The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

As you awake with morning's hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
     Do not stand
         By my grave, and cry—
     I am not there,
          I did not die.
- “Immortality” by Clare Horner

- - 

Second Age 1697

In the centuries since the end of the War of Wrath and the start of a new Age, Lossenol and Daeron and Eluréd and Elurín had kept moving. They had all been in agreement that they wanted to see more of the world than just their small corner of Eriador and the Ered Luin where they had spent the twins’ childhood and then the War of Wrath—and so they had. They had lingered in the west until the kingdom of Lindon was established and Elros had sailed away with the Edain to their own island kingdom, and then they’d set off. They had visited Khazad-dûm and their Dwarven friends from the Ered Luin who had settled there after the loss of their own cities, and had crossed over the Misty Mountains to find the vales of the Anduin, and had crossed that river and come eventually to the Sea of Rhûn and the wide lands beyond where both Elves and Men lived, many entirely ignorant of all that had been happening in the west. Then they had come back over the mountains to find new cities and realms had sprung up in their absence. Númenor had flourished and mariners had returned to Middle-earth to found new cities—and, to Daeron’s dismay, to fell trees for their ships with little heed given to the forests they plundered. 

Lindon was thriving, and so was Eregion, the realm founded by the last scion of Fëanor in Middle-earth—Celebrimbor, son of Curufin. Eluréd and Elurín’s kinsman Celeborn and his wife Galadriel were also to be found there, but Daeron and Lossenol had chosen to avoid the city when Eluréd and Elurín had gone to visit them—Daeron because he did not care for cities or very much for his old acquaintances out of Doriath, and Lossenol because he wanted to avoid the Noldor, and particularly anyone who had once known or followed the Sons of Fëanor. He had been one of them, once, and that service had taken him to Doriath—and there he had been caught in a cave-in that cost him his left eye and all of his memories of the time before. It was only because Daeron had recognized the light in his good eye as that of one who had been born across the Sea that he knew with certainty that he was a Noldo at all. 

He’d left all of that behind, and he did not want it back, even now.

They’d ventured east again, but there were stirrings now of some dark power growing in the south, where mountains rose in strange formations and fumes spewed into the air to cover that land in shadows. It reminded Lossenol too much of Angband, and Daeron had reminded them all that Sauron had never been caught—Sauron who hated the line of Lúthien, and who had battled with Daeron himself as the world broke apart after the war, and lost. 

So they’d come back west, though not quite back into Eriador. They’d found a spot south of the White Mountains among some gently rolling hills, near a clear flowing stream, and chose that place to settle for a while. They built a house and a stable for their horses, Daeron sung up his Girdle of protection, and after a couple of years Lossenol started to think they might be able to put down roots. But that was a dangerous thought—the last time they’d done it, those roots had been violently torn up by war and dragonfire. 

And it seemed it might happen again. Eluréd came back from a hunting trip with the news they’d feared. “Armies are marching west,” he said even before he stepped through the door. “Through the Gap, passing over the Angren into Eriador. Their banners are black and bear the sign of a great red eye.”

“We’ve seen that before,” Elurín said. They had seen one or two in the east, but had never learned whose sign it was or where they came from. “Men or orcs?”

“Both,” said Eluréd. “Daeron, Lossë, we—I think we might be able to stay here, safe. But Elrond will not remain in Lindon—he’ll march out with Gil-galad, if he isn’t already in Eregion. They must know that this is coming.”

“We can’t follow the armies north,” said Daeron. “That is just asking for trouble. We might go west instead, and make our way north along the coast, but that will take a very long time.”

“What if we followed the coast as far as the Númenórean havens on the Gwathló?” asked Elurín. 

“You think they will involve themselves in this?” Lossenol asked, doubtful. 

Elurín shrugged. “At the least they might let us sail with them north to Lindon, and from there we can ride out to catch up with Elrond.”

“I can’t ride into battle,” Lossenol said. 

