The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

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Twenty Four

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Daeron returned to Eluréd’s room, where he and Elurín were huddled together on the bed. Eluréd had been feverish all night, and though it had broken with the morning it seemed to have come back. He was pale and shivering, the very picture of misery. “How is Celebrimbor?” Elurín asked.

“He’s all right, I think—Elrond has seen him, and he’s eaten lunch. He and Maglor are outside.” Daeron sat on Eluréd’s other side. “How are you, songbird?”

“Tired,” Eluréd sighed. He shifted so he could lean against Daeron instead of Elurín. His skin was warm to the touch, but not as bad as it had been. “Everything still hurts.” He had to speak carefully, with bandages over the right side of his face, obscuring a few long cuts, one of which had reached his upper lip and had had to be stitched carefully. His hair had been trimmed so it was at least even, but it was shorter than it had been in all the time Daeron had known him. Though he knew it would grow back, and it was only hair, Daeron hated to see it. “At least now we’re easy to tell apart,” Eluréd said after a moment.

“That’s not funny,” Elurín snapped. 

“Wasn’t funny when you said it, either.”

“All right, that’s enough,” said Daeron. He kissed the top of Eluréd’s head. He’d spent an hour that morning crying until he had no tears left, rather than trying to sleep, and still his eyes stung, relief mingling with lingering fear. They were all together again, all safe, if not unscathed, but he didn’t know what exactly Eluréd had endured, and couldn’t guess how long he would need to heal—or how long they had. “Do you need me to do anything, Eluréd?”

“No. When can I see Atya?”

“He’s asleep still, and neither of you should be getting out of bed. It may take some days, but I promise, as soon as it’s possible, you can see him. But—I suppose I should warn you that Celeborn might make it difficult.”

“What has he done?” Elurín asked. 

“He and I had words earlier—it’s all right,” Daeron said when Elurín started scowling, and Eluréd turned to hide his face in his shoulder. “I expected nothing less. I can handle it. He’s only worried for you—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Eluréd. “Or if you did, you did not wrong him.”

“You know why he won’t see it that way. But I’ll deal with Celeborn. You just rest.”

Eluréd didn’t lift his head. “I’m glad you’re here, Ada,” he whispered.

He should have been there before—when Eluréd had been taken. In the chaos it had been all Daeron could do to call up the mists to try to hide their passage from the orcs, and to stay in the saddle with Celegorm. But he should have seen that Eluréd was in trouble—should have heard him calling out for help. Daeron held him a little closer and kissed him again. “I’m so sorry, Eluréd,” he whispered.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Eluréd said. “I knew—I knew what would happen, when I turned back. And what would happen if I didn’t. I just—I thought I could escape, before they broke…”

They’d done more than break his legs. They’d beaten him even worse than the orcs had beaten Daeron, long ago, and then Sauron had tormented him in other ways that Eluréd would not yet speak of. And Daeron didn’t know how to help him. “Have you eaten?” he asked. 

“He had a little broth, but that’s all,” said Elurín when Eluréd didn’t answer.

“I can’t,” Eluréd whispered.

“Try to drink a little more, and some water,” said Daeron, “and then I’ll sing you to sleep and you can try again when you wake.”

“No, I—I don’t want to sleep, I want—”

“No dreams, birdie, I promise, and you will not wake alone.” Daeron stroked his hair and, after he and Elurín managed to get him to drink a little more broth, he sang until Eluréd fell asleep, and then he and Elurín carefully tucked him back under the blankets. “You should eat something too, and maybe step outside for a while—feel the sun on your face,” Daeron told him. “I’ll stay with Eluréd.” Elurín nodded, but wouldn’t look at him. “Elurín?”

“I shouldn’t ever have left him,” Elurín whispered. “I should have…”

“We all did the best we could with the knowledge we had,” Daeron said. “And you were wounded yourself, Elurín. There was nothing else you could have done.”

“I know.” Elurín straightened. “Can I—I will eat something, and then I want to sit with Lossë for a while. Can I?”

