The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

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Thirteen

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Daeron watched out of the corner of his eye as Celegorm and Maglor stopped halfway back to the house to have a brief but tense conversation. It ended with Celegorm retreating alone to the stable. Maglor watched him go, and then came back over to join Daeron. “Is everything all right?” Daeron ventured to ask.

Maglor crossed his legs and pulled his cloak—new and thick and soft, another gift from Eluréd’s venture to Edhellond—around his shoulders. Daeron watched him rub his fingers on the edge of it before he said, “On the hill stop, when you swore your oath…”

“That’s over, you know.”

“Yes, I know—but Tyelko said something of a curse. And he mentioned it again just now. I don’t—what was it that Dior did?”

Daeron set his tools down and sat back on his heels. “I thought he told you.”

“I suppose I guessed that it had to be more than just—injuries, bad as they were,” Maglor said, looking away toward the stream. “But I did not really want to think about it.”

“I don’t really think I can answer your question,” Daeron said, thinking back. Celegorm had only spoken to him of it one other time, very briefly, but it had not been anything that shed light on what Dior had actually done. “If he remembers better what exactly it was Dior said or did, he has not shared it with me. It…I could see it, like a shadow behind his eyes. I could see the Oath too, though after a time I had to look more carefully because his forgetting made it retreat—for the most part, anyway. But the curse—it reminded me a little of Melian’s Girdle, keeping all his memories locked away, and I long suspected that Dior had had something to do with it, though I can’t guess what his intentions were, or whether he even did it on purpose. Medlinel—a healer I knew, one of the Laegrim—tried to look at it, and she thought that it was purposeful, but could see nothing else before I stopped her, because even her looking hurt him terribly. She glimpsed the Oath, too, and that concerned her far more, though she didn’t know what exactly it was.”

“Do I know that name? Medlinel?”

“You or your brothers might have met her sometime during the Long Peace, I suppose, in Ossiriand; I knew her long ago before the Girdle was raised, when Doriath was still Eglador, and she came to learn from Melian. Her brother was Denethor. She led her people east to rejoin her father around the time Lossë and I took Eluréd and Elurín over the Ered Luin. For all I know she still dwells in the Greenwood, or perhaps in Lórinand. She’ll have much to say if we meet again, I’m sure.”

Maglor looked amused in spite of himself. “Not a friend of yours, then?”

“No. We never were, really, but she deeply disapproved of my saying with Lossë, especially with the twins. She would have taken them east with her, only they refused to go be parted from either one of us.”

Maglor smiled again, a little sad now. “I know just how stubborn a pair of six-year-old twins can be. Twice over, for Ambarussa were even wilder. But—you know what to look for, better than I. Is the curse still on him?”

Daeron blinked. “Does he think it is?”

“I don’t know. I think so, and now I don’t know whether to fear it or not.”

“The shadows are gone, and obviously he remembers who he is, but I have not looked any closer.”

“Will you? Please? Only—don’t make it obvious? I’m not sure he’ll be pleased with either of us for speaking of it behind his back like this.”

“Yes, of course.”

Daeron finished carving the basin that afternoon, and left the rest for later; he was cold, and still tired, and the wind out of the north had something in it that made him uneasy. He couldn’t tell if the faint smell of smoke was real or only his imagination. Inside he fell into a doze near the fire, and only realized it when Eluréd came to rouse him. “Go to bed, Ada. You’ll hurt your neck sleeping like that.”

“I’m fine,” Daeron murmured as he sat up, and then he winced, feeling stiff muscles protest. 

“Oh,” he heard Maglor say. “That’s what you meant.”

“You’re both awful,” Celegorm replied, and he caught Daeron’s arm when he stood. “Come on, Daeron.”

“I can walk—”

“I know.” Celegorm still led him upstairs and sat him down on Eluréd’s bed before joining him with a comb. Daeron let his eyes fall shut again, mind drifting as Celegorm combed out his hair and braided it for sleep. It was an old routine, and usually they would turn around and Daeron would return the favor, but when he was done Celegorm pushed him down onto the pillows. “How bad is it this year, Daeron? Tell me the truth.”