“Nor can I,” said Daeron, “but we might still be able to do something to help. And—if this is Gorthaur, as I fear…it’s only a matter of time before he learns of us. We have not made a secret of our movements in years past.”

“We can come back, after,” said Elurín. “The Girdle will hold, won’t it?”

“For a while, and I suppose there’s no reason to expect those armies to come this way—there’s no one here, except us.”

Lossenol sighed, and reached for his bag. “Better start packing, then.” 

They left the next morning, moving swiftly but carefully through the woods and hills, north and west, passing around the White Mountains and then striking due west toward the mouths of the River Angren. The lands were more open there, thanks to the timbering of Númenor, but the skies to the north were hazy, and the wind carried the faint scent of smoke. “At least this time it’s not a dragon,” Eluréd murmured. 

“No,” Daeron said grimly. “It’s worse.”

Summer was waning by the time they reached the coast, some ways south of the Angren’s mouth. It was misty and cool, and the beach was not sandy but pebbly. They made their camp in a small bit of woods, everyone quiet and thoughtful. Usually Daeron would take out his flute or Eluréd his harp, but no one was in the mood for music. Eluréd leaned against Lossenol, head on his shoulder. “Something is about to happen,” he murmured after a while, voice faint and distant. Elurín turned sharply to peer into his face, and Daeron looked up from the fire he was tending. “Something—big.”

“How big, birdie?” Daeron asked softly. “For us or for the world?”

“Both, I think. There’s—the Shadow is growing, and I cannot see past it. Eregion will burn—all the holly trees will wither, and the doors of Khazad-dûm will close.”

“Lindon is still strong,” said Daeron after a moment. “Gil-galad is strong. And I think if they are called upon the Men of Númenor will send aid. They must remember the ancient friendship of the Edain and the Eldar.”

The next morning Lossenol woke from a dream in which he was looking for someone, but upon waking he couldn’t remember who. It wasn’t the first time he’d had such a dream, though it had been years since his lost past had tried to assert itself in his mind. He lay for a while, curled up around Daeron under their blankets and cloaks, and listened to the birds in the trees. There were more of them than there should have been, even this late in the year. They were all fleeing the fires and battles in the north. 

Then he heard a voice, distant, somewhere south of them. The song sounded familiar, though something about it made Lossenol think it should not have been as mournful as it was. And the voice—he could have sworn that he knew that voice. It made his head hurt, a sharp pain just behind his eyes. He closed them and buried his face in Daeron’s hair, trying to ignore the voice and the pain, but even after it faded away the feeling of knowing persisted, and at last he got up, careful not to wake Daeron or the twins, and slipped away from their camp. Mist hung over the shore, and he saw no one. The wind picked up, blowing off of the water and casting the spray across his face. Without knowing why he ventured closer to the water’s edge. The stones were cold under his bare feet, and before he realized it he’d gone far enough that the waves washed up over his ankles, making him yelp and stumble back, feeling suddenly as though he’d been jolted awake, like he’d been half-dreaming before. 

He also felt like something was threatening to unravel inside of him. He needed Daeron—he needed to return to Daeron and—

A hand caught his wrist as he turned away from the water, and Lossenol cried out, spinning around and then freezing in place, confronted with a figure in the shape of a man but made mostly of sea foam and water—but with eyes that burned like stars, that bored into his, igniting the pain in his head again. “You are not one of Melyanna’s,” the figure said, tilting his head as he regarded Lossenol with something like curiosity. But curiosity from Ossë, Lossenol thought, was a dangerous thing. “So why does her power lay over you…?”

“Please let me go,” he whispered. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But Ossë ignored him and leaned forward, looking even more closely at him. A healer had done the same, once—a woman Daeron had known not long after they had met, who had tried to see what it was that kept Lossenol’s memories locked away. It had hurt in exactly this way, blinding, dizzying, enough to make him forget about everything except the pain and how much he needed for it to stop. 

