A Moonlit Embrace for the Twilight Child by Isilme_among_the_stars  

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A Moonlit Embrace for the Twilight Child

As the first blush of Spring thawed Himlad, a dyad had emerged from the woods and asked admittance. There was never any question of their welcome, for Celegorm bitterly regretted his absence years ago, when still singular, his restless cousin had last called. When that blessedly familiar voice, once thought forever lost to him, carried upon the breeze to the parapet, the call to open the gates was the swiftest order he had ever given. Huddled among Aredhel’s skirts, peering fearfully from between the folds with midnight eyes was a child with skin white as cream and hair of obsidian.

A sentimental man may have gushed over how wonderful it was to see his cousin again, cooed over the child and drawn them both into a long embrace. Celegorm was nothing of the sort. His keen eyes read the fleeting signs that were plain for skilled eyes to find, and saw the pair for what they were: deer and fawn running ahead of the hunt. He kept three feet of distance between them, movements predictable and stance open accordingly.

“Aredhel-” Celegorm began.

“Írissë, please,” she cut in, a spark of defiance rising as she insisted on the mother tongue that had been denied her too long, “and this is Lómion.”

“Írissë, whatever, it is you run from,” he assured quietly, “it will not overtake you here.”

Aredhel seemed almost to melt with relief then. It was her arms, her will, that connected the three of them, and drew him in for a fierce embrace. Maeglin, however, took much longer to relax. Aredhel’s little twilight child was a permanent fixture at her side, the sharp eyes for which his father named him piercing any who approached. When evening brought word of that same dark elf stalking through woodlands to the south, the boy shook. Celegorm calmly moved the two of them into his own chambers and quietly recruited Curufin to join a protective detail. The two brothers lay as parenthesis, they and the great hound, Huan, at their feet securely framing the pair; a guard through which no terrors of the night could pass. Oh, Eöl railed much against the filthy, child-stealing, barbaric-tongued, treacherous Golodhrim, but never dared breach the walls.

This nocturnal arrangement long outlived the danger that had inspired it, and their shared bed transformed slowly from defensive station into the central point of an orbit of comfort and connection. The gravitational pull found Celebrimbor too drifting in many night, to find refuge from the nightmares he was now too old to admit to. And so, as the vernal air warmed and the season drew toward its close, Tilion beamed down from his lunar perch upon a nest of elves with his old companions at its heart. Silvery full-moon rays danced through the open window hand-in-hand with a cool breeze, and Maeglin stirred.

“Can’t sleep?” Celegorm asked.

“It’s too bright,” Maeglin complained.

The moon, even at its brightest, seemed paltry for an elf who had slept under the light of Telperion, but for one who had only known the densely wooded Nan Elmoth, its silver sheen in the open plains must seem piercing. Aredhel, had she been awake, would have yawned her way to the window, pulled the shutter, drawn the curtain tightly and stumbled back into bed, tucking her son against a shoulder to shield his eyes. Celegorm, however, was loath to forgo the sweetly scented breeze on such a mild night. “Aye, Tilion has always been bright,” he said, “even before he guided the moon.”

“Tilion?” Maeglin blinked sluggishly, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes.

“Tilion the Hunter, who pulls the moon through the sky. Your mother has not spoken of him?”

“No.”

“Well then, Lómion, I shall tell you.”

Celegorm stretched stiff arms and drew the boy closer. He was beginning to trust, this little slip of a child, and each inch of it that Celegorm had gained was hard won. Maeglin was Aredhel’s child in truth; his cousin’s enduring nature overmastered what little of his father’s dark pride Celegorm could see in the boy, and he hoped it would remain so. He smoothed midnight tresses from his milky forehead, marveling at their softness. How long was it since Celebrimbor had been this small? The gangly youth, just lately wandered in, was at this moment snoring lightly as he made a valiant effort to take up half of the bed. From the scrunching of Curufin’s forehead, those large feet, still carrying the chill of the flagstones, likely sought warmth inside the creases of his father’s knees. Not for the first time, Celegorm considered the merits of bullying Curufin into making them a bigger bed.

“Do you know of Oromë?” Celegorm asked.

Silken hair tickled Celegorm’s bare chest as Maeglin nodded.

“Then you will know that Oromë is the greatest hunter that there is.”

Another tickle traced the path of Maeglin’s agreement against Celegorm’s skin.

“A long time ago, Tilion, your mother and I ran with Oromë in the great forest, hunting the beasts within.”

“Was it anything like our forest?” Maeglin asked, his attention piqued.