“I’m not going to fade, Lossë.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Daeron forced his eyes open and reached for Celegorm without thinking. His hands were warm, calloused and strong. “I’m frightened,” he whispered. “Just—stay with me. Please.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Daeron hadn’t meant to ask him to stay there, that night—he had been thinking of Celegorm’s apparent belief that they would inevitably part ways someday, maybe someday soon—but Celegorm moved away from the bed only for a moment before returning to climb in behind him, curling around Daeron’s back the way both of them had grown used to over so many years, and the way he hadn’t since the night before that terrible, fateful day on the beach. Daeron felt his body release tension he hadn’t even known he carried, and then felt a kiss pressed to the back of his head. “Go to sleep,” Celegorm whispered.

He slept, deep and dreamless, and woke only in the morning when Celegorm stirred. Eluréd and Elurín were in the other bed, curled up with one another like they had slept as children; outside the dawn was still dim and grey. Daeron rolled over to see Celegorm lean over to kiss each of the twins—also as he had when they were children—though back then he hadn’t turned away looking like he was already grieving their loss. “Lossenol?” Daeron whispered.

“Go back to sleep.” Celegorm leaned over to kiss Daeron’s forehead next. 

He tried, but couldn’t, and soon gave up. Like Celegorm, he paused to kiss the twins, disliking the way both of them frowned even in sleep, and then went downstairs. It still felt strange to go through the motions of normal life—of daily chores and mundane routines—while the world was burning in the north. He’d felt similarly in the years leading up to the War of Wrath, then they knew something was coming but did not yet know what. But the horses still needed care and exercise, the floor still needed sweeping, and they all needed firewood, and hot meals. Especially Maglor and Celebrimbor. Maglor had little appetite because he was too used to going without. Celebrimbor’s lack of interest in food had a different source, but they were both problems; while Maglor could be bullied by Celegorm into eating more, they all had to be more careful with Celebrimbor, though Daeron suspected—hoped, even—that he would soon start to chafe under that care. 

Once everyone was up and Maglor and Celebrimbor had eaten enough of their breakfast that Daeron thought he could stop worrying at least for that morning, he left them and went back to his carving. He had sanded the basin as smooth as wood could go, and now he finished it with some oil, giving it a shine, and set it aside. The pedestal was easier; he kept most of the shape of the log, and just evened out and carved signs and sigils into the top as well as a shallow indentation where the basin could rest, singing quietly as he worked. He thought of Melian as he carved, and wondered where she was, what had become of her, whether she and Thingol had been reunited in the west. Whether she ever spared a thought for him. As he finally rubbed oil into the pedestal, clouds moved in, and he had to stow the basin and pedestal in the stable when it started to rain. 

“Is it finished?” Eluréd asked when Daeron returned to the house.

“Yes, but I’m going to wait for the next clear night to try to see anything.” He felt oddly nervous about it—more nervous than just trying to do something he had not attempted in many years, and had never been any good at it. He wasn’t sure what he would see, was the problem, and he dreaded having to untangle terrible possibilities from terrible realities afterward.

Unfortunately—or fortunately—the rain persisted for days, and when it wasn’t raining it was overcast. Such was the way of winter. None of them felt restless, even cooped up inside, all of them just glad to be somewhere warm and dry. They had their instruments, and both Maglor and Daeron knew many and varied songs to fill the evenings. Celegorm wasn’t much of a singer but he was a good storyteller, and the twins could do both. Celebrimbor had little to share himself, but he listened intently. Daeron had a small pile of wood that he could carve into little figures as they sat by the fire and spoke or sang, keeping his hands busy as the rain drummed on the windows and the winter dragged on. The tension in the house eased a little; Elurín started speaking to Celegorm a little more, though never about anything really important. The distance hurt both of them, but Daeron didn’t know how to bridge it—he’d done all that he could in encouraging both of them, and trying to force it would only make Elurín withdraw even more.

