With Eyes Unclouded by AdmirableMonster  

He had come far afield, farther afield than he had intended, and a capricious breeze had stolen the map from his fingers.  He had thought it was all right, that he knew where he was going, but now he was no longer so certain.  The leaves, painted red and brown and yellow, whispered overhead, and great velvety butterflies flittered in the canopy, their wings a blue so dark it was nearly black.  Huge mushrooms, as big as Celebrimbor’s head, sprouted from decaying logs.  The path had long since vanished.

Unease prickled through Celebrimbor’s stomach.  His father would be displeased.  He should not have come out without an escort.  True, his age of majority might have come and gone, but Curufin would not see it that way.  His father’s thoughts would fix on naught but the danger for his only child in a world gone mad one dark night long ago, when the stars shone down upon blood on the sand, when his wife Tinweriel’s eyes went glassy and empty as her soul fled.

Celebrimbor sighed.  He had only wanted a little time free from obligation, free from judgment, and now it seemed as if it might be years before he was able to escape again.  In frustration, he kicked at the piled dead leaves at his feet, then immediately felt guilty.  If his father asked him to take some small amount of care, why should he feel angry upon doing so?  He only wanted what was best for him.

He was caught up in gloomy thoughts and almost did not hear the soft whimpering noise emanating from a stand of bushes a little to his left.  But the sound did eventually percolate, and Celebrimbor paused, unable to get himself to ignore the sound of a creature in distress.  Frowning, he parted the leaves and peered in, then gasped and nearly jumped back a pace.

The wolf caught in the trap was immense, at least three yards tall and five or six long, with blazing golden eyes and a snarling jaw that looked as if it could snap a man’s arm in half like a twig.  And yet it was clearly in pain, one foot caught, bleeding and mangled, in a trap that looked very much like one of Celebrimbor’s uncle’s, its shoulders hunched beneath a fine silver net that nonetheless seemed to weigh it down.

Back away, his father’s voice said in Celebrimbor’s head.  If one of Uncle Tyelko’s silver nets, woven from moonlight and starlight, threaded with Varda’s purity, held the creature, it must be dark indeed.  But blood stained the soft and beautiful fur of its leg and speckled the area around its mouth where it had obviously tried desperately to pull the net off.  Celebrimbor’s own heart bade him not to look onto suffering as dire as this and turn away.

You fool.  But if his father was going to be angry at him anyway, he supposed he might as well give him something to be angry about.  “Hush,” Celebrimbor said quietly.  “Hush now.”  The net would hold it still while he worked the trap off of its leg and bound it up, keep it from biting him in its rage.  And it was only a wolf, after all—a creature of Morgoth, perhaps, but not intelligent enough to blame for it.  Uneasily, he noticed he was rationalizing.  But he could not walk away from a creature in such pain.

He knelt and felt for the little button that Celegorm used to release the traps easily.  As he depressed it, the spring was unhooked, and the pressure of the trap eased up.  The wolf yelped, but whether in surprise or pain, he wasn’t certain.  He still had to work the teeth out of the wolf’s leg, but it was easier now, and to his surprise, the creature didn’t thrash or fight, only looking down on him from those blazing golden eyes.

“That’s right,” Celebrimbor told it soothingly.  “I’m not going to hurt you.  Well—” He smiled at it.  “I’m going to try to mend what’s hurt.  There might still be some pain, for I’m no healer.”  But he did have a basic knowledge of battlefield medicine.

Swiftly and gently working the metal teeth out of the wolf’s leg, he tore a strip from the side of his soft leggings and soaked it in the sweet wine he’d brought for lunch.  Thoughtfully, before subjecting the poor thing to the pain of the cleansing ale, he offered it the soft cheese and bread he’d been saving for his own meal, which it sniffed curiously and then swallowed in a single bite, with a noise like snorf.

Celebrimbor took the opportunity of its distraction to start working on cleaning out the injury, hoping he wasn’t going to have to dodge a nasty bite.  To his surprise, though, the wolf only hissed and whined, not even trying to tug its foot back as he rapidly cleaned it and bandaged it up.  “Good boy,” he told it absently, stroking its fur as if it were Huan.  

Then he took a deep breath and carefully lifted the silver net off its back.  They looked at one another, the wolf swelling up even larger.  Celebrimbor took a hesitant step backwards.  Those flame-gold eyes flickered like leaves in the wind, and a big wet nose was shoved down into Celebrimbor’s hair.  After thoroughly snuffling him, the wolf made a soft little wuff, and then it began to limp away.

After a minute, Celebrimbor noticed his hands were trembling.  The wolf disappeared into the leaves as if it had never been.

* * *

By some miracle, he had managed to find the path not long after leaving the wolf and make his way back to Nargothrond.  Curufin hadn’t noticed.  Celebrimbor told himself he wouldn’t go back; he couldn’t be certain he would be lucky enough to avoid his father’s notice a second time, and his father had much to worry about.  He didn’t needed to be worrying about his only son with all the rest of it.

Except—except Nargothrond was beginning to feel like a tighter and tighter cage.  Curufin was often in the forge, and Celebrimbor couldn’t escape there without his father lecturing him on his forgework.  They ate meals together, and there was always something wrong.  Even at night, he could hear his father and his uncle arguing in low voices about the way Finrod ruled his kingdom.  Celebrimbor understood.  They needed to be doing something.  The Oath drove them.  He needed to be there to support them.  But it left him so wrung out and exhausted.  And somehow it never seemed to help.  He spent nights curled up with Huan resolutely not crying into the dog’s fur.  Huan made quiet, soothing noises and licked his face.

