The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

Six

Everything hurt. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Celebrimbor was vaguely aware of horses, of movement, of broken ribs grinding together, of cold and wind—and then of warm hands on his face, and familiar voices speaking to him. The voices, he knew, were a dream—his father was dead, and all of his uncles. If Annatar—if Sauron thought that he would be lulled by such tricks, he would be disappointed. 

But when he woke fully, the pain had lessened, and he was—he was warm? He was in a bed, tucked under soft blankets, his wounds bandaged. The smell of athelas hovered in the air, and sunshine unfiltered by smoke came through the window, framed by climbing ivy, autumn red. The bedroom was comfortable, lived-in and neat, the bed wide and piled with pillows and soft blankets. A bowl of water sat on the small table next to it, the water greenish and with a few wilted leaves floating on top. 

Carefully, he sat up, ignoring how much it hurt. He looked down to see bandages wrapped around his wrists and his arms, around his ribs to hold the broken ones in place—but his hands remained unharmed. There was relief in that but also a kind of horror. Anna—Sauron—had been saving that particular torment, hadn’t yet wanted him irreparably broken. Someone had dressed him in a loose fitting nightshirt. Through the bedroom door he heard muffled voices, and some other sounds that were so normal and domestic that he almost felt dizzy. He didn’t understand how he had gotten here, where here even was, what had happened. 

With effort, he got himself out of bed, and on unsteady feet he crossed the room to the door. Even that handful of steps over soft woven rugs scattered across the smooth wooden floor left him aching and struggling to catch his breath. But he opened the door anyway, dreading what he would find but needing to know. If this was really some illusion, or…

The door opened into a wider room, with a large hearth at one end, and comfortable chairs and cushions set around it. A pair of cloaks hung on pegs near the door, and a bow and quiver was set on the floor beneath them. One dark-haired figure knelt by the hearth, just tossing a new log onto the flames. Sparks flew up as it landed. The room smelled of dried herbs and burning wood, and fresh bread. Near the door another pair of figures stood, one stripping off a pair of gloves as he said, “…dressed it, but I’ll need your help to finish—” He broke off, looking over to see Celebrimbor. 

The world tilted. Celebrimbor didn’t hit the floor only because the one who’d been tending the fire caught him in time.

“Tyelpë,” Celegorm said—Celegorm who was dead. Who had left Nargothrond without ever looking back, not even once. Who now stood framed by sunlight coming through the door behind him, half his face hidden behind a fall of silver hair, worn loose instead of his usual tight hunter’s braids. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Hysterical laughter bubbled up in his throat and he choked on it. “You shouldn’t be alive,” he said, and watched his uncle flinch back. That wasn’t right. Celegorm never flinched. He was never afraid—when Celebrimbor had been a child, Celegorm had been full of fearless laughter. Later, in Beleriand, he had been full of fearless rage. “What—what kind of trick—” 

“It’s no trick,” said the one holding him up, and there was something about the way he said it, something about the way the words felt, that hurt in an awful, horribly familiar way.

“Don’t—no, no—Ann—it—I won’t—” He tried to pull away but none of his limbs wanted to work. His uncle had always been fearless, but fear was all that Celebrimbor knew now, and he could feel it clouding all of his thoughts until there was nothing left except I won’t tell you you’ll never find them they’re out of your reach you can’t ever have them—

Someone murmured something in his ear, and everything melted away into warm darkness.