When they weren’t telling tales or making music, Daeron taught Maglor how he had sung up his Girdle around their house, and in return Maglor taught him the songs of power he’d once used as he patrolled the front lines of Beleriand, bright and powerful songs that had once sent entire battalions of orcs scattering into the tall grasses of Ard Galen. Then he taught Daeron the songs of his youth in Tirion, the ones meant for nothing but pleasant evenings full of dancing and laughter. Daeron taught him the same sort of songs that had once filled the glades of Eglador beneath the stars. 

There was little mood for celebration when Midwinter came around, but Daeron made small gifts for everyone and the twins found holly branches and boughs of fir to decorate a little, and Celegorm brought out the spices and bottles they had been saving to make mulled wine.

Among the small pile of things Daeron had made were a new knife handle for Celegorm, and intricately carved beads for Eluréd and Elurín to string together or weave into their braids. For Maglor and Celebrimbor, he had made leaf pendants to match those the rest of them wore. It only seemed right. For Maglor he had carved an aspen leaf out of that pale wood, and for Celebrimbor he had chosen holly. Eregion was no more, but it was worth remembering. Celebrimbor accepted the pendant with quiet thanks and turned it over in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the smooth and polished wood, his expression hard to read. Maglor just looked surprised to have been given anything at all, which was troubling in a different sort of way.

Celegorm had been making things too. “Daeron,” he said, and when Daeron turned he tossed over a staff, sturdy and sanded smooth.

“Oh not again,” Daeron protested, mostly so Eluréd and Elurín would laugh at him. “You know I hate this.”

“It’s that or a sword.”

“I’m still not going to be any good—”

“If you can keep up with me you’ll be good enough to crack an orc’s skull.”

“If you’ll remember, I never did actually manage to crack anything’s skull, and it wasn’t for lack of trying.” But he let Celegorm drag him outside into the drizzling rain for a quick refresher; it had been years since he’d even carried a staff, let alone tried to practice with it. “This is just revenge, isn’t it?” he asked when Celegorm finally let up, both of them wet and Daeron shivering. 

Celegorm grinned. It was a little sharper than normal, but that was all. “Maybe a little. But you really do need to get back in practice.” And before Daeron could say anything or rehash an old argument over it, the smile disappeared and Celegorm said, very seriously and quietly, “I don’t know how many times I can almost lose you before it breaks me, Daeron. There’s nothing else I can do about it so—just humor me, please?”

“Will you two please come inside?” Maglor said from the doorway. “I’m feeling frozen just looking at you.”

“Yes, coming,” Celegorm said, but he didn’t look away from Daeron.

“You aren’t going to lose me,” Daeron said, but he knew even as he said it that it was no different from Celegorm insisting that they were all going to be fine—no different than all of them insisting that they would never part ways again, when they all knew that it was more than likely they would have to, for reasons good or bad or worse. He also took that moment to look at Celegorm—to really look, as Maglor had asked him to—and he found nothing there, no trace of the shadows that had hovered behind his good eye for so many years. He looked harder and still found nothing—there was no power laid upon Celegorm now, except the lingering effects of the Doom of Mandos that clung to every Noldo yet dwelling in Middle-earth, but even those were fading away, nothing more than bits of floating gossamer just waiting to be dislodged by the right breeze.

Inside they changed into dry clothes, and Daeron found himself tucked between Eluréd and Elurín with a cup of warm mulled wine in his hands. He let them fuss a little as he sipped it, and watched Maglor fuss a little over Celegorm, who refused the wine and just curled up to lay with his head on Maglor’s lap. Celebrimbor was already leaning against Maglor’s other side. He said something and both Maglor and Celegorm laughed at it. It was cozy and homey and Daeron found himself almost mourning the loss of it already.

