against Celegorm’s palm. 

“Oh, stop.” Celegorm hissed at him, still tense. “He’s only unconscious.” The two travelled deep into the woods, Celegorm’s footfalls sure and silent in the blackness of the night. Eventually, the low hum of the camp’s activity faded behind them, replaced by rustling underbrush and the occasional hooting of an owl. 

They broke into a clearing, and Celebrimbor jolted again in Celegorm’s grasp as recognized his father, silhouetted in the moonlight and holding the reins of two horses. 

“One wayward elfling, as requested.” Celegorm spoke, hoisting up Celebrimbor. 

Curufin’s entire body started, as if he had been struck. He was at his brother’s side in an instant. 

“Ionya, Ionya,” he breathed, voice choked. A trembling hand batted Celegorm’s away from his face as Curufin stroked his cheek and folded him into a strange embrace, Celebrimbor pressed between his father and uncle. A lump was growing in his throat, smothering any reply he might have made. “My baby, Tyelpé–” 

“Not now, Curvo.” Celegorm cut in harshly. “We need to get back to camp, come on. We are yet within patrolling distance.” Curufin nodded once and visibly composed himself, eyes still lingering on Celebrimbor’s face. He turned and mounted his steed swiftly, reaching down for Celebrimbor. “Mind his legs. This will hurt, Tyelpincë,” Celegorm said almost gently. It did hurt as Celebrimbor was maneuvered to sit side-saddle against his father’s chest. That’s probably why his eyes were welling up as he tucked himself close. His ear was against his father’s heartbeat, like this. 

They rode fast, taking a round-about way towards what must be the Fëanorian camp. The bounce of his legs against the horse’s side was near excruciating, but Curufin clutched him tight and murmured little words of comfort into his ear all the way. 

They slowed to dismount as the first bronze-and-red guards came to view. Celegorm handed the horses off, and barked for healers to be fetched and brought to Curufin’s quarters even as Curufin walked briskly away. 

The Fëanorian camp was far more established than that of the Nolofinwians, with large houses and fortifications cradled between the mountains and the lake. The narrow gap leading through the mountains even had what looked like large walls being constructed to defend against assault from Thangorodrim. Still, there was a silence in the air, some kind of despair that had not been present among Fingolfin’s people. Curufin held him tightly as he walked, as if even now someone might snatch him away. 

Curufin said no word to his personal guard as he entered his own dwelling. The house was as Celebrimbor remembered it, although without the little side-room that had once been his. A low fire was blazing in the hearth, some servant evidently having been alerted of their lord’s approach. Curufin walked to his own bed and settled Celebrimbor gently there, fussing over his pillows and bringing the thick maroon blankets to wrap tightly around him. 

It was quiet. Curufin avoided his son’s eyes as his hands kept busy, and Celebrimbor groped for something to say. Was he still angry? He thought he had forgiven his father eventually in Eregion, and then had wanted him so badly in Angband. 

The bed smelled like his Curufin, like forge-smoke and crushed pine needles, and his eyes prickled with tears again. 

Celegorm strode in a moment later, the large oak door breaking the silence. 

“The healers will be a little while.” He said, gravelly voice much louder now. Celegorm carelessly unslung his bow and threw his weapons down by the fire, before settling next to where Curufin knelt by the bedside. “Can you tell us about your injuries?” 

“It’s not too bad,” Celebrimbor said. His own voice was thick and unsteady. He cleared his throat before continuing. “My shoulder is already mostly healed. My legs were broken more badly though, so they might take a few more months. The skin should heal back faster.” 

“The skin?” Curufin questioned, meeting Celebrimbor’s eyes for the first time. His face was pale and more drawn than Celebrimbor remembered it being, except maybe in those final years when Curufin had been so entirely consumed by despair and the Oath that there had been hardly anything left of him. Celegorm reached out to rub his brother’s back. 

“Um, yeah. The healers had to cut off all the bits that blackened. Uh, because of the cold water, I think?” Celebrimbor said awkwardly, and Curufin dropped his head against the bed with a sharp intake of breath. “Atar?” Celebrimbor asked uncertainly, as Curufin’s shoulders began to shake. 

“Forgive me,” Curufin’s head shot up suddenly, and Celebrimbor was shocked into silence to see tears streaming from his eyes. He had never seen his father cry, not even after the death of Fëanor. Curufin had locked himself away, then, and simply come out weeks later paler and sterner than he had gone in. 

“Ionya, forgive me.” Curufin said again, and caught one of Celebrimbor's hands between his own. “I never, never would have left you to that, do you understand me? I thought you were with us, and then I thought you had – I thought your mother had kept you safe back in Aman, after – Tyelpé, please, you must believe me. Not even my Father could have made me burn those ships if I had known.”

