and the waters prevailed by StormsBreadth  

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how doth the city sit solitary

This chapter takes place in Nargothrond, and there's some light discussion of the sack and attendant trauma. 

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Before the war, and before the destruction of both places, the route from the Havens of Sirion to Nargothrod would have been easy. Simply follow the Sirion up until the point where the Narog flows into it, then take the Narog right to Nargothrond's gates. The difficulty at the point would have been in finding the entrances, rather than in the journey itself. 

Now the Sirion has burst its banks and the delta has become a marsh, leaving the course less clear. 

Still, they floated past the joining of the Narog on their way down, and it was still more or less identifiable. Their gifted boat is sturdier and easier to navigate than the ones they crafted and equipped with proper oars besides. The river currents are not aggressive as they paddle upstream. If anything, the rising waters have filled the Sirion with a confused languor: she no longer rushes to the ocean, but meanders, slow and expansive, as the ocean seems to make its way towards her.

It takes them a few days to reach the Narog. Only two people need to row at once, so they take it in turns rowing and resting. They sing, intermittently, and talk, but mostly, they are quiet, watching the shifting landscape. Drinking it in. Even in the few weeks they stayed at the Havens, the landscape seems to have changed slightly. Perhaps it’s the first signs of autumn, but the landscape seems more languid. Quieter, fewer signs of wildlife. 

Celebrimbor thinks that the Narog has changed too, when they reach the joining point. Travelling down from the mountains, the Narog is wilder than the Sirion, the waters crashing together in foam. Celebrimbor remembers the first time he took this route, following the river on foot with the small, small group of survivors from Nargothrond. They travelled in the brightest parts of the day but stuck to the undergrowth where they could, poorly armed and terrified that they were being followed, that the roving orcs or worse might come upon them unawares.

Now even these waters have calmed somewhat. Or perhaps their force has just spread. Like most of the rivers they've seen on this trip, the Narog has swelled, forcing her banks apart or overrunning them, and now she flows wide and chaotic. 

They manage to push the boat past the initial joining. The current is faster here, but they're still plenty able to push against it. 

Slowly, the flat marshland they’ve been travelling through starts rising into hills, rising up out of the water that surrounds them. The valleys, too, become more extreme as the gentle hills turn into the crags out of which Finrod built his city. Where most of the space between the hills had once been fertile farmland, now every valley is a river that twists and turns and joins the central stream. Rowing becomes more perilous and they are forced to slow down, but they don't abandon the boat: here, there is no way to walk between the peaks, and if they lost the boat they would be forced to swim. 

Celebrimbor thought that he knew the landscape around Nargothrond fairly well, but it's evidently changed over the war, and in response to the monumental forces that now shift the shape of the landscape around them. It takes him by surprise when they round the corner and see, suddenly, the jut of the ruined bridge that leads out of the hidden city. 

Celebrimbor's heart seems to stop, and then it starts again, fast now, desperate. He sucks in a breath of air. 

The river is much higher, now, than it was when Celebrimbor saw this place last. There's less fire, too, and fewer orcs swarming about. No great, monstrous lizard overseeing it in reptile satisfaction. But Celebrimbor's heart still beats wildly in his chest and adrenaline floods his veins, some animal part of him screaming that he needs to run. 

It’s not lost on him that this is the second place he remembers last viewed from over his shoulder, as he fled it. So many places they’ve abandoned, as the Enemy pushed them ever back, into smaller and weaker positions. 

‘Watch out! Heledholf shouts, forcing Celebrimbor out of his memory and into the present. In his distraction, he had stopped rowing so assiduously, and now the current has caught them, pushing them back downstream and towards the sides of the valley – and the attendant rocky walls. Celebrimbor grabs his oars properly, leaning on them to slow and redirect the spin of the boat before starting to push again, until they are safely in the middle of the stream and not being carried back down and away. 

‘Apologies,’ he says. ‘It brought back some memories.’ 

‘I guessed. Are you alright?’

He nods. ‘Not about to start running across the river again.’ He glances over at Ribinvir. He’s staring at the bridge, a grim expression on his face. Celebrimbor remembers, suddenly, that Ribinvir had been one of the stonemasons to work on the project. He puts a hand on the other elf’s arm, and Ribinvir startles, then shakes his head and clears his throat.

‘Yes. Memories. Not good ones.’ He puts a hand on the rudder. ‘They’re past, though. Let’s see if we can bring this boat up to bear.’ 