The next evening the clouds broke at last; the sunset was visible over the mountains for the first time in weeks, the scattering clouds painted orange and pink limned with gold. “Tonight?” Eluréd asked Daeron as they stood atop the hill watching it. 

“Yes, tonight.” 

“You don’t sound as though you want to do it.”

“I’m afraid of what I will see.” Daeron sighed and turned to make his way down the hill. Eluréd followed. “I’m also unsure that I will see anything. But I’ve taught you all that I know about it, so you and Elurín can take a turn if you wish, whether I am successful or not.”

Celegorm, Maglor, and Celebrimbor joined them as Eluréd and Elurín set the basin and its pedestal by the stream. Daeron knelt to fill a pitcher; it was very quiet, but for the flow of the water. He focused his thoughts on Eriador, on Elrond and Gil-galad, and on Celeborn, on the present and not the future, and carefully poured the water into the basin. Once it settled he leaned forward and blew over the surface, making the water ripple gently for a moment as his breath formed a small and short-lived cloud over the surface, and then when it stilled again, he leaned forward and looked. 

At first he saw nothing, only the patterns of the wood. But as he let his eyes unfocus he could see the reflections of the stars, and then, slowly, ghostly images passed across the surface of the mirror as though he were looking through a clouded window. Very slowly they became a little clearer, but he still could not make out much detail, only enough to recognize faces and guess at what sort of place they were in. He saw Elrond, blood staining his clothes, bending over someone in what seemed to be a bed, lips moving and expression set and grave. He glimpsed Celeborn with his arm in a sling, standing with Elrond over a table, gesturing toward it as they and a few others spoke together. He saw Gil-galad, not with either Celeborn or Elrond, armed and armored, with a healing cut over his cheekbone, in the middle of an army camp being hurriedly packed away. 

He glimpsed Sauron stalking through the halls of a once-lovely building, his fair features twisted into a scowl, eyes flashing fire-red. He was looking for something, but he hadn’t found it. Then he saw him upon a battlefield, something golden flashing on his finger as he gestured to his troops to move ahead, toward the banners of Gil-galad and Círdan in the distance. 

“Elrond is all right,” he said as he straightened. “But he is not with Gil-galad—I do not know where he and Celeborn are. Gil-galad is, I think, in the field. So is the Enemy. It seemed to me that he has turned his attention fully to Lindon, rather than continuing to try to seek for us, though I suppose he might have servants doing that instead.” 

“Did you see Galadriel?” Celebrimbor asked.

“No, but I did not try—you have said she is in Lórinand?”

“Yes, but she might have crossed back over the mountains.”

“If she did, I did not see it.”

“This would be much easier if we had a palantír,” Maglor said. 

“Probably for the best that nothing else our father made has come to these shores,” Celegorm said. “But if Eregion has fallen, Lindon hasn’t. That’s something.”

Daeron stepped away from the water so Elurín could take a turn. Celegorm wrapped an arm around him, and Daeron leaned against him gratefully. His head ached, and that look upon Sauron’s face—not the present, but he thought from months before in Eregion—would haunt his dreams. “Ugh, nothing but mist,” Elurín said after a few minutes.

Eluréd took his turn, gazing longer than Elurín had, and then tipped the basin back into the stream. “I saw Elrond,” he said. “He is in a valley somewhere—somewhere near the Misty Mountains. It’s beautiful, and I think very well hidden. The Enemy will not find it.”

“Could we find it?” asked Celegorm.

“I think I could,” said Eluréd, “but there are many leagues and armies between it and us. I also glimpsed Galadriel; she is still in Lórinand, or at least she is somewhere that looks untouched by war, and I can’t think of any reason she would travel to the Greenwood.” He paused, and then said, “There was also—I think it was a glimpse of the future, as you warned us about, Daeron.”

“What was it?” Daeron asked. 

“Sauron—somewhere in the east, past the Sea of Rhûn, I think, if I recognized the buildings and the clothing correctly. He stood before a young king upon a throne, and he was offering him something. It was small, I couldn’t see what it was, but everyone seemed very pleased by what was happening, which makes me uneasy.”

