Give Us Wisdom and Goodly Speech by Zdenka  

To assist his father, Finrod had taken up matters dealing with the Returned. When a spirit in Mandos was ready to be released, the Maiar of Mandos determined by methods of their own whether there was a family member or friend the reawakened Elf could be sent to. If not, they sent a message to Finrod. He had the widest acquaintance among both Amanyar and the Elves of Beleriand, and the fewest inconvenient feuds left over from Middle-earth. He was usually able to find where the reawakened Elf belonged.

Today, unusually, there were two messengers waiting to speak to him in person: one a somberly dressed and hooded follower of Námo, and the other a grey-veiled follower of Nienna.

Finrod rose and bowed politely to the two Maiar. “Welcome,” he said. “What brings you to me today?”

The messenger of Námo Mandos spoke first. “There is an Elf who has been declared ready for release.”

“His stay was more for healing than for judgement,” the messenger of Nienna said in turn. “He knew grief in his lifetime, and his death was one of great torment.”

“Yet he refuses to accept the judgement of Námo Mandos.”

“Say rather, he deems himself unready for return.”

“He refuses to leave,” the messenger of Námo said flatly. The messenger of Nienna sighed but said nothing.

Finrod was deeply curious by this time. “Does he have friends or kin who can be brought to speak to him?”

After a moment, the messenger of Nienna spoke again. “He is not ready to speak to those of his kin who remained in Aman. He feels they would not understand his experience, and he does not know how to speak to them. Whether rightly or wrongly, he feels guilt over what he has done and does not wish to face them.”

“His closest kin who were in Middle-earth,” said the messenger of Námo, “remain in Mandos, and will remain for some time yet.”

“You yourself are among his kin, and my Lady thought that speech with you would do him good.”

“I am his kin?” Finrod echoed in surprise. “But who is he?”

“He is Celebrimbor son of Curufin,” said the messenger of Námo, “of the House of Fëanor.”

The halls of Námo Mandos, at least such parts as could be reached by the living, always bore a faint chill, and footsteps echoed strangely. Finrod gave his name and his errand to a hooded attendant, who bowed silently and beckoned him to follow.

Finrod was led into a sort of antechamber, a shadowy grey space of uncertain shape and dimensions. He could not help thinking back to his memories of the Elf whose spirit he was about to meet.

Finrod had not known Celebrimbor well until he sought refuge in Finrod’s city of Nargothrond, along with his father Curufin and uncle Celegorm. They had been driven from their own domain of Himlad during the fierce attacks that began the Battle of Sudden Flame. Finrod had not thought much about Celebrimbor at first; he seemed quiet and was much in the shadow of his father. Late one night, wandering his city, Finrod found Celebrimbor working in the forge by lamplight. Finrod asked him about his work; the conversation somehow turned to the wandering Dwarves, who had first dwelved the caves that became Nargothrond. Next he knew, Celebrimbor was scribbling Dwarf-runes and answering his questions about Dwarvish grammar; they spoke together until nearly dawn.

They spent much time together. From the way Celebrimbor’s eyes followed him, Finrod could guess at a devotion that was more than cousinly fellow-feeling. A child’s hero-worship, Finrod had told himself, though he knew Celebrimbor was long past being a child.

Celebrimbor had never spoken of whatever might be in his heart; he had only been silently generous with the works of his hands, offering Finrod piece after piece set with gems like flame or delicately wrought from silver. As for Finrod, he had felt the shadow of his doom drawing closer. Whenever he thought of breaking that silence, he seemed to hear a voice whisper: I too must follow my Oath into darkness. His last sight of Celebrimbor in that lifetime had been a glimpse of Celebrimbor’s stricken face among the crowd in Nargothrond’s throne room.

Finrod did not know how long he had been waiting before he felt the sense of another presence in the room with him. There was no distinct shape before him, but rather an area of mist more or less the size of a person, that was slightly darker grey than the room; the mist did not remain stagnant, but slowly flowed and spiraled as if moved by a breeze that Finrod could not feel.

Finrod stepped forward. “Celebrimbor?” he said in a clear voice.

The mist continued to spin. After a moment, a familiar voice answered. “Finrod?” He sounded surprised.

