The Day Transcending Night by StarSpray  

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Nine

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Elurín watched Daeron lean forward to wrap his arms around Celegorm, and then looked away. It had been weeks now and it was still next to impossible to reconcile any of it in his head. Celegorm mostly seemed the same as he always had, except he was quieter, more careful in what he said when he spoke to either Eluréd or Elurín—and he kept his distance, waiting for them to choose to close it. Eluréd was willing—Elurín couldn’t make himself do it.

On the one hand, he understood what Celegorm was trying to do, and was grateful. On the other, he just wanted his father to come and help him, as he had his entire life. 

Then he thought that if one issue was going to be forced that night, they might as well force another. It had been weeks, and still Celegorm was entirely avoiding Celebrimbor. That was understandable, mostly; Celebrimbor been caught up in nightmares and feverish fears for many days, especially after he’d first stumbled out of the bedroom and seen all three of them, and it was only very recently that he had started really believing either Eluréd or Elurín when they told him that he was safe, that this was no trick, that they were far away from Eregion and somewhere Sauron would not find him. But he had met with Maglor calmly enough, and though he hadn’t asked again, Elurín knew that he was waiting for Celegorm to come to him—only Celegorm seemed determined not to.

He got up and went to the bedroom, finding Celebrimbor out of bed and curled up in the chair they’d put by the window. He was looking out at the stars, and there were traces of tears on his face. “Celebrimbor?” Elurín shut the door behind him. 

“That’s my uncle’s music,” Celebrimbor said without looking at him.

“Yes, it is. You should come out and join us.”

“Is my other uncle there?”

“Yes. Another reason you should come out, if you think you can walk that far.” Celebrimbor had been very slow to heal, even though his injuries had not been nearly as bad as Elurín had been expecting after some of the tales he’d heard of others put to torment. But then, Celegorm had been injured by Sauron during the War of Wrath, and even those hurts—inflicted almost incidentally and in passing—had taken a very long time to heal. Elurín still did not know why that had been, but he thought that the even deeper wounds to Celebrimbor’s spirit were in part what kept his body from healing as it should. “He hasn’t wanted to frighten or upset you,” Elurín added. 

“I think it’s a little late for that,” Celebrimbor said. He looked over at Elurín. “I’m sorry. I know I should, but I still don’t know which one you are.”

“Oh, that’s all right. Hardly anyone can tell us apart in the beginning, and you have plenty of more important things to worry about. I’m Elurín.” He walked over and pulled up his sleeve a little, to show better a scar on his arm. “I’ve got more scars than my brother, though that’s not very helpful at first glance since they’re all mostly covered.”

Celebrimbor looked down at the scars. “Those are burns.”

“I helped slay a dragon once.” He had burn scars splashed across his right arm and his chest, and even now sometimes he dreamed of it—of the dragon, of drowning in its blood. Only the end of the War of Wrath when the world had split apart had been more frightening than that very first battle in which he’d taken part. The rest of the time he’d had Eluréd beside him—he could do almost anything without fear if Eluréd was there. “Come,” he said, and held out his hands. Celebrimbor accepted the help up, swaying only a little once he was on his feet. “Someone needs to tell Lossë how stupid he’s being, and I think you most deserve to do it, all things considered.”

“Lossë? Is that what you call him?”

“Yes. We named him Lossenol, Eluréd and I, since he had forgotten his real one. It got shortened to Lossë when we started properly learning Quenya. It’s been so long now I don’t think I can ever really call him—any of his other names.” He couldn’t even make himself say it out loud. Elurín wrapped Celebrimbor up in a robe and then took his hand to lead him out into the main room. When he opened the door Maglor glanced up and smiled to see Celebrimbor, his hands never faltering on the harp strings. Celegorm also looked up, and Elurín saw how he went stiff—a precursor to leaving, except that Daeron leaned over again, putting his hands on his shoulders and whispering something in his ear. Elurín looked at Celebrimbor, who was very deliberately looking away, glancing around the room, taking in all the little details. But he came willingly when Elurín led him over to sit between himself and Eluréd, who smiled and handed over an extra blanket.