If he was going to be a supportive son, Celebrimbor told himself, he was going to need to take a little time away.  And he hadn’t been lost for long.  Thus comforted, he packed another lunch of bread and cheese and chose a day when his father was otherwise occupied.

The path was even more heavily clogged with fallen leaves this time, and most of the trees were bare, but the sun shimmered through the dark branches and the remaining leaves. Celebrimbor couldn’t help the way his heart lifted, just to be outside, just to be alone (away from his father, whispered a treacherous little voice he wasn’t listening to.)

He caught sight of the bush where he’d found the trapped wolf the last time, and some strange impulse made him poke his head into it again.  Nothing.  Nothing but the rusted trap lying on the ground—and why should there be?  Then he stood up straight, because he heard the long, thin howl of a wolf, soon answered by an echoing cry.  Celebrimbor frowned.  It was bright daylight out, not exactly a time for dark creatures, but it still might be more prudent to return now, though he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to.

Some bull-headed frustration pushed him onward, and he continued to make his way through the forest, pausing every now and again to admire a bird’s nest or a vast bloom of those gigantic mushrooms.  Looking up, he saw a tall grey tower silhouetted against the blue sky and wondered what it could be.  He hadn’t studied the geography of the region as thoroughly as he perhaps should have.

Another howl sounded, closer this time.  Perhaps he ought to have brought a bow and arrow.  Perhaps he ought to go back now.  Perhaps he—

They erupted from the bushes all around him, four or five wolves, white and grey and brindled, beautiful, huge, and potentially deadly.  Celebrimbor hurriedly looked around for a branch to defend himself, but he was already realizing he was in a very dangerous situation indeed—when the central wolf stopped, gold-flame eyes gleaming, and stood up, and up, and up—

The grey-white form humped up as if it were standing up on its hind legs, but with its fur rippling down like a cloak, and then Celebrimbor’s befuddled mind processed that it was a cloak, and the person looking curiously out from those familiar flicker-flame eyes was no wolf at all.  Hair the same color as his eyes fell to his waist, and a sharp smile gleamed on his countenance, more lupine in some ways than the other form had been.

“I did not expect you to return, little Elf.”  

“I,” Celebrimbor said.  He swallowed.  The other wolves cocked their heads curiously and then ran in a circle around the central person.  Not an Elf himself, Celebrimbor realized slowly, but no Man this, not with those pointed ears and that wolf-skin cloak.  A Maia.  “I wanted some time to myself,” he found himself saying, as if they were having a polite conversation in his grandmother’s Valinorean parlor.  

“You have chosen a very interesting place for it.”  Those gold eyes seemed to carve right into his chest.  One eyebrow cocked upward.  “But you may do as you like.  You will take no injury from me or mine, for I owe you a life-debt, and—” Something pained or painful flickered across that pointed, lovely face, “—I pay my debts.”

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor stammered.  His heart was fluttering wildly in his chest, perhaps because of the suddenness with which events were taking place.

“May I know the name of my savior?” the lovely Maia asked, and he stepped closer.  Heat twisted in Celebrimbor’s chest, a fire such as he had never felt before, but it made him stubborn.  He could be stubborn, Curufin’s son.

“I am called Celebrimbor in Nargothrond, son of Curufin, grandson of Fëanor,” he replied, lifting his chin.  “And what is your name, Sir Maia?”

Those eyebrows rose a touch higher, even.  The Maia grinned, sharp and pointed.  “You may call me Narmotar,” he said, in very proper Quenya.  “And shall I call you Telperinquar?”

“My friends call me Tyelpë,” Celebrimbor retorted.  “But I am not sure we are friends just yet.”

Narmotar smirked.  “Well, perhaps I have not been much of a friend to you yet,” he agreed.  “But you have been a very good friend to me.”  The smile turned a little fainter.  “A grandson of Fëanor willing to release a feral wolf?  Curious.  And was that not one of his own traps I found myself caught in?”

Celebrimbor shook his head.  “One of my uncle’s, I think,” he corrected rashly—and too late realized his mistake as the predatory smile widened.

“My mistake,” Narmotar said softly.  “Your uncle’s trap—and you disassembled it for me.  I am touched.”

“You had done nothing to me, you were in pain—and I took you for a wolf.”  Celebrimbor shrugged.

“I would not have expected it of any of the Noldor,” Narmotar replied, and he pulled up the furs to expose the leg that had been caught in the trap.  “You see how it struggles to heal.”  Indeed, in place of an anthropoid foot, his right leg ended in a wolf’s paw, a blood-soaked rag still wrapped around it. 

Despite himself, Celebrimbor winced in sympathy.  “That must be painful.”

“It is.”  There was a blur of motion and then Narmotar was behind Celebrimbor, a hand on his arm and too-warm breath on his ear.  “You are a very strange Elf,” he murmured.

Celebrimbor thought he ought to pull away, but something in him refused, a combination of stubbornness and the opposite that he couldn’t quite sort through.  “Why?” he asked.