“It is I, cousin. The messengers of Mandos and Nienna told me that you have been declared ready to return to the world, but that you refuse to leave.”

A moment of silence. “I am sorry that they should have troubled you.”

“It is no trouble,” Finrod replied earnestly. “I have missed you, Celebrimbor.”

“ . . . you have?”

“You need not sound so surprised,” Finrod said gently. “Were we not friends and good companions in Nargothrond?”

“We betrayed you in Nargothrond!”

“You did not,” Finrod said with certainty.

A longer pause, while the tendrils of grey mist drifted and spun. Finrod found himself trying to figure out if there was any pattern to their movements.

Finally Celebrimbor spoke again, more softly. “I did not know what my father and uncle planned, I swear to you. But when they spoke—I did not speak against them. I didn’t try to stop them.”

Finrod sighed deeply. “I couldn’t stop them,” he said, “I who was king in Nargothrond and should have held her people’s loyalty. My brother couldn’t stop them—he to whom I left my crown. None of those few who held loyalty to me could stop them.” His voice turned wry. “Your kin are very convincing. When your father spoke, I thought I was hearing Fëanor himself.” He shook his head. “You couldn’t have stopped them either, or broken the spell of fear.”

“I should have tried.”

Finrod swallowed. “It was enough for me to know you had no part in it,” he said softly. “After Celegorm and Curufin spoke, I was bracing my heart for a third speech—but one look at you and I saw it was not so.”

“I would never—!”

“I know,” Finrod said gently. “And I was glad to have my fear proved wrong. But in that time I could not spare thought for anything good or bright; all of me was straitened like an arrow’s point to my oath and my quest.”

“Then—you forgive me for it?”

“No need for forgiveness, since I have never blamed you. But if you wish it, for what was done and not done in Nargothrond, I forgive you.”

A sound like a choked sob came out of the mist. Finrod said swiftly, “May I not see you?”

A moment’s hesitation, and the grey mist thinned and drew back until Celebrimbor’s shape could be seen. It was like seeing him through flowing fog, parts of him concealed and revealed in turn like the moon through clouds. The condition of his body also changed before Finrod’s eyes; one moment it appeared hale and whole, the next covered in cruel wounds. Finrod felt a surge of anger at whoever had done this. Middle-earth was at peace in the Second Age; Celebrimbor should not have suffered thus!

On an impulse, he reached out and caught Celebrimbor’s hands. There was no solid body under his touch, no warm skin or beating pulse, but the mistlike shape of his hands stayed between Finrod’s hands.

“What are you doing?” Celebrimbor murmured, his face turned away. “I am still of Mandos. The dead cannot—”

“Cannot touch, I know,” Finrod agreed regretfully. “I tried to hug my brothers when I came to Mandos.” Still he did not let go of Celebrimbor’s insubstantial hands. “Tell me,” he urged after a moment, “why do you refuse to leave Mandos?”

Celebrimbor bowed his head. “I am accursed,” he said, “and the works of my hands are cursed also.”

Finrod wished he could see Celebrimbor’s face more clearly. “The curse I know of, for I was there when it was spoken. I was cursed as well, if you recall! ‘On the House of Fëanor, and upon all that will follow them.’ But if Námo has judged you ready to leave, then the curse is lifted.”

Celebrimbor raised his head, and Finrod caught his breath at the first sight of his face. In Nargothrond, he had thought of Celebrimbor as a child; but his face now was that of one who had been made wise by sorrow. “I have done great harm,” Celebrimbor said, “though unwillingly. In short—Forgive me, cousin, I cannot look you in the face while I speak it.” His face was set, and his chest heaved with unnecessary breaths. “I had a lovely city, full of marvels of craftmanship and learning. Alas for my Ost-in-Edhil! Sauron, the Ever-Abhorred, came to us in disguise. I—I was foolish and too confident, and I did not heed your sister and Elrond when they warned me against him. I welcomed him and made him a part of all our counsels and our greatest works.” He bowed his head again. “And then he betrayed us, and Eregion was laid waste.”

Celebrimbor did not speak of his own death, Finrod thought with pity, but it was easy to guess that he had suffered cruelly at the hands of Sauron or his servants. He gripped Celebrimbor’s hands tighter. “A trusting heart is not a crime,” he said. “What work of yours has ever been accursed?”