“Of course—why couldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. I just—I was so awful and he only ever…”

“I think,” Daeron said, “he would be very, very happy to wake up again and find you there, or to learn that you had been. Don’t worry about Eluréd. He won’t wake until the evening.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to stop worrying about him ever again.”

Daeron sat with Eluréd for a while longer, mostly to reassure himself. He kept thinking about the flet in Ossiriand, about the first time he’d laid eyes on Eluréd and Elurín, and how afraid he had been. In the beginning he’d wanted to protect them because they were Lúthien’s grandchildren, but that had changed very quickly—by the time spring had come he’d loved them for themselves, enough that he’d dreaded having to part ways with them even when he had still thought it would be the only way to really keep them safe. 

How far they had all come since then. He held Eluréd’s hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb as he hummed quiet lullabies and let his thoughts drift. He was so lost in them that he did not hear the knock on the door, and jumped when it opened. Celeborn slipped into the room. “How is he?” he asked. 

“In a great deal of pain, but Elrond and the healers are optimistic. He was awake for most of the morning.” Daeron paused, not really wanting to start another fight, but he also did not want to shy away from it either. “He was asking for Lossenol.”

Celeborn’s expression remained mostly blank. “You mean Celegorm.”

“Shall I start calling Galadriel Artanis, then?” Daeron asked. Celeborn’s look turned scathing. “I will not apologize—not for doing what I had to, to keep them all safe. But you should know that Lossenol has never lied about who he was—”

“Even when I asked if he had ever been to Doriath? I remember that conversation, even if you do not.”

“He did not remember,” said Daeron. “He remembered nothing of his past. I had guessed at the truth, but he never did, not until everything changed very suddenly last fall.”

“And this is the real reason you tried to avoid all of us back then, isn’t it? Why you disappeared into the east? You chose a kinslayer—the worst of all of them—over your own people?”

“I chose my friend,” Daeron said. “I chose someone who loved me, and who loved Eluréd and Elurín, and who never asked more of me than I could give. He is not only what the Oath made of him, no more than Maglor is. I understand why you hate him—I do—but I will ask you to try to set it aside at least for now, for Eluréd and Elurín’s sake.”

“And what will I do for Lúthien’s sake, for my wife’s sake—for the sake of her brother, who your friend betrayed and sent to his death? You were once friends with Finrod Felagund too, were you not?”

“I was, and I have mourned him too, as I mourned Lúthien, and Elu Thingol, and everyone else. But they are not here, and I will not be ruled by what we all fancy the dead would wish of us. And I will not continue this conversation now.” Daeron leaned over to kiss Eluréd’s forehead before he rose. Eluréd did not need them debating such things over his head. As for Finrod—Daeron suspected that there was nothing Celeborn or Galadriel could say that Celegorm had not already thought of himself—and worse. There had been no mistaking the ragged, awful grief in his voice those few times Nargothrond had been spoken of over the winter. “All I ask, my lord, is that you do not try to come between the twins and Lossë. Let them make their own choices.”

“Have they known all along?” Celeborn asked as he followed Daeron out of the room.

“No. They have had nearly a year now to come to terms with it, since the truth came out.”

“But how—”

“That is all I will say. What has passed between the four of us is our business.”

“Daeron—”

“Have you confronted Elrond like this about his love for Maglor?”

“That is different—”

“Is it?”

“Elrond has never forgotten where he came—”

Elurín stepped suddenly between them; Daeron didn’t know where he had come from, or how much he had heard. “Don’t you dare accuse us of forgetting where we came from!” he snapped. “How dare you suggest—”

“Birdie…” Daeron reached for him, but Elurín ignored him. 

“That’s not what I—” Celeborn began.

“Where were Dior and Nimloth when we were separated from our sister and lost in the forest? I have heard that Maedhros himself searched for us after the fighting was over. Did you?”

Celeborn’s face had gone white. “Elurín—”

“Where were any of you when we were sick, or hurt, or frightened? You will not dictate who Eluréd and I choose to call our family. Not when it was Celegorm who bandaged our hurts and dried our tears—and it was Dior who refused to hand over the Silmaril that Thingol should never have demanded in the first place. You don’t have to like it, but you had better get used to it.” With that, he disappeared into Eluréd’s room. He did not slam the door, but it clicked shut with definite finality. 