“The Elves have no love for wolves, have they?  I was caught myself trying to root out more of those awful traps that have been murdering my children.  And yet you freed me because you took me for a wolf and now you appear to share the pain that I am in.”

Snorting, Celebrimbor crossed his arms.  “I do not care for battle lines.  If a creature does not threaten me, then I see no reason not to care for its wellbeing.”

Delighted laughter.  “Well, it should be simple enough for me to return this life debt then.  I can see you will find it easy to get into trouble you may not have such an easy time getting out of.”  He slipped around to Celebrimbor’s front, gold eyes gleaming.  “Here.”  He pressed something hot and smooth into Celebrimbor’s hand.  “Now I will know if you have need, my lord Celebrimbor.”

Then, before Celebrimbor could react, he leaned in and brushed fire-hot lips against his, as brief and light as a leaf falling, and the next moment he was a wolf again, and the whole pack was fading into the undergrowth, leaving Celebrimbor quite alone again.

He took a shaky breath, then looked down at what he had been given.  It was a smooth golden bracelet, magnificently worked in the form of a woven ring of delicate leaves.

* * *

Celebrimbor flung himself onto his bed, trying to muffle the paroxysm of sobbing that he could ill afford anyone to hear.  His mind felt as if it was on fire, his heart beating as frantically in his chest as it had at Alqualondë.  Foolishness.  His father was concerned for him.  If he expressed that concern sharply, well, he had reason to.  And Celebrimbor should not have tried to go out for a third time in such quick succession.

He wanted to scream and bit down on the scream.  He was so terribly angry, an anger that shook him to the core, that he had to focus on swallowing, even though it burned him.  Such anger, untamed, had meant the end of his grandfather’s life.  Such anger he feared might even yet take his father from him, and he had no one else left.  Besides, what kind of a son was furious with his father for caring about him?

Something tapped against the window, once, twice, three times.  At first, he thought it must be the wind driving a branch against it, but it repeated, and it did so too urgently and rapidly for a branch.  In some confusion and frustration, Celebrimbor rose and went over to it—only to find himself staring out at a very large, angry-looking bat with one foot shaped like a wolf’s that seemed to be determined to dash itself into the glass.

“What are you doing here?” He flung the window open, and Narmotar fluttered in, landed on the floor, and stood up, drawing off a cloak made of what looked like some kind of shiny black material.

“Well, you’re less injured than I was expecting,” the Maia said, pursing his lips together.  “At least you look to be.”  He took Celebrimbor’s hand and pulled him close.  Startled, Celebrimbor didn’t resist as his arms and legs were gently squeezed and his pulse was taken.  Narmotar blinked and stood back.  “I thought for certain…” He trailed off.

“What are you doing here?” Celebrimbor asked wearily again.

“I thought you were in danger, and I came to see if I could fulfill the life debt.”

“Why would you think such a thing?”

For the first time, uncertainty writ itself in those fiery eyes.  “The bracelet.”

Celebrimbor’s hand dropped to the bracelet that he was still wearing, and he traced his finger across the points of the leaves.  “I wasn’t in any danger at all.”

“It—felt as if you were.  The bracelet conveys—strong emotions.”

“What,” Celebrimbor said, his voice suddenly very small.  He tried to make it bigger.  “And you didn’t tell me?  You’re spying on my thoughts?”  He clutched at the bracelet, fumbling to remove it.

“Not your thoughts.  Clearly, as then I would have known you weren’t dying.”  Narmotar sneered, but the expression seemed a little uncertain.  “Simply the way you feel, which is apparently less of an indicator of the situation of an Elda than I expected.  Foolish of me, I suppose, but I was eager to pay off my debt.”

“If it is such a bother to you, you may consider it void,” Celebrimbor said stiffly.  “I did not aid you in the hopes of a reward.”

“I repay my debts.”  He set his chin determinedly.  “As would you, grandson of Fëanor.”

Breathing out carefully, Celebrimbor tried to keep his temper under control.  “Yes, I suppose I would, but there is no debt to repay here, so you may as well go.”  He folded his arms.

Narmotar shuffled, a little uncomfortably, and then a slow smile blossomed on his face.  “Is there nothing else you are in need of right now?  Perhaps I cannot repay my life debt, but I am well-practiced in matters of service and find them…comfortable.”

“I don’t need any service!” Celebrimbor retorted hotly.  “All I need right now is—is a dog to cuddle with, and unfortunately he’s out hunting with his master!”

The smile widened abruptly, and Celebrimbor realized he must have said something foolish.  He realized what it was in the next moment, as Narmotar’s smile lengthened, and then he bent over as gray-white fur sprouted from his shoulders and cascaded over his form.  Celebrimbor stared at him, not having really expected him to be able to do that without a cloak.  The immense wolf gave him a smug look, then stretched, just like Huan, trotted over to the bed, jumped onto it, and looked back at him.

“You’re joking,” Celebrimbor said flatly.  The large tail wagged.  “Why would I—why would you—”  Wag-wag-wag.  The wolf rolled over, tongue lolling out of its mouth.  On its back, it took up most of the bed.  “You…want a belly-rub.”

Wag-wag-wag.

Celebrimbor considered trying to deal with this, decided he didn’t want to, sighed, and went over to the bed to rub his hands across the wolf’s soft belly.  Within a few minutes, events proceeding apace, he found himself curled up with his face in surprisingly soft fur, and only then—as his heartbeat began to slow—did he realize how shocking it was for a Maia to present himself as submissively as this one had.

