The Unread Visions of a Higher Dream II: The Light Under the Mountain by Prackspoor  

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II.2

In which Celebrimbor gets an invitation to a very special occasion, while Annatar discusses worldviews and cosmovisions. Also, the two friends get into an argument.

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*

By now, three weeks had passed since Celebrimbor and Annatar had arrived under the mountains.

The Dwarven people might be quick to adapt novelties in regards to inventions or industrial progress, but while industry was one thing about a society, its people and its traditions were another. Change under the mountains happened slowly: over decades, centuries, and – like the stone that was their home – some things, like their most sacred rituals and central worldviews, changed only over the course of millennia.

Celebrimbor's misstep against the Dwarven people had not been forgotten, not even after King Durin had openly taken his side in the debate, and whenever there were colloquies, meetings, and festive dinners, some factions of Khazad-Dûm remained notably absent. The more conservative houses especially seemed to have taken it as a personal slight that an Elda should have brought a Maia under the mountain and gotten away with such a thing unscathed.

Nevertheless, after two weeks had come and gone and Floki and his cousins had regularly been seen sitting with Celebrimbor and Annatar, most of the Dwarves eventually lost their initial wariness of the Maia. Soon Annatar was the centre of attention, mainly of younger Dwarves who had worked up the nerve to address him and ask questions about himself. This started out as a tentative trickle, but turned quickly to a veritable torrent of inquiries.

Annatar did not seem to mind. He was cordial and accommodating with his answers, although it did not escape Celebrimbor that despite the Dwarves' curiosity and polite questioning, his friend elegantly avoided speaking of his time among the Lords of the West. Instead he always brought the talk back to Ost-in-Edhil and his time spent among the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. The Dwarves doubtlessly noticed this, but since Annatar remained courteous throughout and provided them with concise, sometimes drily amusing recounts of his time in Ost-in-Edhil (which the Khazad valued over long, elaborate retellings) they forgave him his reticence, and listened instead to the accounts he was willing to give.

One evening two young Northern Dwarves, Sámur and Sviar, who apparently fancied themselves scholars and theologians, even managed to rope Annatar into a discussion about divine interventions and the justice thereof. Despite the groans of a few older guests, who would have preferred a less controversial subject for their dinner conversation, a small crowd had soon gathered around the three debaters, listening and cheering when either Annatar or the two young Dwarves made a good point defending their respective views.

Celebrimbor leaned back on his bench, watching with great amusement as the debate grew more heated – for both Sámur and Sviar made good arguments, despite their youth compared to one of the Ainur, and Annatar naturally rose to the challenge, dismantling and disproving points as fast as his opponents were able to come up with them. He did not show it overtly, but Celebrimbor knew him well enough to see that the Maia was enjoying himself greatly, not least because he could at last put his recently achieved knowledge of Khuzdul to the test.

“But is it not in itself contradictory for gods, who desire for their creations to make their own decisions, to intervene in mortal matters? Did they not hand the obligation to lead our lives to us, as well as the freedom to decide against what they consider good?” Sviar asked, leaning forward over the table, blue eyes bright and fixed on Annatar. “Should they not keep to their shores instead, and leave the incarnate races to their own devices instead of meddling on our hither shores?”

There was an intake of breath around the table at this barely hidden barb. Annatar regarded Sviar for a long while. “Good is a very dangerous word to bring up in any philosophical decision, not least because everyone seems to mean something different by it.” He steepled his fingers. “But I shall try to explain my view, though I will use terms other than 'good' or 'bad' to make my point. A debater will usually judge the goodness of divine intervention, as you call it, based on his own worldview, so first of all, we must establish an objective framework for our thought experiment.

“We can safely say that divine intervention has no place in a world in which the point of life is to be as free as possible – even if this freedom leads to unfocused efforts of lone, disorganized minds, and chaos. For freedom taken to its extreme also means the freedom to commit folly, the freedom to refuse one's fate, and the freedom to deny oneself and the world one's true potential.