“We really didn’t know, kid,” Celegorm cut in softly as Curufin broke down into sobs, pressing Celebrimbor’s hand against his forehead. 

You shouldn’t have done it anyways, Celebrimbor thought, but knew it wasn’t the time. Instead he tugged a little at his trapped hand, trying to draw his father up. 

“Atar,” he started, and then hesitated. “Atya, come here please?” Curufin allowed himself to be tugged half into the bed, and Celebrimbor pulled his father’s arm around his own shoulders and then dove in fiercely for a hug. He could hear how the breath stuttered in Curufin’s chest, before strong arms wrapped tightly around him in turn. Curufin was weeping raggedly into his hair, and Celebrimbor remembered then that it wasn’t so long for his father from Fëanor’s death, Maedhros’ capture. 

Celebrimbor knew what it was like, to lose a father. He let his own tears fall as he hugged Curufin even more tightly. “It will be alright, Atya,” he whispered, and felt the bed dip behind him as Celegorm sank into it and folded both of them into a bear hug of his own. “It will all be alright.” 

Maglor and all of his other uncles made it to the house before the healers did.

“Don’t crowd him, be careful,” Curufin snapped. He was still holding Celebrimbor tightly, hands carding through his hair. Celegorm had eventually retreated to pull a chair by the bedside. 

“It is baby Tyelpé!” Amrod said boisterously. His hand had been reaching to ruffle Celebrimbor’s hair, but Curufin slapped it away. “Look at you, a whole foot taller! We thought we’d never see you again.”

“I’m so glad we were wrong,” Amras said more quietly, smiling beside his twin. Caranthir had collapsed next to the bed, eyes sweeping his form and cataloging every injury he found. 

“We are so, so sorry Tyelperinquar, and so happy to see you,” Maglor breathed. He wasn’t wearing any kind of crown here in his own camp, Celebrimbor noted, and was dressed rather plainly for the High King of the Noldor. Huan, who had trotted in first through the door, let out a Whoof of agreement and nosed at where Celebrimbor’s hand hung off the bed. Maglor clasped his other hand between his own. “Uncle said they had no knowledge of you when they departed, how did you manage it?” 

Celebrimbor grinned then and recounted the story, or at least the tailored version of it Celeborn and Galadriel had helped him prepare. He skipped over the news of his mother’s death, that was for his father’s ears privately when things had settled down a little. 

The carpet story was received with all of the laughter he had hoped it would be, and Maglor giggled himself nearly to tears, leaning against Caranthir. 

“Well, if Curvo ever lets you out of his sight again we’ll know to look for you under our rugs!” He said. Curufin squeezed him once, smiling. 

News of his discovery by Finrod went over well enough with his family, although Maglor’s face took on a wistful expression. He had been friends, once, with Finrod and his lover Amárië in Aman, all three hailed as the musical geniuses of their generation. Celebrimbor downplayed the (very reasonable) suspicion Turgon and some of the company had met him with, but spared no detail of the cruelty Fingolfin’s company had faced under the glaciers, or the way Fingon and the others worked themselves to exhaustion trying to keep the host sheltered and fed. Maglor, at least, had come to regret the burning of the ships, but Celebrimbor saw no harm in making sure each one of his uncles fully understood the consequences of their actions. 

“They did treat you well, though?” Curufin said finally. He had a near bruising grip around Celebrimbor’s shoulders. 

“Oh, yes. Írissë makes me call her Aunt Írissë now, and Findecáno and Turukáno kept slipping me bits of their meals,” Celebrimbor said. 

“Classic ‘Rissë,” Celegorm muttered quietly, smiling nostalgically at the ground. Huan rested his considerable weight against Celegorm’s legs, staring up at him from where he sat. 

“She was teaching me to throw knives, whenever we had time to rest,” Celebrimbor told him, and pulled out the blue-sheathed dagger. “It saved my life, when Lady Elenwë and I fell in.” He immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say. Curufin went rigid against him. Celebrimbor was saved from having to soothe the mood of the tent a second time when a guard announced the healers at the door. 

It was telling that the Fëanorian healers appeared even more exhausted than the ones that had minded him through the Grinding Ice.

“Prince Tyelperinquar,” the leader of the group said, a woman with dark hair and darker bags under her eyes. “I will need to unbandage your legs fully to assess your condition. If you would like privacy, your uncles might step outside?” It was a courtesy he hadn’t been offered previously, and Celebrimbor smiled at her. 

“That’s alright. They’d only lurk outside, anyway.” Maglor hummed his 

agreement even as Celegorm played up a squawk of outrage. 