* * *

He was warm from head to toe, and there was a queer heat coiling in his belly.  Celebrimbor groaned and dragged his eyes open, thinking that he remembered Huan being too warm to sleep with, but only over the summer—in the winter, it was so drafty that he was usually thankful for a warm body in the bed.  But he was actually sweating.

He realized two things as he got his eyes open: that the body in the bed with him was not Huan’s, and that it was not dog-shaped.  Nor wolf-shaped, any longer.  Narmotar lay in Celebrimbor’s arms as naturally as if he’d been born there, and as naked.  As Celebrimbor’s heartbeat sped up in his ears, the Maia stretched, turned sideways, and murmured, “Good morning,” his fine copper eyelashes coming down demurely to cover those too-bright red-gold eyes.

“Um,” stammered Celebrimbor.  “I, um, what are you—”

Narmotar wriggled back against him.  Celebrimbor squeaked, hands clenching reflexively.  He hadn’t checked to find out where they were, and they squeezed a generous portion of Narmotar, who gave him a sultry smile.  Celebrimbor didn’t think he had ever felt this way before, had rather thought he might not be particularly interested in the kinds of pursuits some of the other Eldar were, but he was suddenly very interested, and so was a particularly insistent part of his anatomy. 

A slim hand caressed his ear and tugged at him, until he followed the direction upward, until he was kneeling between Narmotar’s spread legs.  The Maia—hot as a furnace—leaned up and murmured in Celebrimbor’s ear, “I did say I was well-practiced in matters of service.”

Celebrimbor slid a hand along his cheek, trying to remember the advice he had been given by his uncle for such a situation.  “If you want this,” he managed, eventually, “then I want it as well.  But if you only think you must do so, I would rather not.  You have no need.”

Blank incomprehension dawned in the flicker-flame eyes.  “What do you mean?” He sounded almost sulky.  “Am I not lovely?  Am I not desirable?”

“You know that you are,” Celebrimbor retorted impatiently.  “But you also seem to think you owe me something, and I’m trying to make certain it’s only the life debt, and that you aren’t doing this because—”

“Tyelpë!” his father’s voice rang through the chamber, and Celebrimbor rolled over in panic and leapt to his feet.  “Where are you?”

“I’ve slept late,” he panted.  “Valar, he can’t find you here—you must leave, now!”

His terror must have gotten through to Narmotar, because the Maia did not argue, but only scrambled up quickly, fluidly, full of grace, and made for the black cloak he had discarded by the open window.  He swept it up and threw it about his shoulders, and he fell forward as a great winged bat.  

“I’ll see you again, Tyelpë,” he called as he scrambled through the window, and Celebrimbor was startled that the voice emerged just the same as it had when he wore an Elven fana.  “And then I suppose we shall continue our conversation.”

A frisson of something ran down the back of Celebrimbor’s neck, and heat bloomed in his cheeks.  Then Narmotar was gone, the window was empty, and he was alone in his bed to respond to his father’s irritable inquiry, slamming the door open, “It’s hours past when I asked you to meet me in the forge!”

“Sorry, Atar, I must have overslept,” Celebrimbor managed.

* * *

Life debt or no, he ought not to be so fascinated, Mairon thought to himself.  He told himself sternly that enough was enough, he would only come to the Elf when called by the bracelet, for he could already imagine the punishments that would fall upon his head if he were not sufficiently able to explain to Lord Melkor what he was doing.  Of course, he did owe a life debt, and that was not something he felt he could easily shrug off.  And then of course he could argue that he was spying on the Elves, because he was.  But the guilt niggled at him, and the fear—not of punishment, he told himself, running back through his thoughts, no, no—fear of disappointing his lord again.

He missed Thuri and Gothmog, sometimes.  They had not been allowed to accompany him into what he was more and more suspecting was intended as an exile, though he could not for the life of him understand what he had done wrong this time.  It didn’t matter.  If he owed Celebrimbor Curufinwion a life debt, he owed everything to his lord and master.

So here he was again, skulking around outside the cavernous city of Nargothrond.  It was dangerous, even when he took the form of a wraith, for the Elves had many weapons that might still be able to do him real injury, but he could not seem to stay away.

He had found a small hole—by no means large enough for a wolf—that led down and all the way into the fortress itself.  It was bespelled with many deep charms woven into the fabric to keep out dark things, but if Mairon left behind all of his power and not a little of his usual Maiar thought patterns, he had found that in the form of a cat he could still slip inside and wander about.  He was a very handsome cat, he was sure, with long red-gold fur and extremely fine whiskers.  It was a pity he could not show himself to the inhabitants, because they would certainly be very impressed.

Something inside him reminded him, very patiently, that he was supposed to be gathering information.  He lashed his tail and sauntered further downward, slipping out into the sparkling stone corridors of Nargothrond and pattering quietly from shadow to shadow.  He smelled hot metal and heard the sound of the bellows working.  The forge called to him, as it always did.

He skulked into the forge and made his way toward a familiar-sounding voice.  It was only when he had gotten quite close that he realized that the smell was wrong; this was not the Elf he had been looking for.

“…do you think the Man is doing here?” asked the Elf who looked like the one that Mairon belonged to but was not.  His ears pricked up.  Something tucked away deep inside him told him that there could be useful information gotten if he stayed, so he wormed his way underneath a wooden bench—onto stones conveniently warmed by the fire—and curled up, putting his tail across his nose.

