The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

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Eight

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The stream that flowed out from between the hills—the reason they had chosen that particular spot to build their house—was fed by a cold spring nestled in between the hill they’d built their house by and the one next to it. The water was frigid all year around, and since toting bucketfuls all the way to the house for baths had sounded like a miserable prospect, they’d built a separate little bathhouse next to the stream with two luxuriously large tubs inside set over a space for fires to heat the water, tucked right at the bottom of the hill behind the garden. It wasn’t the same as the hot springs that Melian had called forth deep inside Menegroth that Daeron sometimes remembered with longing, but it was the next best thing.

After doing what he could for Celebrimbor, Daeron retreated to the bathhouse, and busied himself in building the fire and then filling the tubs, eager for a long soak to chase away the ache of so many days in the saddle, and to wash the smell of smoke off of his skin and out of his hair, and thinking that Maglor would want a similar soak too before long. 

Celebrimbor was healing well, though very slowly. Sauron’s power still clung to his wounds, in spite of all Elurín and Eluréd had done to try to chase it away. Daeron thought he had fared a little better, though he wasn’t sure why, and if needed he thought he could call on Maglor to help. For the moment, he thought that having both of his uncles with him would do as much or more than any song to start healing the wounds on Celebrimbor’s spirit, which were far worse than those of his body. 

As he stoked the fire and waited for the water to heat, the door opened. “Ada.”

“Elurín.” Daeron sat back on his heels. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. Mostly.” Elurín knelt next to him. “I just—I missed you.”

“I’m sorry, birdie. I missed you too.” It had felt like an enormous weight had been lifted from him upon returning home to find both the twins there, safe and unharmed. Those weeks in the saddle had seemed like years, and his thoughts had been constantly with them. He would never forget what it had been like on that hilltop, hearing Eluréd’s song end so suddenly. It had been even worse than watching Elurín’s battle against the dragon, long ago.

“Please never do that again.”

“I hope that I won’t have to.” Daeron reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind Elurín’s ear. “But at this point I think we all know better than to make such promises. Whatever happens, we’ll all do what we must. Have you and Eluréd spoken to Lossë?”

“A little.” Elurín leaned over to rest his head on Daeron’s shoulder. “It’s just—I’ve felt like—like when you got back everything would be easier. But it isn’t.”

“It’s only been an hour,” Daeron said. “I’m so sorry, Elurín. I wish you hadn’t had to learn all of this in such a way, or that we all had to part as we did so soon afterward.”

“Were it up to you we never would have learned.”

“Well…maybe. I’ve always known the truth would come out eventually—the truth of who he is, I mean. But I did hope that my own knowledge of it might remain a secret forever.”

“How?”

“Well for one thing, I hoped that if he remembered his past it would be by his own choice, and that we would all have some warning—some time to prepare.” Daeron sighed, and watched the flames dance over the wood. The heat felt nice; he’d been feeling chilled ever since Ost-in-Edhil, and he’d not used that kind of power since facing down Sauron at the very end of the War of Wrath. He was exhausted. “You know,” he said after a moment, reluctant to speak of it but feeling that he had to, “there are ships that depart from Edhellond—”

“No,” Elurín said.

“But you could—”

“We aren’t leaving you. Lossë can’t go, anyway. Nor can Celebrimbor, or Maglor. The leaders of the Exiles—the ones that refused to go back after the end of the war—they’re not permitted to go. Even Galadriel couldn’t if she decided she wanted to.”

“You want to stay with Lossë?” Daeron asked. 

“I want to stay with you.” Elurín sat up. “I’m—I was angry for a while, that you’d lied to us, but I understand why you did it. I think in time I might even be glad of it. But I don’t know how to not hate him for what he did. I don’t know how not to love him, either, and it’s—I don’t know how Eluréd can balance it. I can’t.”

“Oh, Elurín.” Daeron wiped away a tear as it slipped down Elurín’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

“I just—when I felt this way I used to go to him, because he always knew what to say to help me work through it, but I can’t now, and…”

“You can. You can say whatever you need to say, and he will listen. This new remembering does not change who he is. He loves you, Elurín. He’s loved you almost as long as I have—and only because I’ve known you a few days longer.”