Daeron had been there, last time. He had sung the pain away, and then he had sung Lossenol to sleep so he could recover. But Daeron was not there now, and Lossenol couldn't even cry out for him, and this pain was a thousand times worse. His knees gave out, but he hardly felt the stones when he hit them, or the waves when they washed up over him—violent waves, towering waves that caught and dragged him back into the water, where Ossë’s power enveloped him, nothing at all like Daeron’s, or even the twins’—it was the power of storms and of tides, all wildness and danger of the Sea. 

I see, Ossë’s voice echoed through his head. Lossenol opened his mouth to scream but only bubbles came out. This should be interesting. I think it is time you remember your name, son of Fëanor. Let’s change the words to this verse of the Song, shall we? 

Everything went dark. 

The great hall of Menegroth was half-flooded, fountains overrun and their water mingling with dirt and blood, running dark in the flickering lamplight. Before the dais where once Thingol and Melian had sat in splendor, he locked swords with Dior Eluchíl, both of them half-wild things in their fury. His sword slid home first, sinking through a gap in Dior’s armor—and Dior just grabbed his arm, yanking him in closer. “I know what you seek here,” he snarled in his ear, “and you won’t find it. The Silmaril is gone—and I am not as merciful as my mother. She spared your life—I refuse you death. Death would be too easy for you, Celegorm son of Fëanor.” The words buzzed through his ear, echoing oddly through the din of battle around them. “You’ll live to see the ruin of all you have wrought and the loss of all you hold dear.”

“You’re a little late for that,” he growled, and tried to push Dior off, but he would not be moved. 

“We’ll see,” said Dior, and only then did he release his grip, falling back against the thrones. His blood spilled over the dais, and he raised his eyes to the ceiling to speak another word, and then a terrible cracking sound erupted around them, and someone called Celegorm’s name, and—

He jerked awake as the Sea spit him out. He couldn’t breathe, there was just—water, his lungs full of it, and his stomach and his nose and—he somehow rolled onto his front, choking and retching until at last the water started to come out, but it wasn’t enough, he was still drowning—

“Atya!” Elurín’s hands found his shoulders. “Atya, what happened? Are you all right?”

That wasn’t right. He couldn’t be—he wasn’t—he heaved and water spilled out of his mouth and nose, and suddenly he could breathe again. He collapsed against Elurín, and was vaguely aware of Eluréd and Daeron running down to kneel by him too, all of them talking over one another. He couldn’t say anything. His throat burned and everything tasted like blood and saltwater. Everything hurt. His head, his shoulder—it was like waking up in Ossiriand all over again.

“Lossë?” Daeron’s hands were warm on his face. “Lossë, look at me.” He opened his eyes with effort. Daeron’s face swam before him. “It’s all right. We’ve got you. Just rest—you’re safe.”

There was something wrong with that, but he couldn’t think of what it was. Lossë wasn’t his name—or—it was his name but it shouldn’t be. It was not a name he deserved, but he didn’t…he couldn’t…

Eluréd and Elurín picked him up, carried him back to the camp where the three of them peeled off his soaked clothes and dressed him again in clean and dry ones. Daeron carefully dried his hair and combed it, and then wrapped him in blankets by the fire. Through it all he couldn’t do anything but cough up more seawater and shiver. “Sleep, Lossë,” he murmured, power wrapping around the words.

“N-no, please, I don’t—”

“Shh, it’s all right.” Daeron’s hand was on his face again, which was wet. He began to sing, a familiar song to chase away pain and to bring rest. He’d sung it in Ossiriand—it was the very first song that Lossenol had ever heard him sing. 

No, not Lossenol, that wasn’t—he wasn’t…

He slept, and his dreams were jumbled and confused, his life before blending strangely with his life after. He woke hours later, as evening fell, feeling battered and bruised and furious and afraid and relieved and devastated all in equal measure. When he rolled over his face hit Daeron’s leg, and Daeron’s hand immediately came to rest on his hair. “Don’t get up,” he murmured. “Just rest.”