For a few moments Daeron and Celeborn stood in silence. Then Daeron said, “Elurín takes after Thingol in many ways, if you hadn’t noticed. You will not change his mind—nor Eluréd’s, though he is often quieter.”

“So I see.” Celeborn’s face had returned to blank unreadability. 

“Eluréd and Elurín were fourteen when they began to address Lossë and me as their fathers,” Daeron said after a moment. “We both tried to discourage it—not because we didn’t both love them as though they were our own sons, but because neither of us wanted them to forget Dior or Nimloth. They told us then that they did not think of it that way—that we were their parents as well as Dior and Nimloth, rather than instead of them. In the same way they do look to you as their uncle, and they are grateful that you see them first as your nephews rather than as Thingol’s heirs, but you will only hurt them and yourself if you try to make them choose.”

“You cannot ask me to forget that they were raised by Dior’s murderer, Daeron.”

“I am asking you not to treat them as though they do not understand. They do understand, and they have both been struggling to come to terms with it—and that is my fault. I am not trying to pretend otherwise. But has not Celegorm just proven that he would die for both of them? He loves them.”

“The Celegorm that stormed Menegroth was not capable of such a thing,” Celeborn said after a moment. “Either you have been terribly deceived, or some sort of miracle took place there.”

“What would be gained by such a deception?”

“What was gained by sending Finrod to his death? There is blood on his hands that will never wash away, Daeron.”

“What did you go to Ost-in-Edhil with Celebrimbor for, if you do not believe in second chances?” Daeron asked. “The Silmarils are beyond anyone’s reach. The Oath is over. You have no idea what lies in Celegorm’s heart—and if you do not tread carefully you will never again know what is in your nephews’, either.”

Celeborn did not answer. His jaw worked, his hands balled into fists, and then he turned and left without another word. 

Daeron swallowed a sigh, and then went to Celegorm’s room. He found it empty but for Huan, who lay mostly hidden under the bed. Daeron knelt to pet him, wondering again at how he had come to be there. “I don’t suppose you’ll speak to us, as you once spoke to Lúthien?” he asked. Huan’s ear twitched. “I didn’t think so.”

As he moved to the chair by the bed, Celegorm stirred. When he opened his eyes, Daeron reached for his hand. “Daeron…?” Celegorm frowned at him. “You’re…”

“I’m furious with you,” Daeron informed him. “I’m going to take the staff you made me and break your skull with it, as soon as you can get out of this bed, for that oath you swore and that nonsense at the ford.” 

Celegorm shifted a little against the pillows, winced, and when he looked back at Daeron he seemed a little more alert. “You—you’re s’posed to be in—”

“We were not going to just go sit in Lórinand with Galadriel, without knowing what was happening or being able to do anything about it.” Daeron reached for the pitcher on the table by his chair, and poured a cup of water. “Here.” He helped Celegorm take a few sips. “Do you want me to call for a healer?”

“N-no, I—Eluréd—”

“He’s sleeping in the next room. Elurín is with him. The rest of us are unhurt—and so far only Elrond and Celeborn know who you really are. Celeborn isn’t happy, but Elurín just had a go at him.”

Celegorm stared at him for a moment. “…Elurín? Are you…?”

“Oh, Lossë.” Daeron set the cup aside. “He loves you. You know he does. He was just here himself, sitting with you before I came to take my turn.”

“But…” Celegorm’s head sank back against the pillows as he sighed, eyes falling shut. 

“What hurts?” Daeron asked.

“Everything.”

“As bad as Ossiriand, do you think?”