“We were where we were all supposed to be,” Elurín said. “And—and we’re where we’re supposed to be now. I know that. I just don’t know what we’re supposed to do. Or how to make it stop hurting.”

“Talk to him, Elurín. It might not be solved in one conversation, or even many, but I know he does not want to lose you any more than you want to lose him. And when you do talk to him, listen, too. Listen to what he has to say.”

“Are you going to take your own advice?”

“I’m going to try.” Daeron got to his feet. “But right now I am very tired, and very sore, and very dirty.” 

Elurín left him after the water heated, promising to tell Maglor there was a bath awaiting him if he wished, and with a sigh Daeron finally sank into the steaming water. He felt the chill in his bones start to leave almost immediately. The air was steamy and fragrant with the athelas he’d dropped into the tub, feeling a need of its virtues, the way it seemed to cleanse the spirit the way soap cleansed the skin. 

After a while the door opened, letting in a burst of cold air before Maglor closed it behind him. When he didn’t hear any other movement Daeron raised his head, and found Maglor looking at him oddly. “What?”

“Sorry.” Maglor quickly looked away. “Just—I didn’t expect such scars on you.”

Daeron glanced down to where an old scarred over bite-wound covered much of his forearm; there had been a great deal of damage to the skin, so it didn’t even really look like a bite as much as it looked like something had torn into him, and it had not healed cleanly even under the care of skilled healers. “Sauron and his wolves caught up to Eluréd and me, just after the War of Wrath,” he said. “You remember when the Gulf of Lhûn opened?”

“Of course I do. It felt like the whole world was going to break apart.” Maglor stripped, revealing plenty of battle scars of his own, and climbed into the other tub. His sigh mirrored Daeron’s. “Thank you for this. I can’t remember when I last had a hot bath.” Then, after they sat in silence for a little while, he said, “I haven’t thought of that time in—so many years. But you were there, weren’t you, when the Gelion dried up and the Sea came rushing in? I remember your voice, now, warning us of the waves.”

“Yes.”

“And—I remember someone else calling out a warning of the balrog. At the time I didn’t really pay attention to the voice, just the words, but…it was Tyelko, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Daeron said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Maglor said, as the door opened again. “Not to me. Not for saving his life.”

Celegorm paused in the doorway, a bundle in his hands and an odd look passing over his face. Daeron sank a little lower into the water. “I brought you clean clothes, Maglor,” Celegorm said after a moment. 

There was a familiar tightness around his eyes and Daeron said before he could stop himself, “Lossë—does your head ache?”

“Of course it does,” Celegorm said, not quite snapping. “Everything aches.”

“Do you want—” Maglor began.

“If either of you start singing at me I’ll hit you so hard that you start forgetting things.” He dropped the bundle on the bench by the door and left. Daeron flinched when the door slammed shut behind him. Maglor sighed. 

“I deserved that,” Daeron said after a moment. 

“No, you didn’t. I’ll talk to him—”

“No, please don’t.” Daeron ducked his head under the water to wet his hair, and reached for the soap as he came up.

They were silent for a while. Then Maglor asked, as he reached for soap for himself, “Where did you get that scar around your throat?”

Daeron touched it, though there wasn’t really anything to feel. It was a thin, pale line that he rarely thought about anymore. “Someone I knew had been taken,” he said. “Enthralled. He—even unto the end it seems the Enemy wished me taken too, or killed, and he caught up to me the day you fought that balrog by the Gelion.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died. I killed him.” He had used his own power to reach into Menelas and break the enchantments that held him bound to the will of the Enemy, but he had not been gentle—there had been no time—and after so many years of torment and the shock of the sudden release, Menelas had not been strong enough to survive it. But he had been himself when he had died, and at least they had gotten to say a real goodbye, though that was small comfort. Daeron still thought of him often, especially in the autumn when all that sort of grief seemed heaviest—all the terrible things in his life seemed to happen at that time of year—but he did not often remember that he still bore the marks of that final fight. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

By the time Daeron returned to the house he felt clean but still apprehensive. He twisted his hair into a damp braid as he walked, and when he stepped inside he found even more tension awaiting him. Eluréd sat with his harp near Celegorm, whose face Daeron could not see as he stared at the fire. Elurín was chopping something for dinner, scowling down at the knife in his hands. Daeron had not heard raised voices, so he thought this must just have been what it was like all the time he was gone.