They draw up close again to the remains of the great bridge. The legs break the flow of the water, providing a safe harbour against the current where they are able to safely secure their boat and make their way up. Celebrimbor remembers when these slopes were fair and covered with shrubs and grasses. Now it's just bare rock, and slime. 

Closer, the halls look worse. The bridge juts out across the water like a broken arm. The entryways are gaping maws framed by the broken teeth of their shattered doors. Beyond them lies only darkness and the faint smell of damp. 

Celebrimbor finds himself hesitating on the threshold. It's a far cry from the glory days of King Finrod Felagund, when the doors were thrown open and the hallways glittered. 

‘We’re going to need the lamps,’ Heledholf comments. Celebrimbor nods, and roots around in his bag for them. They don’t have many: the clear, steady light of Fëanorian lamps make them extremely valuable, but there are very few who can make them these days, and it would generally be considered an obscene luxury to take on what's essentially a glorified camping trip. But Celebrimbor is a master of gemcraft. His grandfather’s lamps were one of the first tests of his skills as a smith, back when he was a child and welcome in Aulë’s halls. Even in the short time between Ereinion recruiting him and their leaving, he was able to make a couple. 

These ones catch the light of the sun at noon in the hills on the banks of the Lhun. It's a pure, bright light, illuming the space around them as if through a window. Celebrimbor passes them to his companions. 

The three of them step cautiously into the hall, past the jagged remains of the doors and into the stone halls beyond. Celebrimbor pauses once he’s inside, breathing slowly, seeing if he feels the raw edge of panic on his tongue. But the halls are quiet, and his heartbeat remains steady. There are no dragons here.

It's quiet, inside the doors. The rush of the river outside feels muted, the darkness of the halls seeming to bear a thick weight. The walls here are cracked, parts of the wall collapsed, though how much of that is Glaurung's invasion and how much the movement of the land since the War of Wrath, Celebrimbor can't say. As they move through the halls, their lights fall on piles of dust and rubble, cracked stone mixed with rubbish left by the people who came to use this space after its abandonment. Human, Celebrimbor thinks, by the scale of the tools left behind, though even these later inhabitants left so long ago that anything they left is decayed and worn.

Above them, great cobwebs festoon the ceilings where festal banners once hung, and as they descend deeper their movement startles a cloud of bats. The small creatures fly into their faces with a series of outraged squeaks, forcing them to stumble back, hands raised for protection.

And yet, even in the destruction, there are hints of old Nargothrond. A fragment of bas relief remains, crooked, on the wall, showing an elda playing the harp. Patterned stones remain inset in the broken floor. The great carved pillars that herald the way to the central hall still stand tall, soaring into the darkness above their heads. 

They descend down past the pillars, towards the central, open hall. With every step, the smell of wet stone grows stronger, and the damp in their air lays thicker upon them, until they can hear the lapping of the water itself, close below. 

The staircase comes to an end before them, the corridor opening out into the first and greatest of Nargothrond's mighty halls. Their lights reflect off a great, dark, flat expanse. 

Flooded. 

The water spreads across the whole of the hall, still and mirror-like. The underground streams that carried water to Nargothrond and the tunnels that brought in clean air have also let in the rising waters, slowly drowning the ruined city. Celebrimbor guesses that they're approximately on a level with the waters outside. 

The three of them stop, looking out across that lake that was once the central hall and hub of the great city. Two hundred years ago, it would have been full of people talking, singing, doing business heading from one part of the city to another. The doors led to dwelling places, crafting rooms, kitchens and treasuries. Great staircases spiralled down the central opening, leading to the depths of the city. The arch at the end, barely visible in the lights of their lamps, held the way to the central throne room, where Finrod had once cast his crown at the feet of Celegorm and Curufin. 

Empty now, and quiet, the only sounds the breathing of the three elves and the soft movement of the water. This deep underground, and lacking the lamps that once filled it with light, not even algae is eking out a life. 

'The water isn't deep,' Ribinvir says. 'At least where the walkways once were. We could wade, if we were careful.’

Celebrimbor crouches down, puts a hand in the water. It's shockingly cold, but the current isn't too strong, at least here. He nods. 

'Let's see if we can get to the throne room, at least.'

They leave their shoes on the steps, at the top in case there’s another shift in the earth that sends a wave their way. Celebrimbor hisses as his feet are enveloped by the water. He acclimatises slowly, but it's the kind of cold that doesn't just stay on the surface, but seeps through skin and flesh to chill your very bones. He curls his toes against the rock, careful with his steps for fear of slipping. 