“There are rumors amidst the hunters,” said another voice, dark and threaded through with enchantment.  Mairon sniffed and recoiled, because he had smelled that scent before; the terrible trap that had caught his leg and bound him into wolf form had smelled so.  “They say that in his sleep he calls out for Lúthien—and a Silmaril.”

A crash-clash noise—the hammer must be skidding across its target.  A poor strike.  “A Silmaril?  Why should he?”

“I don’t know for certain, but Thingol is greedy and would not give his daughter’s hand in marriage easily.”

“You think he has set a Silmaril for her bride price?  He would not dare.”

Laughter, low and rippling.  “Would he not, little brother?  I think he would not believe a Man could retrieve such a thing.”

“It is still not his to barter with!”

“And dear Finrod owes him a life debt, I hear.”

“You hear many things.  How do you know any of them are true?”

Leather strains.  The trap-maker is stretching.  “I do not, little brother.  But I think this is a dangerous hunt, and I wish to be prepared for what we will do if the worst should happen.”

“If Finrod agrees to help anyone other than us win a Silmaril, you mean?” Sharp, bitter.  “Well, I am not surprised.  His family has never been much for loyalty, has it?”

“If he has no loyalty to us, then why should we have any for him?  Nargothrond is well-stocked and well-supplied, a finer fortress, perhaps, than the one we lost.”

“That is bold, even for you, dear brother.”  A pause.  “Well, perhaps Finrod will not be disloyal.”

One soft sad queer little twist in the answer, “I rather hope he will not be, but we have been betrayed before.”

A sigh and the sound of rustling cloth.  “We have been betrayed before, and yet…”

This was enough, Mairon decided, prudently exiting his warm spot.  The fire was dying down, in any case, and he would be growing cold if he stayed much longer.

* * *

The vase fell.  Mairon flinched.  For years, he had sought an impossible boon from the world: the ability to wind time backwards.  Not even a Vala could achieve such a thing, but it didn’t stop Mairon from wanting.  If he could turn back time, he could erase all evidence of the mistakes he could not seem to stop making.  If he could turn back time, the pretty vase—blown glass, deep blue with silver particles singing within its body, like stars in the night sky—would reconstitute itself, knit itself back together as if it had never fallen.  But no matter how he imagined it whole again, he could not make it remember the form it had once held.  It would never be the same.

The vase shattered.  Mairon flinched, half-expecting a blow that he did not need to suffer from someone who was not his master.  (And yet, he did not know if he would try to evade it.)

“Oh, stars,” Celebrimbor said, in a flat voice.  “That was Ammë’s.”  He was staring at the shards as if he himself had not just knocked the vase to the ground in the midst of an argument.  Not intentionally, it seemed, oddly enough: no, he had been shouting and gesturing and had caught the vase with an elbow.  Now, all the anger seemed to have drained from him, leaving him colorless and quiet.  “Can you leave, please,” he said, still in that awful, flat voice, all the musicality of it quite vanished.

“I—I—”

“I don’t want to see you.”

Mairon wanted to shriek and storm and rage, to cry that he had been trying to help the Elf, to warn him of his father’s designs on Nargothrond in case they should lead him to make rash or risky decisions, to beg him not to respond like this, like a stranger that Mairon did not know (as if he could know this Elf he had only met for the span of a few days within a month, as if such an acquaintance could have any meaning for him who was Ages old and already world-weary.)  But it did not seem as if it would help. 

So he gathered his cloak and the shreds of his dignity about him, gave Celebrimbor a nod, and stepped backward to the window.  Hoisting himself onto the sill, he could not resist a single parting shot.  “If it comes to pass, do not forget that you were warned, Tyelpë.”

His last sight of Celebrimbor was of the tall Elf stooping to gather the shards of the vase together as gently as if they were the egg-shells of a baby dragon.

* * *

It was strange to Celebrimbor that he missed Narmotar.  They had not exactly spent much time together—a few nights of cuddling, which had never gotten further than it had the first night.  A few conversations about forgework—Narmotar had had some very interesting ideas and when he could be induced to listen to Celebrimbor’s ideas and not go off on flights of fancy in a random direction they made for a sweet few hours spent together.  And then he had come with that ridiculous story about Curufin and Celegorm, and Celebrimbor had told him to leave, and—he had gone.

Well, of course he had gone.  Celebrimbor had practically thrown him out.  Even if they were beginning to feel out a queer, piecemeal friendship, how could it have survived Celebrimbor’s anger?  If his grandfather’s anger was a blazing inferno and his father’s an inescapable vice, Celebrimbor’s was a hammer that shattered everything in its wake.  Just look at Ammë’s vase.  He had gathered up the pieces and tucked them gently into the pack he had carried from Valinor with him—ancient now, but made of woven coal and protected with every enchantment Celebrimbor knew.  As if somehow keeping the vase and pack together would protect either one of them.

Days passed.  A man named Beren came to Nargothrond, just as Narmotar had said he would.  He closeted himself with Finrod, and murmurs flew about the cavernous halls.  Two evenings after that, Finrod stood reluctantly before his people and announced that his own Oath was calling upon him—and Celegorm and Curufin stood as well.  Celebrimbor’s world rocked sickeningly.