He wouldn’t be saying such things if he knew. 

“He didn’t just fall into the waves,” one of the twins said from across the fire. “Something happened.”

“There was someone else there,” said the other. He thought that it was Eluréd speaking now—both twins were sometimes burdened with foresight, but Eluréd’s always seemed to be a little clearer.

“Ossë?”

“Who else? I think we would all know if it had been Ulmo himself.”

“We’ll figure it out in the morning,” said Daeron. “And then—I’m sorry, songbirds, but I don’t think we can continue on to Lindon. Not with Lossë in this state. As soon as he’s able to travel I think we should go home.”

“Of course,” said Elurín.

“M’not…” he tried to say, but his tongue felt too thick in his mouth, the words in his mind unable to get to his lips. That had nothing to do with the curse that had locked way his memories—it was a lingering effect from getting his skull bashed in when Menegroth had collapsed. These days it rarely bothered him—only when he was especially tired.

“Shh,” Daeron murmured, thumb stroking over his temple. “It’s all right.”

He drifted, unable to stay awake but unable to quite fall asleep either. Daeron sang quiet songs, and Eluréd played his harp. Memories marched through his mind, out of order and making little sense at first. But by the time morning came he felt able to sit up, even though his head still hurt terribly, and—

And he remembered. Everything. His childhood, the Darkening, his father’s death. Himlad. The Dagor Bragollach. Nargothrond—

No. He flinched away from that. He couldn’t think of Nargothrond. And then—the Nirnaeth, and Doriath…

He looked over at Eluréd and Elurín, seeing them just starting to stir. It was another grey and misty morning. Somewhere a bird called in the trees, alone and plaintive. He looked away from the twins, feeling sick. He’d known that they looked like Lúthien—Daeron had said so, often—but now he remembered, he knew exactly how true it was, and how true it was that they looked like their father. 

Dior couldn’t have had any idea how far his curse would reach—how it would entangle his own children. Celegorm deserved every bit of it, but Eluréd and Elurín didn’t. Daeron didn’t. Daeron had saved his life without knowing who he really was. They’d both been happy for him to leave his forgotten past behind, but thanks to Ossë that was now impossible. 

He couldn’t go to Lindon. No one would accept whatever help he could offer. He would find even less of a welcome from Celebrimbor in Eregion. But he couldn’t go home. Once Daeron and the twins learned the truth—that was it. It wouldn’t change anything they’d been through together and it certainly didn’t change the fact that Celegorm loved all three of them more than he thought he’d loved anyone besides his brothers, but he couldn’t stay. He covered his face with his hands, unable to bear the thought of losing any of them but knowing it was inevitable. It was like a knife shoved between his ribs.

“Lossenol?” Daeron stirred, and sat up, and the knife twisted. 

“That’s not my name,” he said into his palms. 

For a moment Daeron was silent. Then he said, “Yes, it is. It was a gift from Eluréd and Elurín.”

“But I can’t—” He lifted his head, met Daeron’s gaze, and—

He knew Daeron, by now. He could read him as well as he’d once been able to read Curufin, able to have a conversation in a glance. He could read that look of apprehension in Daeron’s eyes, could read the way he held himself very still, the way he spoke so carefully—just like he had in the very beginning, in the flet in Ossiriand, when they hadn’t known each other, when Daeron had been afraid of him. Celegorm couldn’t tell now if Daeron was afraid of him, but he was afraid, and…

Oh. Oh this was worse. He wasn’t going to lose Daeron—because you couldn’t lose something you’d never had to begin with.

“…You know, don’t you? You know who I am.”

“Lossë…” 

“How long—when did you—have you known all along?” He scrambled backward, almost falling over in the leaves. “You knew who I was and you never told me?”