“No,” Celegorm’s expression twitched with wry amusement. “Nothing like Nan Elmoth. It was deep and mysterious, but never so dark.”

At Maeglin’s back, Aredhel shivered faintly. Her unconscious fears quelled quickly as Curufin instinctively slung an arm about her waist in a secure embrace. When his mother’s breathing steadied to a slow, peaceful rhythm once more, Maeglin’s compact body yielded a fraction of its own tension.

“Tilion’s bow was as silver as the eyes that glowed like lamps in his genial face.  But one should not be taken in by that innocent countenance, for Tilion was also fierce and strong, as were all that joined the hunt,” Celegorm went on.

“And my mother too?” Maeglin’s perfect brow creased as his eyes rose to meet Celegorm’s. A solemn curiosity had awoken that Celegorm had not often seen in them. He met the boy’s gaze unflinchingly and imbued his words with earnestness to match.

“Your mother was one of the strongest,” he said. “Still is. A quality, I think, she has passed to her son.”

That small head ducked down to hide the complex workings of uncomfortable ambivalence skating across his face, little used to praise. Celegorm continued before the discomfort could transmute into bitterness or sorrow. “But for all that, Tilion’s heart was soft, and his mind was often a-wander. He loved nothing more than to rest from his labours in Irmo the Dreamer’s garden under the pearly light of Telperion, the night tree. Your mother and I wondered often if his silver bow was wrought of a branch from the same, but Tilion would never say.”

Maeglin remained quiet, his breath beginning to deepen, and Celegorm brought his hand tentatively to the child’s back, stroking a steadying rhythm over the ridge of his spine. Maeglin did not flinch, and after a moment, relaxed a mite more.

“He loved that tree so much that come the Long Night and the knowledge Telperion would not revive, Tilion begged to be entrusted its last flower, which was to become the moon. Manwë, King of the Skies, scoffed. ‘That dreamer?’ he cried, ‘his thoughts are ever a-flitter as butterflies among the daisies! Tilion shall never hold true to his path.’ He was right of course, and ever Tilion wanders, but Varda, Queen of the Stars knew him to be true-hearted, and Oromë the Hunter named him valiant. It is well that he was given the charge, for soon dark spirits came to put out the moon-flower’s light. But Tilion vanquished them, and ever since they have failed in this quest, for Tilion the true-hearted, strong of arm and fleet of arrow ever keeps it from their reach. And he watches over us too this night.”

“He does…?” The child’s words came languid and heavy on the cusp of sleep.

“Truly, Lómion, he does,” Celegorm whispered.

“That is well…”

How fair was the softness of the boy’s youthful face, smoothed as the cares of the waking world were chased away at last by sleep. Celegorm saw the gentle light of the stars in that ivory countenance, framed by the deeps of midnight hair. Aredhel’s twilight child, beautiful and mysterious as the night. His mother’s eyes, lit flaming from within, met Celegorm’s over the child’s brow as he turned to bury himself once more in her comforting warmth.

“Thank you,” she said simply, and was lost again in dreams shortly after.

Behind Aredhel a sigh escaped Curufin’s lips as Celebrimbor stretched and nuzzled one well-muscled shoulder comfortably against his father’s back. Celegorm, languid amid the balmy night, closed his own eyes and let sleep take him. On the flagstones below, Huan whuffled, paws twitching like a puppy as he bounded through a dreamscape of his own. Above, traversing the heights of the night sky, Tilion looked down from his star strewn path, and smiled.

Chapter End Notes

That's not my Celegorm... he's too nice. That's not my Celegorm... he tells stories to children. I know, I know! Look, hear me out. You best believe a son of Fëanor (whose oratorial skills convinced the Noldor quit Aman), who wins over Nargothrond with his own charisma and oratory, is the best damn bedtime storyteller there is. Being kind to Maeglin is not mutually exclusive with him also being a SOB. And bedsharing? Totally platonic. A completely normal arrangement for much of history, with both family, friends and strangers. If you require clarification on the matter, take it up with Richard the Lionheart.

Here are a few crumbs of lore and language for those who find such details exciting as I do:
Nan Elmoth translates to Valley of Starry Dusk. Maeglin means "sharp glance" in Sindarin & Lómion (his secret mother name) means "son of twilight". As Eöl's dubious achievements includes forcing Aredhel to forgo her family and her mother tongue (except that BAMF Aredhel taught Maeglin in secret). Therefore, out of spite, please imagine all of these conversations taking place in Quenya.

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