“Very well. My Lord Curufinwë, if you would not mind?” The healer asked, and Curufin reluctantly rose from the bed to instead hover over the woman’s shoulder as she worked. The male healer helped to stabilize his legs as she expertly sliced through the bandages with a knife, unwrapping where she could. Celebrimbor made sure to keep his face blank despite the ache, but Curufin still hissed out the occasional “Carefully!” or “Go more slowly, are you trying to pull open the wounds?” At one point, he had jolted forwards as if to shoo away the male healer and take the role for himself, but thankfully Celegorm grabbed his shoulder. 

The slowly re-growing skin was admittedly not a pleasant sight. Celebrimbor was a little amused to see that Maglor’s face was openly scrunched in disgust before he managed to smooth it back into a placid mask of tranquility. Caranthir had opted to not look at all, observing Curufin’s face instead. 

The healer let out a noise of contemplation before pulling on a sterile pair of medical gloves. Celebrimbor winced – he knew what that meant, by now.

“My prince, I will have to conduct a test or two. I am afraid there will be some pain – I could send my friend here for a painkiller first?”

“That’s alright, I just want it over with,” Celebrimbor said hastily before his father could demand something ridiculous, like the procurement of their most potent narcotics. She nodded at him. 

“Very well. I will be quick, but I will be feeling along your legs from 

here to here to determine how well the breaks have healed over – Lord Curufinwë, please stand back a little,” she finished, unable to keep a note of exasperation out of her voice. Curufin was practically plastered to her shoulder, and only eased up an inch or two with a scowl. 

“I could sing, if you like?” Maglor offered, visibly perking up at the opportunity to make himself useful. 

“Yes please,” Celebrimbor said with relish, and settled back into his 

pillows. The healer’s firm hands feeling at the breaks of his legs was certainly painful, but not more than the horse ride had been. Curufin retreated to grab his hand once more as Maglor began a sweet, slow song that made Celebrimbor’s eyelids heavy. The healers were murmuring what sounded like medical jargon to each other, one of them scribbling rapidly on a piece of parchment. Maglor transitioned to a new song, a lullaby of some kind, as Celebrimbor felt his legs being re-wrapped in clean bandages. 

“Quite done now, very well done my Prince,” the female healer said softly. Her voice was pitched even lower so as not to interrupt the music. “I would normally offer a sweet of some kind for such good behavior, but perhaps sleep will suffice instead at this hour?” 

“Mmhmm,” Celebrimbor replied, already half there. He heard the sounds of his uncles filing outside, and of the healers drawing his father away to speak lowly with him. Probably filling him in on the state of his injuries, and their treatment plan going forwards. 

Maglor, to his surprise, stayed. He was still singing the lullaby, but had settled himself to sit on the side of Celebrimbor’s bed. Celebrimbor fell asleep to the sound of that familiar voice, with the fire crackling low in the background. 

Pouring rain woke Celebrimbor up the following morning, and he stared out the window nearest to him with fascination. Water, being an annoyance, and it wasn’t even frozen this time. How novel. 

He actually hadn’t seen rain in…

….Hmmm. Well anyways, it had been awhile. He immediately wanted to touch it. 

“What are you doing?!” Curufin cried, as he entered the room to find Celebrimbor balanced precariously on the edge of the bed reaching for the window.

“I just wanted to open up the window a little! I wanted to feel the rain,” Celebrimbor protested as he was pressed firmly back into his pillows. Curufin looked at him strangely. 

“...It’s a window? It doesn’t open?” A hand was pressed to his forehead. “How is your head feeling?” 

“Fine.” Right. Sliding window sashes had only really become common in Lindon, and he had absolutely no idea when they would be invented. How embarrassing. “Can I go to the door, then?”

“Absolutely not.” Curufin said sharply, removing his hand. “You will stay in bed until your healers and I say otherwise.” He bundled the blankets back up to Celebrimbor’s chin.

Evidently, this new rotation of healers had convinced Curufin that he was on his deathbed. Either Curufin or Celegorm kept within eye-sight and usually within grabbing distance at all times, as if his legs would heal back suddenly and he would make a break for the door. Huan had taken to guarding Curufin’s residence, and Celebrimbor often heard him pacing around at night. He wasn’t allowed off the bed, and if he even began shifting too much either Curufin or Celegorm would appear and demand to know what was hurting and how badly. 

In addition, they seemed convinced that it would be starvation rather than injury that would finally do Celebrimbor in, and Celegorm disappeared only to return having procured ridiculous amounts of meat.