“You didn’t want to know—”

“But I asked you! I asked if there was anything you knew or even guessed, and you lied—” He’d lied over and over again, when he claimed he didn’t know why the sight of Gil-Estel hurt, when he talked around his lost memories, always offering support if he ever chose to try to recover them but never actually encouraging— “But why—what would you—” If Ossë’s breaking of Dior’s curse had been like the world turning upside down, this was the world turning sideways. Everything looked wrong. Everything was called into sudden question. “Have you just—just been laughing at me all this time? At having a kinslayer under your thumb—”

“No!” Daeron cried. “It’s not—I didn’t know, I thought I could guess but I wasn’t sure, not until—”

“Not until what?”

“Until the Silmaril appeared in the sky and your Oath tried to wake up—but even then—”

“You lied to me! What else has been a lie?” He fell back again when Daeron started to reach for him. “Don’t touch me, Daeron—you—”

“Lossë?” The twins had woken as he raised his voice. “What’s going on?”

“Ask Daeron!” Celegorm snapped. “He knows. He’s known the whole time—he let you—he let us—”

“It’s not like that,” Daeron said, very quietly. “You know it’s not. Lossë—”

“That’s not my name!”

Silence fell over the camp. Then Elurín asked, very carefully, “What is your name, then?”

He didn’t look at the twins. He couldn’t look at the twins. He could barely look at Daeron, and he couldn’t make his tongue work. He couldn’t even choke out his own name because he knew what it would do to them. The knife twisted again. Every breath burned; he tasted blood in the back of his throat. 

Daeron didn’t answer the twins either. Instead he reached for the pendant around his neck—they all wore them, matching leaves carved of wood taken from the woods of Eriador, where they’d made their home until the War of Wrath, and carved by Daeron. Celegorm still had his around his neck, and if a part of him wanted to fling it away, the greater part never wanted to take it off. Daeron now pressed something on the edges of his, and it opened like a locket. Out of it fell a small flash of gold. “Your name is Celegorm,” he said finally, very softly, and held out his palm. Both of the twins froze, but Celegorm still couldn’t make himself look at them. “You were wearing this when Finglas brought you to me in Ossiriand. I guessed who you might be, then, but I did not know.”

He took the object that Daeron held out, and choked on the sudden grief that welled up at the sight of it. A pendant, small—a golden eight-pointed star. Curufin had made it—it had been one of the last things he’d made just for the sake of making something beautiful, before he had turned his mind entirely to blades and armor and weapons. He’d made such pendants for all of them, the same way Daeron had carved the leaves, but Celegorm didn’t know if any of his brothers had managed to keep theirs until they reached Doriath. He’d never taken his off. 

“Was it all lies?” he heard himself ask, then. “Was it—all this time, have you just…”

“You know that I haven't,” Daeron said. 

“No, I don’t know! I don’t think I know you at all!” He scrambled to his feet and fled, ignoring Eluréd when he called after him. The stones of the beach were cold under his feet, and he slipped more than once, falling into the waves and soaking himself all over again. In the water and the waves he thought he could hear Ossë laughing, but it didn’t matter. He just needed to get away.

He didn’t stop as the morning drew on and burned away the mists, drying out his clothes and hair and leaving him itchy under the salt that remained behind, though eventually he had to stop running. He walked through the heat of the day, through the first part of the afternoon. The grief that was clawing its way through him was not going to kill him, as much as he wished it would. He understood, now, what Dior had meant. Somehow he’d known that when Celegorm had entered Menegroth he hadn’t expected to leave it alive, even if he had told himself he was not courting death. He’d known that they would never get their hands on the Silmarils—not any of them, no matter who held them—and he had known their house was cursed, and he the worst of them all. The Everlasting Darkness had not seemed like a punishment, then. 

Finally, he stumbled, and then fell to his knees, hitting the stones hard but hardly feeling it past the searing, horrible, rending wave of loss that finally rose up to choke him until he opened his mouth to scream it into the uncaring wind. 

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