The debate that raged was ferocious, and the look of hurt upon Finrod’s face almost palpable.  It was not Curufin’s words that made Celebrimbor feel ill; he knew how heavy Fëanor’s Oath lay upon his sons.  It was that he knew the words were calculated, for they were almost word for word those in reaction to which Celebrimbor had sent Narmotar from him.  It was that he knew his father and his uncle had plotted against the sweet and golden lord of Nargothrond, who could no more help his own foolish Oath than they could theirs.  

And with all of that ugliness laid bare before him, it was the dazed look upon Finrod’s face that sent Celebrimbor scurrying after him in the dead of night, his pack of woven coal upon his shoulders, the fragments of his mother’s vase nestled beneath a week’s worth of rations.  He slipped into Finrod’s camp late the next night, and his father’s cousin greeted him with a dawning hope in his eyes that fled when he realized it was the son and not the father.  He was not unkind to Celebrimbor in any way, although he did, several times, suggest he might want to turn back.

Celebrimbor did not turn back.  He did not turn back when the road became long and weary, and he did not turn back when the Orcs stopped them from traveling through a flame-colored forest he found worryingly familiar, and he did not turn back when Finrod stood at one end of the long dark throne room of Tol in Gaurhoth that had been Minas Tirith, nor when the red-haired figure with the wolf’s paw apparently back in place of his right foot stood and challenged him.

Sauron.  Sauron.  How could Celebrimbor not have known him?  A Maia so far from Valinor, who could turn into a wolf and other creatures of darkness, the Lord of the Isle of Werewolves himself.  Narmotar: wolf lord.  He had as good as said it.  Fool, Celebrimbor told himself, and yet he had seen such sweet light inside him.  

So Celebrimbor stood, as Finrod’s song faltered, cast his hood back, and cried, “I call on the lord of this place to remember that he owes me a life debt, and I claim my recompense in safe passage for myself and my companions!”

* * *

“What are you doing here?” Mairon hissed through his teeth.  He did not quite reach out to feel Celebrimbor’s arms and back as he had done once before.  The bracelet screamed Celebrimbor’s fear at him, but he could see no sign of it; the Elf stood tall and strong with his back to the door, apparently not feeling at all sorry for the utter chaos he had caused.  

It was only the wolves who had come at Mairon’s command that had stopped half the Orcs from rebelling, and now in the midst of a sort of uneasy lupine-enforced truce, Mairon’s Orcs and Melkor’s Orcs and Finrod Felagund’s Elves sat together in Mairon’s main hall.  Somehow, by the skin of his teeth, he had retained control of the situation.  Mostly.  Somehow all the different factions had managed to agree on allowing Celebrimbor and Mairon to have a quick, private conference.

Celebrimbor folded his arms, setting his chin determinedly.  Then he gave a queer little half-smile.  “I was warned of my father’s treachery by a friend whose council I did not heed.”

“I meant for you to stay out of it!” bellowed Mairon, then pressed his face into his hands.  “Do you know what you have done?”

The smile widened.  “I have apparently caused a great deal of trouble for Sauron, and I have reunited with my friend Narmotar, the Lord of Wolves.”

Mairon wanted to shriek more imprecations at him.  He should not be so glad to see him.  He knew the way his heart rose and thudded in his chest was foolish.  “It is only one life debt,” he pointed out stiffly.  “There is no reason that it ought to protect your companions as well.”

“Well, no,” Celebrimbor agreed, sounding thoughtful.  “That is a fair point.  But it has caused you enough problems that you would probably be best served by allying with us.  I do not think your wolves and remaining Orcs can hold this tower alone.”

“Argh!”  Mairon kicked the ground, threw his hands into the air, and then found that he was grinning like a fool and tried to cover it by pressing his hand across his rebellious mouth.  “Did you plan this?”

“No, not really.  Not exactly.  But it seems to have worked out for me all the same.”  Celebrimbor frowned, then shook his head.  “And as awful as it sounds, I’ve missed you.”

“It hardly sounds awful to me.”

“I don’t think my father would agree with you, but—” Celebrimbor crossed to him, standing too close.  He seemed to be casting about for something else to say.  Finally, he came up with,  “You said once that you pay your debts.  Is there a debt you owe to Morgoth?”

A nameless bolt of emotion struck Mairon so that he staggered and caught at Celebrimbor’s shoulder.  “I,” he said.  “Yes, but, I am, I am his most loyal servant.  That is, it is everything.  And I—I do not care for Elves, in any case.  You are all too full of yourselves.”

“I was my father’s most loyal son,” Celebrimbor said, very quietly.  “Well, his only son.  But I think I have let myself be nothing but his son for a long time, and when I found that I did not want to be that any longer, I did not quite know who to be.  I clung to it much longer than I should have, I think.  I must have known, even when I met you, that there is in me that which is my own.”

“I do not care for Elves,” Mairon repeated helplessly.  What would Melkor do, he wondered, at this latest failure? A failure that had come about because he was paying his debt to another?  I repay my debts.  What would Melkor do to Tyelpë?  Mairon’s hands caught at the front of Celebrimbor’s robes.  “I am my master’s most loyal servant,” he said, as if to remind himself, and then he tipped his face up and found that Celebrimbor’s mouth was right there and that they were both pulling one another even closer.