“Now if we were to propose a world instead, where it is most desirable for each being to reach its highest potential, limitless freedom is replaced instead by efficiency as what must be considered 'good'. Here, if someone is unable to realize his or her full potential without external guidance, divine intervention presents not only a possibility, but a necessity. In such a world, intervention has become an obligation for all those who claim to care for the fate of the world and likewise have the means to change its course – and, naturally, it would be the obligation of those of lesser wisdom to accept the guidance of those with superior knowledge.”

“These words are all well and good, but beyond your eloquent wording that all sounds to me like you are saying that the lower races are in need of a minder and should just subject themselves to every Power calling himself a teacher who happens to find them. Is that so?” Sámur asked belligerently, crossing his arms and giving Annatar a dark look.

“Of course not,” Annatar replied. “Such a system needs checks and balances. And just like a teacher is obligated to further the knowledge of his students, the student would be required to determine whether the teacher is worthy to learn from.”

“And how would the lesser student do this, if his exalted teacher knows more than the student possibly could — and if the teacher can, by right of greater knowledge, just determine that the student is wrong in seeing the teacher as unworthy?” Sámur asked.

Annatar frowned. “Naturally, this experiment would require a willingness to improve and be improved upon on both sides.”

“Ah, it is the willingness to renounce power, I believe, that you are talking about – power that you have at hand and can, without punishment, exert over someone weaker.” Sámur held Annatar's gaze for a long time. “Now, we would need truly extraordinary teachers for that to work, because I haven't seen or heard of any being who came into power and did not try to use it some way or another. They might even have had the greater good in mind, but in the end it was their will that they imposed on those they ruled, whether their subjects agreed with it or not. Where would we go looking for teachers who are themselves above the lure of power, I wonder?”

Annatar's glance was unyielding. “I can hardly answer that for you, Master Sámur. I would not want to determine what is best for you in your stead.”

“But isn't that just the premise that your proposed framework is resting on?” Sámur said. “You said that the powerful and intelligent should rule and the lesser ones should obey. But how then would we, the lesser ones, choose our teachers properly, if we must always doubt to have chosen wrongly for our limited understanding of the world?”

“You underestimate the power of communication, I believe, and the will to cooperate in order to reach a higher goal,” Annatar said. “It doesn't take a god to know one, and it doesn't take a genius to recognize the worth of a stranger's knowledge. That being said, a model can only ever be an approximation of an infinitely complicated reality, so you will forgive me if I forgo planning out minutiae in favour of proposing a general idea.”

“Of course I will. But that would naturally leave me wondering about the applicability of your model, Aulëndil.” Sámur crossed his arms and smirked.

“No one said that creating an ideal world was easy or even plannable on a single evening over a few rounds of ale,” Annatar retorted. “But if you want a definite statement on my part, I would go so far as to say that in an ideally efficient world, the student would perhaps even have to forgo the questioning of an indisputably wiser teacher. If the teacher sees a truth that the student doesn't, the student would – for the sake of efficiency – have to obey, even if he disagrees.”

“But would that not preclude necessary mistakes on the side of the students?” Sviar threw in, looking up and down the table. “I think I can speak for us all when I say that sometimes the only way for a headstrong young lad to learn the error of his ways is to commit said mistake himself in order to get it through his thick skull that he was wrong.”

This was greeted with a lot of nodding and murmurs of assent, particularly by the masters, while the younger apprentices either shrank in their seats or bristled mutinously.

Annatar frowned. “I would argue that there are no such things as 'necessary mistakes'. In a truly efficient world it would be nonsensical if everyone had to make the same mistakes over and over again. The progress of civilisation itself rests on the premise of trust in the achievements and axioms found by one's predecessors. The crucial point here is not, as a matter of fact, that beings cannot truly learn from mistakes they have not made themselves, but that the student must trust the teacher's judgement enough in order to believe him and internalize extrinsic wisdom into his own thinking –”

To this, Sámur rose with a heated speech in favour of critical thinking and the necessity to challenge even truths that were considered absolute, which Annatar dismantled in turn by restating the proposed wisdom of the 'teacher' in his model and delivering a scathing criticism of contrarianism for the sake of being contrary alone, proposing instead that knowledge was like a building, built from parts brought in by many contributors, and not something to be torn down at every turn.