“Celebrimbor is asleep,” Eluréd said as Daeron set his dirty clothes in the basket near the bedroom door.

“Good.”

“We need to think about where we’re all going to sleep this winter,” Elurín said. “We’ve been taking shifts, someone staying up with him—but I don’t think he needs it anymore. Eluréd went to Edhellond a few weeks ago and brought back extra pillows and blankets.”

“I don’t mind taking the floor,” said Daeron. “Down here or upstairs.”

“We can all take turns,” said Eluréd. “Celebrimbor needs a proper bed, but I think the rest of us will be fine. Maybe come spring—if it’s still too dangerous to leave, we can build another bedroom.”

“Maybe,” Daeron said, glancing at Celegorm, who hadn’t moved or spoken. It did not seem wise to think much of that kind of future—it seemed as uncertain now as it had during the War of Wrath. “Did you hear anything in Edhellond of what’s happening in the north?”

Eluréd shook his head. “Eriador burns. That’s all anyone knows.”

Maglor came in after a little while. He went to Celegorm, who immediately sat him down so he could comb out his hair for him. Neither of them spoke, and Daeron tried not to watch, instead going to help Elurín. He did not think they would be able to stay there. Certainly Celebrimbor couldn’t. Come spring, when they could travel at least without fear of foul weather north of the Gap, and he was stronger, they needed to decide what to do. The fewer who knew that he lived the better—but that could not be sustained for long. And there were many in the north who needed to know that he lived. Daeron wondered if there was a way to get word up the Anduin, to Oropher or to Amdír. Probably not without either all of them going up the river themselves, or separating—and he was no more willing to split up again than the twins were. 

Though it might happen anyway. Daeron looked at Celegorm again, who was whispering to Maglor as he tied off a braid. Maglor leaned his head back against Celegorm’s legs, eyes closed. Celegorm glanced up and their gazes met—and he looked away. Daeron averted his own gaze, wishing that he knew what to say. How to fix this. If it could be fixed. 

Elurín disappeared into the bedroom with dinner for Celebrimbor. He seemed to have taken personal responsibility for him, perhaps because he had been the one to carry him out of Ost-in-Edhil. Celegorm and Maglor spoke quietly together, and Eluréd ate quickly before disappearing outside, murmuring something about tending the horses. That left Daeron more or less alone, so after he ate he picked up his own harp and started to play, choosing melodies more or less at random, just wanting to fill the silence. 

The next few days passed similarly. Celegorm wouldn’t look at Daeron and only spoke to him when absolutely necessary. Elurín did the same to Celegorm. Celegorm also avoided the bedroom, though whenever Celebrimbor was awake Maglor went in to sit with him, to talk or to play quiet music, and started sleeping there at night. Celegorm spent most of his time outside, with the horses or going hunting, to shore up their supplies for the winter. 

“You need to talk,” Eluréd told Daeron after a week. “We can’t go on like this. I feel like I’m going to go mad.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing to us. Talk to him.”

That was much easier said than done. Daeron had been trying, but Celegorm was avoiding him, and if he pushed too hard he feared it would just end up in a fight. Maybe that was what needed to happen, but he didn’t think he could get through it, didn’t think he could make himself heard without breaking first, if Celegorm was in the mood to shout at him instead of listen. 

As evening fell he climbed the hill behind the house. It was cold, and frost crunched under his feet, but atop the hill he could look up and see the stars, the diamond bright spill of them across the sky. It was almost too late to glimpse Gil-Estel away in the west, but he saw it glimmering just above the horizon. To the north the Sickle shone—but there would be no intervention from the Valar now. Daeron did not have the same strength of foresight that the twins did, but he did know that. Their wars sank continents, reshaped the world, and he did not think they would choose to do it again. 