“Can we not be ourselves?” Celebrimbor’s voice murmured in his ears, and then he was deepening the kiss.  Mairon’s awareness narrowed to the softness of his lips and the sensation of his tongue pushing gently inside Mairon’s mouth.  He kissed back hungrily, biting at Celebrimbor’s lower lip, and Celebrimbor gave a delighted little chuckle and pulled him closer, arms strong as aged steel.

Mairon tugged at his robes and began to back towards a convenient window-seat.  “Be ourselves?” he murmured.  “I owe you a life debt.”

Celebrimbor’s hands were heavy on his waist, his lips mouthing across Mairon’s throat.  “I told you, I don’t want you to—”

“Hush.”  Mairon kissed his mouth and then bit him.  “I told you, I enjoy serving.  Let me serve you, my Lord Celebrimbor.”

A very lovely heat appeared under those high cheekbones.  “I—I don’t—I’ve never had anyone do that.”

“Hmmmm.”  Mairon hummed.  The back of the window-seat ran into the back of his legs, and he sat down and tugged Celebrimbor down on top of him.  Celebrimbor’s hardness pressed against his own, and he groaned softly.  “Let’s see.  How can I serve you if you do not know what to ask for, my lord?”

“Yes, that is something of a problem,” Celebrimbor agreed a little breathlessly.  He nuzzled at Mairon’s ear.  “Stars—stars.”  For a moment, they just rutted against one another, sending heat spinning through Mairon’s fana, making his toes curl in response to the intensity of it—and Celebrimbor was being so impossibly gentle.  Mairon had not known kindness could be painful, but the feather-light touches were already sending him to a place he had not really expected.

“Perhaps I could let you explore me without interference?” he suggested archly.

“What does that mean?”  Celebrimbor bit his shoulder gently.  “You understand if I’m a little suspicious.”

“Shouldn’t I be the suspicious one?  I am the one offering myself to you.”

“Well, hardly at my request.”  But his voice was dark with eagerness.  “Go on.  What do you mean, Narmotar?”

Metal was always easier to call than thread, and there was plenty of metal hiding in the cracks of the room, in the sconces of the torches, the hinges of the door—and this place was steeped with power.  Mairon could not have done this anywhere, but here?  Here it was a moment’s work to bind himself to the seat, his arms fixed above his head and his feet pinned to the bottom of the bench with a rapid alloy he had drawn so quickly that it was still red-hot, not that this caused him any trouble.  

“O-Oh.”  Celebrimbor drew in his breath, and then he ran a hand down the center of Mairon’s chest, pulling aside his robes.  Mairon squirmed and struggled, dropping his control over the chains so that they could actually hold him down.  

“Is it pleasing to you?”  Am I pleasing to you?  And why did this seem to matter so urgently to him all of a sudden?  He barely knew Celebrimbor.  Celebrimbor was an Elf.  But it mattered.  If he turned his back on this, he knew, he would find himself desperate to wind time backwards again—and he would not be able to.

Celebrimbor choked out what sounded like an incredulous laugh.  “Yes.  Stars, yes.”  He ran his hands down Mairon’s sides, and Mairon shivered beneath them.

“More?” he said, pleadingly.

Those hands skated down his sides again, too light, not enough, still not enough—and then Celebrimbor stopped.  Mairon whimpered.

“You said you wished to serve me.”

“Y-Yes…?”

He had never seen such a wicked-looking smile.  “Perhaps I enjoy watching the way you squirm when I touch you like this,” murmured Celebrimbor, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear.  Mairon made a desperate noise and tugged against the chains.  “But I need to know that you do want it, that you don’t want me to stop,” Celebrimbor continued, to Mairon’s further chagrin.  “So you must tell me if there is something I do that you truly do not want.”

“I will,” Mairon groaned.  “Just touch me.”

“Yes, well, how am I supposed to know when I may ignore your wishes and when I may not?” Celebrimbor asked.

“What? You may do as you wish!”

“You just told me—”

Mairon jerked at the chains.  “You’re infuriating!  What do you want?”

“I want a way to tell the difference between what you really do not want and what you want to be able to protest against.”

Groaning, Mairon flopped back against the soft surface.  “I don’t know, how would you suggest?”

“Say something you wouldn’t say normally?” Celebrimbor suggested thoughtfully.  “Not something like stop or touch me but…”

“All right.”  He rolled his eyes.  “Minas Tirith.”  A flash of something like anger went across Celebrimbor’s face, and he smirked.  “Does that upset you, my lord?”

“No,” Celebrimbor said fiercely, but he reached out and put a hand down Mairon’s robes, grasping him so firmly that he squawked in surprise and then moaned, thrusting frantically into Celebrimbor’s fist.  They were kissing again, and Celebrimbor’s other hand was pulling his robes aside.  Mairon strained against the chains binding him, but he could not escape them, and the powerlessness made the fire rise in him, overpowering and overwhelming.

He smelled sweat and felt Celebrimbor’s low groan reverberate through him as they rutted wildly against one another.

“What do you want, my lord?” Mairon murmured sweetly in his ear.

“Don’t know,” Celebrimbor returned softly, too softly.  “We’re well beyond anything I have any experience with.”

Mairon hummed.  “I think,” he said, extricating himself from his robes to the best of his abilities.  “I think you should pull down my nether clothing—” Celebrimbor suited the action to the word before Mairon had even finished the suggestion.  “And I think you should put my thighs together and then perhaps you will have an idea.”