“Dunno. No—still re-remember.” Celegorm’s left arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged, splinted and set in a sling. With his right—knuckles bruised and scabbed, scrapes along his arm and the back of his hand—he reached again for Daeron. “Should’ve gone to Lórinand,” he murmured without opening his eyes. “Glad you didn’t. Thought—thought I’d n-never—” His voice broke, and he started shaking, as though the reality of everything that had happened was just then hitting him. “Daeron—”

“I’m here.” Daeron moved to the bed and carefully wrapped his arms around Celegorm, who turned toward him with a bitten off sob. “I’m here, Lossë. It’s all right.” Celegorm just grasped at his arm with his good hand and wept. Daeron stroked his hair and hummed a song to try to ease some of the pain he was in. 

The tears slowed after a while, but Daeron didn’t let go, and Celegorm didn’t try to pull away. Once his breathing had steadied he turned his head a little and whispered, “Thought I’d never see you again.”

“You shouldn’t have turned back,” Daeron said.

“Had to.”

“No, you could’ve reached the river with Maglor and Eluréd. I was there—I saw it all happen.”

Celegorm breathed a shaky sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see—I’m sorry.”

“If I ask you never to do such a thing again…”

“I can’t m-make that—promise.”

Daeron sighed. “I didn’t think so.” He waited a few more minutes, until Celegorm had stopped shaking, and then said, “There is someone else here. He’s been waiting all day for you to wake, to greet you properly.”

“…What?” Celegorm lifted his head. “Who?” Huan lumbered to his feet, and Celegorm’s breath caught, eyes going wide. “But—but that—he can’t—Huan?” Huan shoved his face into Celegorm’s sniffing his hair and then licking away the tears on his face. Celegorm buried his fingers in Huan’s thick fur, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. “But you—you died, you—you great oaf, how—” His voice broke again.

“No one knows how, or why,” said Daeron. “But he appeared at the last moment by the Bruinen—so Sauron can now claim the distinction of having been bested by Huan not once but twice.” Celegorm made a small noise that might have been a laugh, if he weren’t also crying again. Huan whined and rested his head on Celegorm’s chest; if the bed were bigger, Daeron suspected he would have joined them on it. Huan was also very careful, as though he knew exactly how badly Celegorm had been hurt, and knew exactly how much affection he could withstand. 

Before long, Celegorm fell asleep again, though he fought to stay awake. Daeron pulled the blankets up over him, but remained on the bed, exhausted and unwilling to leave his side. Huan nosed at him, and he wearily scratched his ears for a few minutes. Celegorm was very rarely given to tears, especially like this, but it had been a relief to see them—to know that he could release some of whatever storm had been brewing inside him for months. 

He didn’t notice that he was also falling asleep until he woke sometime later when Huan lifted his head from his legs. Elrond had come into the room. “Sorry to wake you,” he said as Daeron sat up. “Should I come back later?”

“No. It’s fine.” Daeron yawned and rubbed his face as Elrond bent over Celegorm. It was growing dark outside. “Any news?”

“The Enemy has retreated from the Bruinen. Some orcs remain near the ford, I think to keep watch, but we believe he feels he has us trapped, and can turn his attention to Lindon for now.” 

“Does he? Have us trapped?”

“Maybe. The High Pass isn’t too far, but we have many here who cannot make that journey, and there have been signs of trolls coming down out of the mountains—it’s too risky.”

“Might help come from the Greenwood, or Lórinand?”

“Lórinand and Moria did help us—they attacked from the rear as we fled after Ost-in-Edhil was sacked. Without them we would not have escaped even this far. Perhaps Durin will open the doors of Moria again before this is over, but for now I think he is wise to keep them shut. I do not think any armies will come over the High Pass—the road is too narrow, and they will not risk finding an army waiting for them on this side before they can regroup. There are also the trolls, as I said—and the stone giants, who will probably not take any sides but who are dangerous in their own way.”

“So we must hope that Gil-galad is able to drive him back.”