Gingerly, they make their way along the edge of the hall, hands on the walls for stability, peering through the openings up into long-abandoned corridors. Some are collapsed, but others remain open. Beside them, down the centre of the room, the water gleams deep and mysterious, the drowned depths of the city hidden from view.

The throne room is a couple of steps down again, and the water rises above their knees and up to their thighs. But it's still here, at least. The throne itself is broken and crumbled, only the stumps of the legs remaining, and the coloured stones and bright metals that once decorated the walls have been picked away, leaving only the indentations where they once were set. 

But the central dais still rises up out of the water and they wade gratefully towards it, helping each other up the steps. There’s a huge crack down the middle now, as though some great weight had landed inelegantly upon it. There’s an obvious guess as to what that weight might have been, and Celebrimbor carefully doesn’t make it. He focusses on his legs instead, which are numb and starting to shake. He sits on his feet to attempt to warm them. Ribinvir and Heledholf, who both crossed the grinding ice, stand stoically beside him.

‘The lower levels must all be underwater,’ Ribinvir says. ‘All the workrooms and storehouses, the halls for leisure and training…’

‘The ways out, too.’ Celebrimbor’s memories of their escape are fuzzy in parts, but he remembers running down, down, holding the hand of the person behind him, trying not to trip on the rough-hewn staircases. If someone trapped them in now, they would drown before escaping. 

Celebrimbor takes a slow breath. Not a helpful thought right now. The dragons are slain, and the land is at peace. 

‘The water seems to be a consistent level in the places we’ve been so far, so I would guess that the living spaces are mostly still dry. The stairs to the royal apartments...' he points towards the staircase behind the remains of the throne, that had once led up to Finrod's rooms, to Orodreth's and Finduilas's. To Celebrimbor's own, when he has dwelt here, first with his father as Finrod's guests and then as Orodreth's kinsman and friend. He doesn't mention this, though Ribinvir surely knows it. 

‘It's worth looking,’ Ribinvir agrees. ‘We can see if... if they haven't been entirely ransacked, there might be something worth bringing back, before it all sinks.’

Celebrimbor nods as Ribinvir speaks. Even if there isn’t anything worth retrieving, Celebrimbor wants to see that for himself. ‘Let’s look, at least.’ 

'I'd be glad to search somewhere a little drier,' Heledholf says. 

They plunge into the icy water once again, but only for the time it takes to descend from the dais and across the room to the next set of stairs. Their feet leave wet prints on the stone, grit and dust gathering between their toes as they ascend. As Celebrimbor feared, the rooms have indeed been thoroughly raided, the doors broken and the furniture turned upside down. Looking into Orodreth's room, it seems that anything that might possibly have been of value has already been taken or destroyed, deliberate, petty damage that makes Celebrimbor’s throat tight. His desk lies split down the middle, drawers thrown across the room. 

Celebrimbor leaves Ribinvir and Heledholf to conduct a thorough search of Orodreth's apartments, and drifts off in search of the chambers he himself had once kept. Like all the other rooms on this corridor, Celebrimbor's apartments have been ransacked, the furniture torn apart and all of Celebrimbor's books, jewellery, clothing and tools long gone. But unlike the other places they've visited where Celebrimbor once lived, this place is at least still a room. The furniture may be broken and scattered, but the bed in the corner is still distinctly his bed, the rotted covers still askew on the mattress are his covers. 

He stands in the doorway for a moment, and breathes. Doesn’t think about the screams, or the flight. The room is just a room, no enemies are approaching. He waits until his breathing comes normally again, and then steps in. He is not only here to bear witness: he wants something specific. 

One of the many wonders of Nargothrond had been its heating, the system of hot air blown from a central furnace, up through pipes in all the walls to heat the floor beneath people's feet. This had the side effect of leaving a lot of convenient cavities in the rooms where it was in operation, and one only needed to find a loose flagstone to take advantage of it. There had been a loose flagstone under Celebrimbor's bed, once...

It takes some effort to move the collapsed bed out of the way, but once he does, the flagstone is perfectly accessible, and still wobbly. It comes away without too much trouble, revealing the small space beneath. This hidey-hole appears to have remained hidden, its contents undisturbed. Celebrimbor carefully pulls the box up and out to the floor beside him, removing the lid with slightly shaky hands. 

The contents are still in place. It's an odd collection, things that Celebrimbor hadn't wanted to throw away but hadn't wanted to think too hard about either. A ring of Finrod's given before he left on his doomed quest with Beren. A couple of glass beads strung together, presented to him by a child from one of the villages of Himlad. A furious letter from his father, preserved in the dry dust. Two delicate star-shaped earrings, set with glittering stones.