The wind picked up, sharp and cold, as he stood there and watched Gil-Estel disappear behind the distant mountains, and an idea came to him—a way to make Celegorm listen. Daeron thought about it carefully, put together the words and turned them this way and that in his mind, adjusting and readjusting until he was confident that it would work for him and only him, that he would only be making a point in a way that couldn’t be ignored, not binding himself to something that might grow out of his control. Finally satisfied, he went back down to the house. 

The twins were both with Celebrimbor; Daeron could hear their voices through the door that stood ajar. Someone laughed, and he thought that was a good sign. Maglor had his harp on his lap, picking out a simple tune. Celegorm was just putting the kettle over the fire. “I need to speak to you,” Daeron said. Both brothers looked up, but he kept his gaze on Celegorm. He couldn’t make himself use that name—it felt wrong in his mouth after all this time—but he didn’t want to end this before it began by calling him Lossenol. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Celegorm said.

“Tyelko,” Maglor said quietly.

“I’m not—”

“Please,” Daeron said. 

“No—”

He made himself sigh with more exasperation than he really felt. “Fine, then. I suppose I’ll just have to swear this binding and probably-misguided oath with no other witnesses than the stars.”

“What?” Maglor said, fingers fumbling over the harp strings as Celegorm straightened so quickly he nearly smacked his head on the mantelpiece. Daeron just turned and left, heading back up the hillside. After a few seconds he heard the door bang open, and Celegorm call his name, but he didn’t slow or look back, not until he reached the top of the hill. 

“What do you mean swear an oath?” Celegorm finally caught up, grabbing Daeron’s arm like he had before they’d parted in Eregion. His grip wasn’t quite hard enough to hurt now. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Of course not.” Daeron pulled himself free and stepped back, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. Maglor caught up then, out of breath and looking alarmed. 

“Then are you stupid?” Celegorm demanded. “What kind of oath—”

“I’m not stupid,” Daeron snapped. “I’m quite clever, actually! How else was I going to get and keep your attention?”

Celegorm relaxed slightly, but his scowl deepened. “So it was just another—”

“I didn’t say that. I need you to listen to me, Lossë.” Daeron took another few steps back, so he stood at the very top of the hill. His breath misted before him, and he inhaled deeply the freezing air before going on, this time in deliberate Quenya. “By the stars that saw my birth and have guided me all my life, and by the wind that gives me breath, I call upon Varda Elentári and Manwë Súlimo to witness this oath, and by the Flame Everlasting at the heart of the world I swear,” he had to raise his voice when Celegorm tried to interrupt, “I swear that the only secret I ever kept from you was your name, and that from this moment until the sun rises in the morning every word I speak is the truth, plain and unadorned; if I raise my voice in a lie this night, let it be taken from me forever.” He felt the oath take hold, could almost feel the heavy weight of Manwë’s gaze and the star-bright attention of Varda, and knew that his swearing had been witnessed. He shivered, and not from the cold.

Celegorm stared at him. After a moment, behind him, Maglor laughed—abrupt and incredulous. “That’s a dangerous thing to swear, Daeron,” he said.

“I know,” Daeron said. “It lasts until the dawn—then I’ll be free to lie as much as I please.”

Celegorm’s expression was hard to read. He was in the habit these days of wearing his hair loose so that it fell over the left half of it, Daeron supposed just in case Celebrimbor happened to see him before either of them were ready to confront how much he had changed. It meant now that most of his face was in shadow, and all that Daeron could see was his good eye, glimmering with ancient Treelight. “You shouldn’t have to bind yourself to the truth in order to speak it, Daeron.”

“I don’t,” Daeron said. “That isn’t why I’m doing this. It is so you will believe me when I speak the truth.”

“Can you blame me for not believing you?” Celegorm demanded. “I should’ve realized it long ago. You were always so ready to lie—when you made up stories about who I really was, or—”

“Of course I will lie when I think it’s necessary. Or did you really want to tell everyone we met that you did not remember anything of your past? Do you think anyone would have believed that, even though it was true? Maybe they would not have guessed at the real truth but they might have taken you for a thrall of Angband, or worse. Those stories kept questions at bay and they kept you safe.”