“I’m glad to see you up, Celebrimbor,” Daeron said. Celebrimbor nodded. Daeron rose from his seat and went to fill the kettle, murmuring something about tea. Maglor, watching both Celegorm and Celebrimbor, deftly moved his hands on the strings and changed the song he was playing. Elurín didn’t know it but both Celebrimbor and Celegorm seemed to, judging by how Celebrimbor’s breath hitched just a little, and Celegorm turned away. Elurín exchanged a glance with Eluréd, but when they went to get up, Celebrimbor grabbed Elurín’s wrist with surprising strength. Elurín immediately settled back, though Eluréd still got up, resting his hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder for a moment before going to help Daeron with the kettle and the tea. Maglor glanced over at Celegorm, and then kicked his ankle surprisingly hard—until that moment the two of them had been so very careful and gentle with one another.

“Ow, Cáno—”

“Stop being stupid, Tyelko.”

“I’m not—”

“Uncle,” Celebrimbor said, and Celegorm fell silent. His hair had fallen forward again, hiding the left part of his face. “Why won’t you look at me?”

When Celegorm didn’t answer, Maglor said, “He doesn’t want to upset you, Tyelpë.”

“I’m already upset,” Celebrimbor said, voice tight. He hadn’t let go of Elurín’s wrist, and Elurín could feel the slight tremor in his hand. “I already—” He broke off and inhaled sharply when Celegorm pushed his hair back and turned his head. “Oh,” he said, very softly as he exhaled. The scars were not shocking to Elurín—they never had been, since he’d been there to see the wounds when they were fresh, to watch Daeron change the bandages and worry over them. But he supposed they would be if he had ever known what Celegorm looked like without them—if he had once known him well and then been parted from him for years uncounted, only to reunite and see him so changed. Celebrimbor had seen Celegorm since they’d returned home, but only once, and he’d still been half out of his mind with fear, and even then Elurín thought that part of Celegorm’s face had been hidden.

“I’m sorry, Tyelpë,” Celegorm said quietly.

“For what, in particular?” Celebrimbor asked. He was still trembling ever so slightly.

“For—everything, but right now for—I don’t know anymore. Everything I do seems to be the wrong thing.” He rose to his feet and left then, ignoring Maglor when he called after him. Celebrimbor watched him and then got up himself, stumbling a little before he reached the door. 

Elurín looked at Maglor, who sighed and ran his fingers over the harp in a cascade of descending notes. “They were very close once,” he said, answering a question Elurín didn’t know how to ask. “We all doted on Telperinquar, of course, but…”

“Celegorm and Curufin—in all the tales, they are always together, like you and Maedhros.”

“They worked well together, in the same way that Maedhros and I did. That was why Maedhros set them both in Himlad. And they worked well together because they were very close, much like Maedhros and I. Not to say that all seven of us were not close—we were—but in large families it’s only natural for some to get along a little better than others.” He smiled, but it was a very sad expression. “And now our family has shrunk, though not as much as I had thought.”

“Are you really not…do you not care that Daeron—”

“You have never known my brother at his worst,” said Maglor. “He lost himself long before he forgot it. In keeping the truth from him Daeron not only saved his life but brought him back. I could not save my other brothers—it would have been wonderful to have gotten him back sooner, of course, but I have him now. That’s more than I ever thought I would get, and I do not think I can ever repay Daeron for it.”

“You owe me nothing,” said Daeron, bringing mugs of steaming chamomile over to hand to Elurín and then to Maglor. “I should have revealed the truth long ago—and you should not have had to suffer alone for so long.”

“I would not call it suffering,” Maglor said. “Maybe in the beginning, but…” He looked down at the mug in his hands—everything always seemed so surprising to him, even the simplest of comforts. Elurín wondered if he was trying to convince them or himself that he had not been suffering all this time. To go from seven to one—Elurín glanced at Eluréd, who came to sit beside him so their shoulders pressed against one another. To lose Eluréd would be to lose half of himself. He’d already come close once, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to survive such a loss. To hear what had befallen Elwing had been nearly unbearable, and they had not even really known her, had not seen her since she was a baby.

“I would,” said Daeron, his thoughts seeming to run along the same track as Elurín’s. And he would know—he’d also lived in self-imposed exile for many years, though still far fewer than Maglor, and for less reason. Every time he thought of it Elurín’s heart hurt a little, and he wasn’t sure that he liked feeling something of the same for Maglor, who had also been in Doriath, and who had later been at Sirion.

