not 'till daylight by queerofthedagger  

not 'till daylight

The messenger arrives in Nargothrond in the early hours of dawn, while most of the fortress is asleep.

Not so Celebrimbor. News of the battle has been sparse, and what little news they did receive had not boded well; whispers of delays, of Morgoth’s brood sweeping across the field. Of betrayal.

Oh, how Celebrimbor knows of betrayal, the shape of it made flesh in the legacy that is his body and mind. And still, and still, he wishes. He hopes. He prays, and prays, and prays, recalling pity that has moved the Powers once before, while knowing that they are long-since beyond salvation.

Even Celebrimbor has turned his back. What right does he have, then, to lay blame on the Gods for not doing anything other?

So, Celebrimbor is awake. He slips into the throne room like a shadow and watches as the messenger, mud-caked and exhausted, foregoes all manners and decorum.

“The High King is dead,” he proclaims, his voice, despite his shaking limbs, reverberating through the well-wrought cavern. “Long live the King, King Turgon of Gondolin.”

Beneath Celebrimbor, the ground sways. His hands shake.

“What of—“ he tries, clears his throat. “What of his allies?”

What of my family, he cannot say. No longer has the right to, and sees it all the same, in the tightening features of the messenger.

“The Sons of Fëanor live.”

No tale of heroics. No tale of betrayal either, and Celebrimbor should be grateful for that, at least, except.

Except that Fingon is dead, and the loss of their High King will be a blow. The loss of this battle will be devastation. Celebrimbor knows this.

And yet, all he can think of is Findekáno. Findekáno, whom he has known since childhood, since gold-spun days in Valinor; who had taught him to ride, and later, once he deemed Celebrimbor sufficient, gifted him his first horse. Who had never once complained about Celebrimbor tagging along on his and Maitimo’s rides when, at home, Celebrimbor’s parents were fighting again.

Celebrimbor had only understood much later that these hours had been meant to be an escape for them, too.

They had never made him feel like he was intruding. Had still not done so when, on Mithrim’s grey shores, Maitimo’s sick room turned into a sanctuary—Celebrimbor’s father lost to vicious, snarling grief; his remaining uncles lost to their various personal torments.

It had been Findekáno who taught him how to wield bow and arrow, when he was not training with Maitimo to fight with sword again. Who had taught him to fight on horseback. Who had taught him, and indulged him, and ever, ever treated him well, no matter Curufin’s contempt. No matter Celebrimbor’s own deeds, at Alqualondë, at Losgar, beside his father and uncles. No matter that Findekáno must have known that, beyond Maedhros, he could not count on any of them staying their hand against him, if worst came to worst. None of them had before, after all; Findekáno would not have been fool enough to forget it.

Once, on one of Findekáno’s visits to Nargothrond during which Celebrimbor had had more wine than advisable, he had leaned into Findekáno’s side. Had ignored his father’s sharp eyes, and asked if he believed that there was yet any hope left for them.

Findekáno had looked at him, eyes kind. “I do not know. What I do know, Telperinquar, is that you are not your father. This land, it forces us to make our own choices—it is the beauty and the curse of it. Do not forget it.”

Celebrimbor had not, and now Findekáno lay dead, victim to Morgoth, to their Doom, to the self-wrought tragedy ever trailing in their wake.

By then, the conversation in the throne room has moved on to Beleriand’s ever-present fear in the face of a tightening noose.

Celebrimbor excuses himself silently and makes his way through dim corridors, down to the forges.

It is no longer his right, to grieve. Not as one of his family, as his uncle’s nephew—his father’s son. Not as one who had abandoned them, and those who ever tied themselves to them.

As always, in the face of it—the grief, the isolation, the helplessness—his hands itch desperately for a sword. For bow and arrow. As always, he pours it into his work instead, desperately trying to assuage it without violence—to create, rather than to destroy. To make his own choices, no matter the futility that permeates all of it, some days.

As always, it works, and it does not.

That is alright; once, in Laurelin’s light and with laughter in the corners of his eyes, Findekáno had taught him endurance, too, after all.

Celebrimbor can carry it forward for a little longer (he will, he will, he will).

Chapter End Notes

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