“But you—it should’ve been my own choice—”

“It was your choice,” Daeron said. “It was always your choice. If you had chosen to try to remember I would’ve done anything I could to help you. I’ve told you that, over and over. I just—the Oath kept trying to wake, and I couldn’t let it. In the beginning I didn’t know what you would do—what it might drive you to do, after all you’d already done in Nargoth—”

“Don’t,” Celegorm’s voice was almost a snarl. “Don’t speak to me of Nargothrond!”

Daeron couldn’t help but flinch—that was not a tone of voice he had ever heard from Celegorm, and he did not like it—but he moved on. “I knew you wouldn’t hurt the twins—after just a few years I knew you wouldn’t let your Oath hurt them either. But you—you also told me more than once that you feared that to remember would be to have grief overwhelm you so that you died.” At this Daeron heard Maglor make a noise, but he didn’t look away from Celegorm. “I love you,” he said, “and I didn’t want to lose you. I still don’t. I’m—I am sorry that I have hurt you, and I’m sorry that I did not speak the truth sooner, but I can’t say that I’m sorry to have lied in the first place. Because I don’t regret it.”

“I would’ve forsworn it,” Celegorm said, very quietly. “I would’ve. For you.”

“We tried that,” Maglor said, even more quietly. “It just made everything worse.”

“I could’ve done it. I—”

“You would have tried.” Daeron stepped forward and took Celegorm’s face in his hands, thumbing away the tears. “You would’ve tried, and all you would have accomplished was hurting yourself. You would have had no choice in the end but to return to your brothers, and everything would have been so, so much worse.”

“In keeping this from you, Tyelko,” Maglor said, “he gave you back your choices. That is how he saved you.”

“And afterward?” Celegorm asked, ignoring Maglor, keeping his gaze on Daeron. “After it was gone? I felt it—when the Oath was fulfilled, when it was over. I just didn’t know what it was. You had to know, too. So why—”

“You know that I know what it feels like—to be so overwhelmed by grief that it nearly drowns you. You watched me struggle against it for years—you saved me from it. I wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone, least of all you.”

“I didn’t kill me, though,” Celegorm whispered. “I’m still here.”

“But both of us had good reason to believe it would. It might have—if Maglor hadn't found you—”

“No.” Celegorm shook his head and stepped away. “It’s—it was never going to kill me. That’s the curse. If I’d known—”

“Lossë—”

“If you had told me in time, I might have been able to stop Maedhros. He might still be alive. Don’t follow me.”

“Tyelko,” Maglor said, catching his hand as he turned to walk away. “Where—”

“Just—don’t, all right?”

Daeron wrapped his arms around himself as he watched Celegorm disappear down the other side of the hill. After a moment Maglor asked, “Does the oath bind you to truth entirely, or just when speaking to him?”

“Entirely.”

“I’ll be careful what I say, then.”

“No, it’s all right. I haven’t bound myself to answer questions if I don’t want to—I told you, I’m not stupid.”

“No, but neither am I, and I haven’t missed what you’ve implied about my father in saying so.”

“I don’t necessarily think he was stupid,” said Daeron, “but I also don’t care how brilliant he might have been. I’ve forgiven you all that you’ve done, you and your brothers—which is not to say I found it easy—but I do not think I will ever forgive him for putting it all in motion. It was thoughtless at best, and horrifically cruel to everyone on all sides no matter how you look at it.”

Maglor sighed. “Sometimes I think I hate him, too,” he said softly, “but—well. I knew him before it all went wrong, and all you know are the tales. He was brilliant and he was full of fire, and I think he went mad at the end, after his own father died. But before that he was—” His voice wavered and he stopped to inhale deeply, letting it out slowly as it misted in the air before him. “He loved us, with all that fire that was in him. He did—he was a good father. But he was burdened with a grief that no one else could share, or even understand, and I think it ate away at him over the years, little by little, even before Morgoth was released and set his sights upon the Noldor. I hope he found healing in the Halls. I miss him more than I could ever hate him.”