Celegorm and Celebrimbor came inside then, Celegorm ushering Celebrimbor ahead of him and muttering something about it being far too cold. They vanished into the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them. Eluréd watched them, and then got to his feet again, tugging on Elurín’s hand. They bid Daeron and Maglor goodnight and retreated upstairs. When their own bedroom door shut behind them, Elurín let out a sigh. 

“You’re still angry?” Eluréd asked him. 

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I don’t know how you can just…”

“I told Atya—maybe I’ve just thought about it more than you have—but I don’t find it that hard to accept that many things can be true at once.” Eluréd sank onto his bed, looking down at his mug. It was warm in the room, with the heat from the hearth downstairs rising up into it. Elurín sat down next to Eluréd and leaned on his shoulder. “Do you ever get angry with Adar Dior?”

“All the time.”

“But you still love him.”

Elurín didn’t answer right away. There were some thoughts that felt like the worst of betrayals of the family he’d lost, and he hesitated to speak them aloud—but if there was anyone in the world who could understand, it was Eluréd. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “If he were here—if he were to appear on our doorstep tomorrow morning—I don’t know what I would do, but I don’t think I would be happy to see him. I think I would hate him.”

“I think so too,” said Eluréd, “but I still love him at the same time. Him and Naneth. And Elrond loves Maglor—didn’t Maglor do almost the same to Elwing that Celegorm did to Dior?”

“Elwing isn’t dead. And Maglor never lied to Elrond.”

“Lossë never lied to us, either. And you know why Daeron did.”

“That’s not what I meant. Elrond never had to—he always just knew.” Elurín sat up straight. “And he’s out there somewhere. Fighting a war while we’re just—sitting here feeling sorry for ourselves.”

“We can’t do anything more until Celebrimbor is recovered,” said Eluréd. “And winter is coming on—even the Enemy can’t fight through the snows. Elrond is…” He paused, gaze going distant. Elurín also took a moment to try to pierce the shadows that hovered over the north, but both Eriador and the future were beyond his sight. “I think he’s going to be all right,” Eluréd said finally. “He’s important. The Enemy knows it, but the Enemy has always underestimated our line. We just proved that, didn’t we? I don’t think he will learn his lesson—or at least he won’t learn the right one.”

“I want to go see what’s happening—just past the mountains,” Elurín said. 

“No.” Eluréd grabbed his wrist. “We’re safe here. That I do know. I’ve been singing more into Daeron’s Girdle, a little every day. So has Daeron. If Maglor can sing his strength into it too, it will be nigh impenetrable.”

“But not forever. He’ll learn eventually that Celebrimbor isn’t in the north, and then he’ll come looking.”

“By then we’ll be gone,” Eluréd said. “We can’t stay here forever, I know that, and maybe when we leave we can’t ever come back, but we can stay at least through the winter, and I think maybe we’ll have to stay a little longer—I feel we were horribly lucky to get through the Gap the way we did, and if we go north too soon we’ll find it overrun. And that means you need to talk to Atya Lossë, Elurín. You have to learn how to live with what has always been true—if you don’t, if all of us can’t trust each other, then we’ll never make it.”

They each had their own bed, but Eluréd curled up in Elurín’s that night—as he had most nights that they were able to go to sleep at the same time since returning from Eregion. Elurín lay with his arm around his brother and stared at the dark ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of a harp and a flute harmonizing downstairs, and wishing he could find the same balance that Eluréd could. Sometimes, lately, he wondered if he had made the right choice after the war—if he should have followed Elros instead. There were very few thoughts that he kept secret even from Eluréd, and that was one of them—in the light of day he could look into his own heart and know that he didn’t truly regret his choice, but in the dark, when doubts crept in, it was too easy to long for something simple, to long to be someone like Elros who could look at death and see it for the gift it was and to accept it with a smile and open hands, leaving the trials and woes of the world behind forever.

He slept poorly, and gave up sometime around dawn, slipping out of bed without waking Eluréd, and out of the room without waking Daeron who had taken Eluréd’s bed that night. After going out to do some chores around the stable and to make sure the horses were all right, he came back inside to find Celegorm stirring the embers on the hearth. Elurín stared at him, thought about what Eluréd had said—knew that Eluréd was right—and turned away instead, aware of Celegorm’s gaze on him after a moment, and both grateful and resentful that he didn’t say anything. When Eluréd came downstairs he glanced between them and sighed. 