“As I told Maglor and Celebrimbor, we asked Númenor for help,” Elrond said. He carefully unwrapped the bandages around Celegorm’s chest, revealing an ugly gash across his ribs to join the other scars there. It crossed directly over his heart, and Daeron had been horrified before to see how deep it was, considering Sauron had also sliced through chain mail to reach the skin. He did not feel much better seeing it now. It did not seem to be inflamed, though it was still pink and tender, and Celegorm twitched in his sleep, making a quiet pained noise when Elrond touched it. The wound to his shoulder looked similar. “Tar-Telperiën had not answered by the time I left Lindon. But Huan had to reach these shores somehow, so I am hopeful.”

“Unless he just swam back across the Sea,” said Daeron. Huan shoved his head onto his lap. Elrond smiled, briefly and absently, and Daeron fell silent to let him work. When he was done he changed the bandages, singing a quiet but powerful song of healing. “Will he be able to use his left arm?”

“In time, I think. He took a great risk, engaging with Sauron himself, alone.”

Was it taking a risk if one did not expect to get out of the battle alive? Daeron did not want to think about that. “If Númenor comes—do you think we stand a chance?”

“Yes,” said Elrond simply. He offered no explanation, but he had that look in his eyes that Eluréd sometimes got, and that was good enough for Daeron. He could trust in the hope of others, even if he was not very good at holding onto it for himself. “I’ll have someone bring dinner for you—and something very simple for Lossenol, when he wakes. I can also find a room for you—I think you slept for a time in Maglor’s earlier, but if you wish for your own space we are not so cramped now that you can’t have it.”

“I would rather stay here,” Daeron said. “I suspect Maglor and I will be taking shifts, anyway.”

“Very well. He’s with Celebrimbor now, but I expect one or both of them to come to check in soon. I have also already seen Eluréd this evening. He ate and is asleep again. Elurín is still with him.”

“Thank you,” Daeron said. “And I’m—”

“Please do not apologize. None of you are a burden.” Elrond reached for Daeron’s hands, and Daeron felt a jolt of warmth pass through them into him. The lamplight seemed suddenly a little brighter, the colors of the blankets a little more vivid. “I would much rather have you all here, even wounded and in need of help, rather than be left to wonder where you are, and fear that you have been caught up in this war beyond my reach.”

Elrond left, and Daeron sank back down onto the bed to curl up against Celegorm’s side. He pressed his face against his shoulder and wept, because the hour he’d given himself to fall apart that morning was apparently not enough. Though he tried to stay quiet, after a little while Celegorm woke, and his hand came up to rest on Daeron’s hair. “Daeron…?”

“Sorry,” Daeron choked out.

“S’all right.” Celegorm’s words slurred together a little—another reminder of the ways Daeron had failed to help him when he most needed it. “M’here.”

“I know.” Daeron covered Celegorm’s hand with his and didn’t lift his head. “I was so frightened, Lossë.”

“Me too,” Celegorm whispered.

A knock heralded the arrival of dinner—brought by Maglor, with Celebrimbor just behind him. Daeron sat up and wiped his eyes, unable to find the energy to be embarrassed. For their part, neither Maglor nor Celebrimbor looked surprised. Celebrimbor went to sit on the other side of the bed, and Maglor set the tray down before leaning over to embrace Daeron, which he hadn’t expected. 

No one spoke of the tears, and Maglor instead put on a brisk, teasing tone in order to get Celegorm to eat something. Celegorm grumbled, but only half-heartedly. Between Celebrimbor and Daeron they got him to sit up a little, propped up by pillows and by Daeron. He leaned heavily against Daeron’s side, and smiled a little when Huan went around to greet Celebrimbor, who wrapped his arms around Huan’s neck and buried his face in his fur for a few moments. Maglor and Celebrimbor filled the silence as they all ate, mostly talking of the valley, which was beautiful, and making a game of coming up with ever more implausible reasons for Huan’s return to Middle-earth, and even more absurd ways he could have gotten there. It was nice, though it would have been better with Eluréd and Elurín there too. 

Soon, though, Daeron thought as his eyelids grew heavy, even as Maglor started telling a funny and clearly well-loved story of something Huan and Celegorm had done in their youth far away in Valinor. He felt someone draw a blanket up over his shoulders, and felt Celegorm shift a little to hold onto his hand, and then he gave in and let sleep take him.