“You’re right, I didn’t know him,” Daeron said. “But I know you, a little, and I know your brother much better, and I know what Fëanor’s Oath made you do and what it did to your brother when he would not follow its call—even when it was not truly acting upon him. I have always tried not to indulge in hatred—it’s a poison, and I would be the worst of hypocrites if I nursed it in myself after counseling Elurín as I have, over and over, not to. But I cannot find it in me to give Fëanor the same grace I can give you.”

“I understand. I wouldn’t ask you to. I love my father but that doesn’t mean I would know what to say if I ever saw him again.”

They returned to the house together. Eluréd and Elurín were back out in the main room, and looked up with identical frowns. “What were you doing out there for so long?” Elurín asked. “It’s freezing, Ada.”

“Where’s Lossenol?” asked Eluréd. 

“He needs some time to himself,” Daeron said. “We spoke. It was—difficult.”

Eluréd narrowed his eyes at him as he sat down. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something different about you.”

“He swore to tell nothing but the truth until the sun rises,” Maglor said. 

“You swore a binding oath?” Elurín exclaimed. “What—”

“I needed to talk to Lossë, and he wouldn’t listen to what I said any other way,” Daeron said. “As far as bindings—it lasts only until the morning. It’s nothing that can be twisted around to hurt anyone.”

“Unless you say something hurtful because you have no choice.”

“In which case I can just refuse to say it. I’m not compelled to answer any question put to me. I knew what I was doing—I swore it to make a point, and I was careful.” Daeron leaned back in his seat and accepted the blanket Eluréd handed him. Maglor sat on the floor near the fire, crossing his legs. “Will you play something for us?” Daeron asked him. 

“What would you like to hear?”

“Anything you want to play.”

“All right.” Maglor picked up his harp again. It was carefully and skillfully carved of driftwood and lovely to look at. Daeron wasn’t sure where he had gotten the strings for it, but its sound was sweet and light, and he was still as skilled as he’d ever been. Eluréd and Elurín went back to what they’d been doing, murmuring quietly to one another as they worked, and Daeron let himself drift, eyes closed, the fire warm on his face. 

Sooner than Daeron expected, Celegorm returned, looking tired and with his ears and nose red from the cold. Eluréd dragged him over to sit by the fire—on the floor in front of Daeron’s chair, where he had often sat in the evenings before everything had gone wrong. Daeron reached out before he could think better of it, picking a few leaves out of his hair and flicking them onto the hearth. To his surprise, Celegorm leaned back against his legs, resting his head on his thigh.

“I have one more question for you,” Celegorm said after a while. “It’s been bothering me for a long time.”

“Anything,” Daeron said softly. 

“Where’d you hide my sword when you stole it that one time?”

Maglor’s fingers slipped on the harp strings as Eluréd and Elurín both choked on startled laughter.

“When did I take your—oh, that. Behind the goat pen.”

Celegorm snorted. “Of course. Should’ve known.”

“Can I ask why you stole his sword?” Maglor asked. 

“He nearly got himself killed when a scout out of Angband came into the woods where we were living,” said Daeron. He found another leaf and pulled it free of Celegorm’s hair. “We quarreled afterward, and I didn’t want him going back out and tearing his stitches. He and the goats hated one another, so behind the goat pen was the on place I knew he wouldn’t look.”

“I was fine,” Celegorm said, and it was such a relief to be having this argument again that Daeron almost wanted to cry. 

“You definitely weren’t. And I can’t lie, so you know I’m right.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works—”

Daeron leaned forward to wrap his arms around Celegorm, hiding his face in them and in Celegorm’s hair, cold and smooth against his cheek. “It’s exactly how it works,” he said, and then whispered, “Do you forgive me?”

Celegorm covered Daeron’s hands with his. “I don’t know,” he whispered back, but tightened his grip when Daeron made to pull away. “But—swearing any oath at all was stupid, Daeron.”

“It was for you.”

“I know. Thank you. Never do it again.”