“You’re all bones, kiddo,” he informed Celebrimbor cheerfully, hauling what looked like an entire butchered deer into the stone house. “We gotta put some muscle back in those shoulders if you’re ever gonna be allowed into a forge.” 

His father, for all of his talents, was NOT a cook. It was instead Amras who frequently ducked in to prepare protein and iron-rich stews in the kitchen each mealtime. 

“Your uncles will be by soon for supper,” He informed Celebrimbor, stirring in some garlic and salt. “Uncle Káno will be gone on business, though.”

“I’ll have to build twenty new chairs at this point,” Curufin grumbled from Celebrimbor’s bedside. It was patently untrue. There were exactly eight sturdy wooden chairs in the dining room, although for some reason nobody would touch the one at the head of the table. 

“That smells amazing,” Celebrimbor told Amras, trying to lean around Curufin to watch better. “Did Uncle Tyelko kill every animal in the forest?” Amras rewarded him with a smile. 

“Between Tyelko and Ambarto, it’s possible. At least they bring me back seasonings and herbs whenever they see them.”

The smell was amazing, and Celebrimbor’s stomach had been grumbling since he first saw the meat. Compared to the poor fare that had seen him through the Grinding Ice, the bowl of stew and fresh bread he was given as his uncles trailed in one at a time was heaven. 

“I’m only eating meat for the rest of my life,” Celebrimbor announced to the room after his first sip. “And I’m never touching shortbread again. I think you have been blessed by the Valar, Uncle. Actually, I think our Telufinwë has been at least a Maia this entire time, with us none the wiser.” 

“Certainly the highest praise I’ve ever received!” Amras laughed, dishing out the rest of the meal for his brothers. The others chuckled, although Curufin’s smile looked strained. 

“You’re my favorite uncle,” Celebrimbor told him earnestly after another bite. There was a great outcry at this, and immediately Celegorm and Amrod launched into an impassioned defense of their own uncle-ing abilities while Caranthir rolled his eyes.

Time passed slowly like this, with Celebrimbor slowly healing in his bed and a rotation of uncles stopping by to share stories with him. Curufin practically never left the house, which meant that whenever Caranthir carried him news, Celebrimbor could usually overhear no matter how quietly they spoke. 

Evidently talks with Fingolflin had reached a crescendo of tension after the reacquiring of Celebrimbor. He didn’t feel too guilty about it, considering they would have been high by some other excuse if not this one, although Maglor was turning up less and less frequently and in a more concerning state each time. 

Galadriel had informed the others of his departure, which helped smooth things over a miniscule amount. Evidently there was also some drama about her sudden engagement to a Sindarin Lord, which at least distracted many notable members of Fingolfin’s company from retaliation. 

According to “some of Caranthir’s people,” which Celebrimbor was firmly not going to think about, Fingon had recently disappeared leaving behind only a cryptic note that he was fine and would return shortly.

Curufin and Caranthir talked anxiously for some time on this last point, and Curufin doubled the guard around his house, but Celebrimbor went to bed smiling and with a full heart. Even now, he could picture his valiant cousin determinedly making his way to Thangorodrim, picking at the strings of his harp as he had so often as they walked across the Helcaraxë. 

Nightmares of Angband woke him early in the morning. Curufin had fallen asleep in the chair next to his bed, a book fallen pages-down on the floor under his hand. In the darkness, he could just make out Celegorm collapsed on the couch outlined by where the fire had burned down. Huan was curled up on the rug at his feet, and was looking intently at Celebrimbor as he pushed himself shakily up onto his elbows. 

Carefully so as to not wake his father, Celebrimbor leaned down and scooped up the book. He knew the weathered feel of it immediately before he could even make out the ink on the paper; his little idea-journal that Turgon had procured for him. Unsurprisingly, Curufin had been opened to where he had been sketching out new design ideas for Narya and Vilya. 

Another eavesdropper foiled by Celebrimbor’s terrible Sindarin shorthand and worse handwriting, he thought smugly. Annatar had always complained about it.

Celebrimbor didn’t immediately push the memory away, when it came. Instead he traced one of his design ideas for Narya under his finger and recalled when he had first begun this process, his best friend nodding along as he rambled and sketched out ideas. 

These new forms were different, better tailored to what he now knew about Elrond and Ereinion’s tastes and preferences. To how he knew they would use these gifts, when the time came. He fully planned on engraving his grandfather’s star on the inside of Vilya, for example.

Perhaps, if he was being very, very optimistic, he might be allowed to engrave it on the exterior of the ring instead.

Celebrimbor smiled at the thought and closed his book with a little snap. His father stirred a little beside him but didn’t wake. Outside, the dark horizon was lit with rosy fire as the new sun rose again over Middle-earth.