Elurín just couldn’t do it. Everything he wanted to say got lodged in his throat, burning like bile, and he still didn’t even know what he wanted. And he couldn’t just go off into the woods for a few days or a few weeks to try to figure it out on his own because it was too dangerous. This had all happened at the worst possible time. 

Celebrimbor ventured out of the bedroom after a little while, slightly unsteady on his feet but looking a little more at ease than he had the night before. Elurín put on a smile for him, because none of the turmoil was his fault, and was gratified to get a smile in return. Celegorm rose from the hearth to speak briefly to Celebrimbor, before disappearing outside. “Is all well?” Elurín asked once they were alone. 

“I don’t know. Maybe it will be.” Celebrimbor sat at the table when Elurín gestured. “I haven’t thanked you yet. For saving my life. So—thank you.”

“You’re welcome, of course,” said Eluréd as he got out the ingredients for porridge—it was the kind of day where something thick and hot would be welcome.

“But what—what happens now? We just—stay here while Sauron burns the world down?”

“We stay here through the winter,” said Elurín. “Eluréd and I were speaking of it a little last night—come spring, I thought we might try to head north up the Anduin, if we can get across the Gap without anyone noticing. Our kinsman Amdír dwells in Lórinand. We can at least learn from him what has been happening.”

“Galadriel is there also,” Celebrimbor said after a moment, as Maglor came from the bedroom and Daeron came downstairs. “I suppose she might already know that I’m—”

“She doesn’t,” Daeron said. He went to put on the kettle for tea.

“She can see almost anything in her mirror,” Celebrimbor said doubtfully. “Maybe you do not know her well, but…”

“It’s true that she and I have never been much more than acquaintances,” said Daeron, “but I was Melian’s student much longer than she was, and I learned all of the same tricks of seeking—and how to counter them. When I sung up the Girdle that hides us now, it was in part to keep out of her sight. I cannot take that part away without unsinging the entire thing, and it’s far too risky.”

“But why would you want to hide from her, particularly?” Celebrimbor asked. Then, “Oh. My uncle.”

“Yes. Going north to Lórinand is most likely the best and safest course—but I won’t deny that I am not looking forward to meeting Galadriel again.”

“Nor am I,” said Maglor with a slight grimace.

“It won’t be that bad,” said Celebrimbor, though he did not sound very certain. “She’s tried before to find you, Uncle, and not for the reasons you fear.”

“I’m glad to know that,” Maglor said after a moment, after his face did something complicated. “She and I were friends, once. When she was very young. But I doubt she will be as pleased as you and I to see Celegorm.”

“Well, maybe not, but…”

“There are bigger things to worry about,” said Eluréd as Celegorm came back inside, “than what happened centuries ago. If Galadriel can’t put the past aside, then perhaps she is not as wise as she would like us all to believe.”

“I’m sure Galadriel can put the past aside as well as anyone else,” Celegorm said, voice quiet but tone flat, expressionless. He sounded so unlike himself that Elurín glanced over at him in alarm. “But she won’t forget what I did to her brother. Nor should she.” He paused to kiss the top of Celebrimbor’s head, and then went into the bedroom. Maglor sighed; Celebrimbor just looked deeply unhappy. 

Elurín hadn’t forgotten about Nargothrond, exactly, but he hadn’t really thought about it until that moment—he had been caught up in Doriath—but of course that was only the last in a long line of terrible deeds done by Celegorm son of Fëanor. He had, though, forgotten that Finrod Felagund was the brother of Galadriel. He glanced at Eluréd, who shook his head warningly. Elurín bit his tongue, and then said aloud, “Celebrimbor, after breakfast, do you want me to show you our bathhouse?” Celebrimbor had bathed, of course, since his coming there—but washing out of basins was very different from a proper soak in a large tub. 

“Yes, all right,” Celebrimbor said after a moment, speaking quietly. “That sounds nice.” Maglor leaned over to murmur something in his ear, and he nodded at whatever it was. 