Celebrimbor blinked at him for a moment, and then his nose crinkled in the frankest, most disarming smile that Mairon had ever seen.  “You know, I think I do have an idea.  Thank you, Narmotar.”

He pressed Mairon’s thighs together, then looked meditatively down at his erection and let them go for a moment to spit in the palm of his hand.  Once he had coated the member to what he presumably considered sufficiency and coincidentally once Mairon was absolutely groaning with impatience, he pushed the thighs back together and slid his cock between them.

“Oh,” gasped Mairon, “you thrice-cursed Elf.”  It was by far the most tantalizing thing he could have done, fucking Mairon’s thighs like that, the sensation just barely traveling down them, a tiny brush and tremor against the seat of possible stimulation.  Coupled with the intensity of his expression—those burning black eyes fixed on Mairon’s face—Mairon wondered if the slight jostling of his cock against his own stomach would be enough to get him to come.

The seriousness broke, after a moment, to reveal a little half-smile hovering around Celebrimbor’s mouth and Mairon simply could not decide if he was being mocked.

“Please, my lord,” he begged, and Celebrimbor just fucked his thighs harder, until all he could do was repeat please over and over again, until his vision went faintly blurry and every motion was excruciatingly sensual, every brush drawing him to more and more impossible heights.  Celebrimbor’s cock was a coil of silken heat at the center of an inferno spreading through him.

Celebrimbor made a soft shushing noise and stroked a hand through Mairon’s hair.  Mairon heard himself making a noise he never thought he would make for anyone but Melkor and arched into the touch.  This was something almost beyond the pleasure he had been expecting; Celebrimbor scratched a hand across his head, and he found himself quite suddenly and unexpectedly in the darkness behind his eyelids.  It usually required quite a lot of pain to get to this point, and yet here he was, everything still and quiet—

(Something inside him whispered of white feathers)

—and all he could do was moan and arch and writhe, chase the heat and the touches of those hands on him.  He could hear the voice, and it wasn’t his first lord’s, but it held the old warmth that his used to, and he made a desperate, wordless mewling noise, chasing and chasing—the hands were everywhere, and he felt—

—safe—

Someone gasped his name, and there was sticky moisture and the pleasing sensation of having pleased someone in return, and then a quiet word (his name?  his name) and suddenly there was warmth and wetness and heat, surging all the way through him—

He was lost, drowned, falling.

Celebrimbor was saying something urgent, a hand cupping his cheek.  He blinked slowly, and his aural comprehension snapped into place as if he had emerged from underwater.  “—you all right?”

Yawning, Mairon tried to reach for him, and then realized that the chains were still binding him.  “Shouldn’t you take these off?” he asked sleepily.  “My lord?”

“I didn’t put them on!” Celebrimbor sounded exasperated.  “Are you all right?”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t take them off,” Mairon mumbled.  “Of course I’m fine.  Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

A sigh and a laugh.  “You didn’t really—seem like you were responding?  I—I admit I don’t know if that’s normal, but I don’t think it’s normal.”

Mairon shrugged.  “Normal for a Maia.  Normal for me.  I was just—” He tried to raise his hands, found them still chained, and melted through the chains with an irritable exclamation. Then he found he still didn’t quite know how to explain, if Celebrimbor didn’t understand.  “It’s like dreaming,” he settled on, finally.  “It’s very nice.”  When Celebrimbor still looked a little perturbed, he found himself offering something he could never have imagined.  “Come here and I will hold you, so you’ll know that I’m fine.”

The Elf looked as if he were about to say something else, but then he sighed and let Mairon gather him into his arms.  He put his forehead against Mairon’s, and it was odd, how the flames inside them seemed to mingle as their breath did.

“You burn as brightly as your grandfather,” Mairon murmured.  Celebrimbor winced slightly, but then put his head on Mairon’s shoulder and lay there, one hand flat against the beautifully-crafted fana, just above its steady heartbeat.

After several minutes, he groaned.  “We’re going to have to sort this out somehow, you know,” he said.  “We can’t just hide in here forever, as much as I’d like to.”

Mairon groaned as well.  “I think I must pledge myself to you, my lord, foresaking—” his voice shook but he pressed onward, “—foresaking any prior allegiance, for…” he trailed off.  “Well, what else am I going to do?”  Melkor would never forgive him this failure, and it made him shiver and go quiet.

Celebrimbor picked his head up, a heavy furrow between his brows.  “He hurt you,” he said, his voice short, that fire in him surging very close to the surface.

“Of course he hurt me,” Mairon agreed.  “I failed him.”

“If I’m to be your lord, you won’t be hurt again,” Celebrimbor said, in a deadly-sounding voice.  “Not by my hand, nor by any other’s.  That is my Oath to you.”

The words were full of weight; they fell upon Mairon’s unsuspecting form like droplets of lead.  “Given what your family has done, don’t you think an Oath is a poor choice?” he asked finally.

“No,” Celebrimbor said.  Somehow, this meant Mairon had to kiss him.

“Well,” he said, after another moment, not quite knowing how to go on, “Shall we discuss how to succeed at this reprehensibly foolish quest of yours, then?”

“It isn’t mine; it’s Beren’s.  I’m only there to lend a hand,” Celebrimbor said, but his crinkled smile lit the room.

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