Celebrimbor flinched, and Maglor reached for him. “Let’s go inside,” Maglor said, “and—Tyelpë, I think you need to tell us more of what lies behind all of this.”

Inside Eluréd handed around mugs of tea and Daeron curled up against Celegorm’s side. Celebrimbor sat next to Elurín, and Maglor settled on the floor at his feet. “Tyelpë,” he said. “We can’t do anything if we do not know what we are facing. How does Sauron know you so well—what was he trying to get from you?”

Celebrimbor didn’t answer immediately. He kept his gaze lowered, somewhere around his knees. “When I built Ost-in-Edhil,” he said finally, “I turned very few away. Among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain there were those who followed us—you, I mean—and those from the House of the Mole, and some who had once been enslaved in Angband. There were Dwarves and Men—Edain and Easterling—and Elves, Sindar and Noldor and some Avari who ventured past the Misty Mountains when they heard of us. Galadriel and Celeborn helped me found the city, and for a long time we worked well together. I had pledged loyalty to Gil-galad, but he had very little to do with the running of the city or of Eregion. We did much trade with Moria, and I had many friends among the Dwarves there.

“Then—Annatar came. He went first to Lindon, but both Gil-galad and Elrond distrusted him. He came to Ost-in-Edhil, and I had been warned but I also—I wanted to give him a chance. I knew he wasn’t really an emissary of the Valar as he claimed, but I thought that he only feared the truth would see him rejected before he could prove himself. He seemed to want all of the same things I did. To heal the world after the destruction of Beleriand, to make Middle-earth just as safe and as beautiful as Valinor. To just—I just wanted to make the world better. So I let him in, and I watched him carefully for a while—and he never did anything that would have made me suspect he was anything other than genuine.”

“But he wasn’t,” Celegorm said, his arm around Daeron tightening a little.

“I don’t know,” Celebrimbor said. “Even now, I can’t—I can’t believe that it was all feigned. And it was not his idea alone. The r—the—the rings.” He paused for a moment, and then said, “I’m sorry, it’s—I spent so long trying to say nothing of them that it’s hard now to make myself speak.” He took a breath, and the rest of them waited. Maglor rested his hand on Celebrimbor’s knee. “We made dozens of them as we perfected the craft—of imbuing them with power. Power to help and to heal, I thought. Then we made the Seven, meant for the Dwarves, and Nine for Men. As we finished the Nine Annatar was acting strangely, acting—I don’t know. I would almost have said he was nervous, as he never had been before, or burdened with something, but he did not confide in me. And by then that too was strange. Then he left—abruptly, hardly stopping to say farewell or to tell me where he was going. It wasn’t long after that, that I foolishly gave Durin one of the Seven. And then—then I made the Three. Vilya, Narya, Nenya. Annatar and I had spoken of them before he left, of rings for Elves, but I did not use any of those plans—but I did use the arts that we had designed together, some things that he had taught me. I did not want to wait for his return, and also I wanted them to be my own work—I thought they would be my Silmarils, but…” He faltered. Elurín reached for his hand. “I knew when he first put on the One. I was wearing Narya. Others in Ost-in-Edhil were wearing some of the lesser rings. We knew immediately what he had done and—who he really was, for he could not hide it, not through the power of the Rings. One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them, we heard, in a voice that was Annatar’s but also not. Even the Three that he had no hand in making would fall under the sway of the One. I should have destroyed them all, but—I didn’t. I don’t know why. I warned Durin and I ordered the lesser rings destroyed, though I don’t know for sure if all were accounted for. The Nine and the remaining six of the Seven I hid. The Three—the Three I sent away, to Gil-galad and Galadriel. I don’t know what they’ve done with them and I don’t want to know, as long as they don’t put them on.”