Elurín finished eating first, and went out to start the fires in the bathhouse, and to fill the tub. He chose soaps that Eluréd had brought back from Edhellond, fresh-smelling without being overpowering, and laid them out as Celebrimbor arrived, shivering a little with the cold winds that had picked up. “I feel as though I should be apologizing to you,” he said as Elurín turned to him. 

“You? For what?”

“For—in Nargothrond, I knew what my father was doing, but…”

“That was years before I was ever born—before my father was ever born. You need not apologize to me. What could you have done, anyway?”

“I don’t know.” Celebrimbor stared at the water in the tub, leaning against the door with his arms crossed. “Nothing, maybe. But I don’t know because I didn’t try.”

“You bear no responsibility for the actions of others,” Elurín said. “It would have never occurred to me that you should. You are not your father.”

“I’m my father’s son,” Celebrimbor sighed. “Even when I try not to, I follow in his footsteps—his and my grandfather’s.”

Elurín knew the ways in which he, too, was his fathers’ son—or at least the ways in which he was Daeron’s, and Celegorm’s. He could never know in what ways he was or was not like Dior except in looks. The thought made something hurt inside of him, and he tried to bury it under more pressing concerns. “Well, you don’t have to apologize to us. Or thank us, really. We’re—sort of family, in a way. Or something like it. Not just because we have a few cousins in common.”

“I suppose we are.”

“The water’s hot enough now. Do you want me to wash your hair for you?”

“You don’t have—”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to help.”

“I…all right. Can you also tell me how you got into Ost-in-Edhil to find me in the first place?”

“Mostly,” Elurín said as he helped Celebrimbor undress and step into the tub—he was still too thin and unsteady on his feet, and his wounds were still tender, “mostly it was because Gorthaur thought himself so secure that he let most of his people head off to destroy whatever was next, and all of his attention was focused on you. Really, we just sung up disguises like Felagund of old, and rode right in. And then Eluréd distracted him while I snuck into the hall to find you.”

“And—that worked?”

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Elurín smiled at him as he picked up a bar of soap. “He must have thought that Eluréd was attempting to be Lúthien—but he forgot that we are two, and not only one—and we were not there to demand his surrender. I suppose he forgot, too, the tricks our grandparents played in Angband.”

“He doesn’t forget,” Celebrimbor said, voice very carefully flat. “He just knows himself to be more clever than his old master.”

“Well, he wasn’t—not this time.”

“He will never forget this.”

“I know.”

“He is more powerful than you realize, Elurín.”

“I could feel his power,” said Elurín. “So could Eluréd. You do not need to fear that any of us will try to challenge him directly—Eluréd’s songs were a feint, meant to distract and nothing else. We knew what he would expect, so we gave it to him.”

“But that’s not…” Celebrimbor fell silent. Elurín didn’t try to ask him more. Instead he just lathered the soap through Celebrimbor’s hair, and felt the way he relaxed, slowly, in the hot water and under Elurín’s hands. After a while Celebrimbor said, very softly, “There are other reasons I should apologize—to you and to all the world. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Did you swear an oath that bound you to kill anyone that stood between you and a few shiny rocks?” Elurín asked, trying to shelter behind flippancy as something very like dread started to coil in his chest at Celebrimbor’s words.

“No. Worse. Sauron—he wouldn’t—he would not be what he is now were it not for me, and my work.”

Elurín paused in reaching for a small pitcher to rinse out Celebrimbor’s hair. “Did you aid him willingly?” he asked. 

“Yes—but also no. I did not know, then, who he really was. But I had been warned not to trust him.”

Elurín moved around so he could look into Celebrimbor’s eyes. What he saw there was the memory of terrible pain, the weight of terrible guilt, and something that looked far too much like despair. “He has ever been a deceiver, like Morgoth before him,” Elurín said finally. “You were deceived—the fault for that lies in him, not you. If there was a way to defeat his master, there is a way to defeat him.” He was not Eluréd, with his steadfast and unyielding faith in the fact that they were all where they needed to be, doing what they needed to do—he was just stubborn, like those who had given him life and those who had raised him; and he had seen what the world could be like free from shadows and war, and he was not about to simply stand by and watch it descend into darkness again. “We are all of us here still alive when by rights we shouldn’t be. I don’t know what that means, yet, but it means something. And that gives me hope.”