“Together, we made Rings of Power. Sauron had a part in the making of the Rings—all of them except the Three, my greatest works and my last-made. They are in his hands now—for I could not keep them from him—and I fear what he will do with them.”

Finrod laced his fingers through Celebrimbor's, feeling a faint cool touch instead of proper warmth. “Then his making was cursed, not yours.”

Celebrimbor looked at him with doubt. “I do not trust my hands. I have done too much harm in my foolishness, and I wish to do no more.” Celebrimbor's eyes became visible as he looked at Finrod. Quite lovely eyes; Finrod could get used to looking at them.

“Celebrimbor,” he said suddenly. “Make something for me.”

“Make something . . .?”

Finrod gave a firm nod. “When you come out of Mandos. You made me so many lovely things in Nargothrond, and I remember them with delight! I no longer have those gifts, and so I am commissioning you in advance.”

Celebrimbor looked interested in spite of himself. “But what do you want me to make?”

Finrod tilted his head as if considering. “Anything you like.”

“Not rings,” Celebrimbor said quickly.

“Not rings then,” Finrod agreed peaceably. He stroked Celebrimbor’s fingers; he could not feel it, but he liked the way their hands looked intertwined.

“I—made one of the Three for you,” Celebrimbor whispered. “Or you were in my heart while I made it.”

“How so?”

Celebrimbor swallowed. “Narya, the Ring of Fire.” His voice was a little hoarse. “It was meant to reawaken courage and light sparks of hope. If—if there had been such a thing in Nargothrond—”

Celebrimbor had thought of him, held Finrod in his heart even while creating his greatest works? Finrod could only reply to his truth and generosity in kind. He leaned forward and gently kissed Celebrimbor’s insubstantial lips. When he drew back, Celebrimbor stared at him, wide-eyed. Finrod could not help smiling at his dazed expression. “Come out of Mandos soon,” he said. Reluctantly, he released Celebrimbor and turned back towards the gate that led to the world of the living.

Celebrimbor recovered his words just as Finrod opened the door. “You—You can’t—” he stammered in dismay. “You just—! Finrod!”

Finrod smiled to himself and stepped out the door.

He returned the next day and asked to speak with Celebrimbor.

The hooded attendant of Namo (the same one? Finrod couldn’t tell) said merely, “Wait here,” and glided off. Finrod found himself pacing up and down the stone floor, too restless to stay still. His heart was beating with unaccustomed hope.

At last, the door opened again. Finrod looked up, expecting the servant of Mandos. But it was Celebrimbor.

Barefoot and clad in a simple robe of undyed linen, Celebrimbor had the faint look of wonder of all the Reawakened. Finrod thought he had never seen anything fairer. In a moment, he crossed the room and pulled Celebrimbor into a fierce embrace.

Celebrimbor let out a shuddering breath and returned the embrace. “You’re here,” he murmured. “You’re really here.”

“I should be saying that,” Finrod said, torn between laughter and tears. “I hoped you would be swayed and return, but I dared not hope it would be so soon.”

Celebrimbor’s cheeks were flushed. “You were—very persuasive.”

Finrod smiled from sheer joy and stood back a little to see Celebrimbor properly. After a moment, Celebrimbor visibly braced himself. “Tell me—did you mean what you said? Or, what you did . . .?”

“I did,” Finrod said softly. “And I will do the same again, if you wish it.”

“Yes,” Celebrimbor said unsteadily, “yes, please—” and Finrod pulled him into an ardent kiss.

Celebrimbor clutched at Finrod’s shoulders as he returned the kiss, and he sighed when they parted. “I did not truly think I had so much joy waiting for me among the living,” he said softly.

Finrod took his hand. “Come,” he said, and together they went back into the sunlight.

Chapter End Notes

"On the House of Fëanor ... and upon all that will follow them" - from the Doom of the Noldor (Silmarillion, "Of the Flight of the Noldor")

Narya - Círdan says when he gives Narya to Gandalf: "For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill." (LOTR Appendix B, The Third Age)

The title is from the Poetic Edda, from a verse Brynhild speaks upon awakening from her magic sleep.

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