Daeron knew nothing of objects of power. The closest he had ever come was the mirror they had used that night. He looked at Maglor, and then at Celegorm, who each knew more than he did, and they both looked very grave indeed. 

“You were deceived,” Elurín said quietly. “I’m not sure it matters now whether he was genuine, in the beginning. He will not change course now.”

“No, he won’t,” Celebrimbor whispered as he rubbed at a small burn mark on his neck.

“I’m sorry.”

“I was warned,” Celebrimbor said heavily. “I should have listened. I fear he was behind the arguments that drove Galadriel to leave…”

“Most likely,” said Maglor. “He might think himself more clever than his master, but the discord of Melkor has only one note, and it will repeat itself over and over.” He caught Celebrimbor’s hand in both of his when he lowered it back to his lap. “But I do not think you did wrong in giving him a chance, Tyelpë. He could have chosen another course, changed the key of his life’s song. It is not your fault that he did not.”

Celebrimbor was silent for a long time. Then he said, very quietly, “He would not have been able to make the One without me. Nor I the Three without him. It’s—they are the greatest things I will ever make, and they are tainted and useless.”

“That is not your fault,” said Eluréd. “Not when you acted in good faith.”

“But you don’t—”

“Celebrimbor.” Daeron sat up and set his mug aside. “You are chilled and you are still weary. Let me help you to bed.” Celebrimbor looked at him, startled, but rose to follow him into the bedroom. 

“Daeron,” Celegorm began, starting to rise, but he sank back down when Daeron shook his head. 

In the bedroom, Daeron lit a lamp and sat Celebrimbor down. He sat behind him and started to unravel his already-loosening braid. It was often easier to speak this way, when one did not have to see the other’s face. “Loving him does not make you like him,” he said after a moment. Celebrimbor stiffened. “It does not matter what sort of love it is—I make no insinuations.”

“Was,” Celebrimbor said after a moment, voice faint. 

“Is,” Daeron said. “I know you do not love what he is now, but you love who you thought he was—who he may have been for a while in truth—and there should be no shame in that, Celebrimbor, as there should be no shame in mourning what you have lost—all that you have lost, including him. You cannot simply stop loving someone the way you can blow out a candle.”

“We speak of Sauron, remember,” Celebrimbor whispered. 

“We speak of someone who, it seems to me, came so very close to choosing a different and better path—and he only got that close because of your kindness and open heart. If we were to ask you to simply pretend that there was nothing meaningful in that friendship, we would be even crueler than he is. Let yourself grieve, Celebrimbor. Do not deny yourself either the love or the sorrow, lest it fester and turn to bitterness.”

“I just—I am so tired of mourning those who do not deserve it.”

“Deserving has nothing to do with it,” said Daeron. “I think all who turned down such dark paths should be mourned. Imagine what could have been had Melkor not chosen as he did. That is worth grieving. Your father is worth grieving too—and your uncles, and your grandfather, and yes, even Annatar. No one in this house will censure you for it.”

“Others will.”

“Maybe,” said Daeron. “But you will not be alone.” When Celebrimbor twisted to look at him in confusion, he smiled a little. “There are many who will question me, too, for loving someone they think monstrous. The difference is that when it was offered, your uncle took his second chance. I am sorry that Annatar did not.”

“We will all be sorry for it, and for what I did to further his—”

“Betrayal is the fault of the betrayer, not the betrayed—I told you, we would all say it as often as you need to hear it. Your vision for your city was beautiful, Celebrimbor, and that it was taken advantage of by one more cunning and powerful than you or Galadriel or anyone else is not your fault. ” He gently turned Celebrimbor back around so he could finish braiding his hair.

“We weren’t lovers,” Celebrimbor said after a while. “Though I think some suspected we might be. And—they might have been right, given more time. I don’t know. I never really thought about it like that.”

“I’m sorry,” said Daeron softly. “Truly. And if you need to speak of it—any of it—you can come to me. It might be easier to say certain things to me than to either Maglor or Lossë.”

“Thank you. I’ll remember.”