Celebrimbor pulls them out, holding them up to the light. The earrings are not anything particularly special, all told. A simple enough shape, and jewels that, although finely made and cut, are not beyond the capacity of any competent Noldorin jewelsmith. They’re notable only because of the hands that made them, that put them in Celebrimbor’s ears on the occasion of his twentieth begetting day, celebrated at Formenos. 

He folds them in the letter and tucks them into his bag. He fishes out the pewter beads from Himring, and ties them together with the glass beads and Finrod’s ring, then puts them away too. 

Ribinvir and Heledholf are back in the corridor by the time Celebrimbor leaves. They've evidently been through some of the neighbouring ones as well as Orodreth’s: the dust in the doorways lies disturbed, the doors themselves moved on their hinges. There's a small pile of things on the floor between them: a few buttons; an inkpot; some leftover paper detritus. A meagre hoard, for a king. 

Ribinvir spots him looking and smiles ruefully. 'The Enemy was thorough, it seems.'

Celebrimbor nods, peering at the paper. He recognises Orodreth's handwriting, though it's been a long time since he last saw it. The paper is nothing all that interesting. Notes from a meeting, Celebrimbor thinks. He picks it up for a closer look, then pauses, thinking. 

'Do you remember...' he starts, then stops, because he isn't sure that Ribinvir would have known in the first place. 'There was an auxiliary treasure house,' he says. 'Or – not so much a treasure house as a storeroom. Somewhere to keep documents and things. I know the main treasury was plundered long ago, but this one was out of the way. It didn't look like much, unless you knew to look. It might have escaped.'

Ribinvir looks surprised, then nods slowly. 'The one on the corridor to the armouries?' 

'That's it. It might... It might be worth looking.'

'It will be underwater now.' 

'I can hold my breath a long time.'

Ribinvir is still nodding, clearly thinking through the logistics. Heledholf, however, looks shocked. 

'What?' she asks. 'You're planning to swim down there?'

'If that's the way, then yes. At least to see if anything can be retrieved.' 

‘That’s insane!’

To Celebrimbor’s surprise, she seems both genuinely surprised, and to mean it. 

‘There will be other treasure. You can make other treasures, or do they lie when they call you the heir of Fëanor?’

Celebrimbor flinches a little at the term. He’s heard it bandied about, and mostly ignored it. Celebrimbor is a talented smith, it’s true. Possibly even the best, at least here on Middle-earth, despite his relative youth. But the term is used for more than simply his skill in the forge.

Ribinvir saves him from having to answer. ‘Those treasures won’t have belonged to the High King’s father,’ he says softly. ‘For all that Círdan has done a magnificent job of raising him…’

‘And Orodreth was my cousin,’ Celebrimbor says. Second cousin, technically, the both of them Finwë's great-grandchildren. But they were close in age. Before Celebrimbor's grandfather had led his wing of the family into exile, he and Orodreth had often been pushed together at events, the fourth generation, babies of the family. The quiet youth Orodreth had been had changed and grown as Celebrimbor had, into a quiet adult, never quite with Finrod's sparkle, but with a seriousness to him, a willingness to take action when he thought it mattered. 

Celebrimbor still remembers catching a glimpse of him, that evening on the shores of Valinor that set all their fates in motion. Celebrimbor's father had been holding Celebrimbor close within the Fëanorian faction, the most committed group, those whose hearts were already set on going. Celebrimbor had stayed there willingly, sticking close to his family, unwilling to speak, having little enough to say in the chaos of it all. 

Orodreth had spoken, though, taking his grandfather's part. Celebrimbor can still see him in his mind's eye, lit by lightning, standing on a rock with his blonde hair plastered to his head, begging the assembled Noldor to see sense and seek peace.

It had only been a flash, a moment in an evening full of chaotic moments, before Curufin had dragged Celebrimbor away, but it stuck with him. He wondered more than once why Orodreth had come with them at all, rather than return with Finarfin to Valinor. Had it been Angrod's doing? Or had he hoped to do something good by being there with them? Had he regretted it?

Celebrimbor never managed to ask him. And now, of course, it was too late. 

‘Oh,’ Heledholf says, breaking into Celebrimbor's thoughts. She pauses for a while, clearly thinking, then: ‘Where do you think the room is, then?’

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Chapter End Notes

Title from Lamentations 1:1