“ – do you not trust in the foundations others have laid down for you, as well? Or, following your logic, would you dismantle your kingdom to its lowest level as well to investigate whether the first architects of Khazad-Dûm have in fact done all their static calculations correctly?”

“Of course not,” Sámur snorted. “The contrarianism that I am advocating for aims for change from the inside: I was not speaking of rashly changing the foundations of society by tearing down everything that has come before with reckless abandon. On the contrary, I was talking about a change in the minds of people, which will in time transform and strengthen old knowledge and ideas that are worth preserving, while weeding out what is wrong or faulty. This, however, requires critical thinking and the challenging of old ideas, so that a society might independently come to a greater and intrinsic understanding of how to live better. I see this as a change that would – although slower – ultimately be truer and more lasting than one that is imposed by a so-called greater being by force. Unlearning critical thinking, though, seems neither desirable nor efficient to me, no matter the moral framework of my world. Unquestioning obedience and blind trust are the death of progress and, indeed, society itself, for in the end you will be left with an absolute dictator ruling a populace of mindless slaves.”

“Now you are putting words in my mouth, Master Sámur,” Annatar chided. “I wasn't speaking of unquestioning obedience and mindless trust. Indeed, I was speaking of the opposite: of a critical election of people who are fit to lead, and the willingness of others to follow them and their decisions. I speak not of slavery, but a convergence of ambition in the minds of all people. Right now our world is one where individuals and societies are getting tangled up in personal interests and petty squabbles that prevent any meaningful cooperation, which would be necessary to truly change ourselves and this world for the better. In another world, however, in which desire and greed bow to reason and egoism to benevolence, we could, perhaps, in the end have a world in which everyone raises their eyes to look in the same direction to fight and strive for a more beautiful world.” 

Celebrimbor was so taken up with following the discussion that he did not immediately notice the shadow sliding onto the bench next to him.

“Your friend speaks Khuzdul well, I should think,” Durin said.

Celebrimbor did not flinch, although he did not quite manage to hide his surprise at finding the King of Khazad-Dûm seated next to him all of a sudden. He rose to bow, but Durin waved him off.

"Stay seated, Telperinquar, I get to see enough of people's bowed heads every day. They are not all that interesting."

Celebrimbor smiled and merely hinted at a respectful bow from the waist instead. “Good evening, Your Majesty.”

Durin nodded, then his sharp gaze landed on Annatar again, as he argued yet against another of Sviar's claims with the natural eloquence of a born orator, and as if he had done nothing but debate in Khuzdul for the last few decades.

“Did you teach him?” Durin asked without moving his gaze from the Maia.

“Yes,” Celebrimbor said slowly, suddenly and despite his contrary claim to Annatar, unsure whether he had been right in imparting the knowledge of Khuzdul on his friend. “At least in the beginning. He took to the language quickly, as he does to most things.”

“His tongue is as smooth as his manners, in both your language and mine,” Durin said, and it was impossible to tell what he intended by this except for the obvious statement of facts.

Celebrimbor watched him carefully.

“I tell you this as someone who means you well,” Durin said, “though I am sure you are already aware of it: not all houses are elated at seeing a Maia come here and learn of the sights and secrets of Khazad-Dûm. A language is another thing still, and one that might incense so-inclined minds enough that even the fine manners of your friend might not be enough to placate them.”

“I gave it a lot of thought,” Celebrimbor admitted, “though I hoped that learning their language might let him appear more trustworthy and respectful in their eyes.”

“Perhaps it does, perhaps it doesn't. One thing that you learn when you have to lead people is that you can never appease everyone,” Durin said. “I only know that I would advise your friend to keep discussions of religion and gods to private chambers so long as the situation is as tense as it is now.” Durin gave him a serious look from beneath his bushy brows. “I am aware that your friend is not to blame for starting this debate. Still, I am sure Aulëndil is more than able to convey his decision to abstain from further public discussions of such delicate matters without offending anyone, considering the eloquence and politeness that he calls his own.”

“Of course. I will tell him what you said. We do not want to cause you any further inconveniences.”

“Very well.” Durin tore his gaze away from the trio whose attention was too taken up by their discussion to even notice the King of Khazad-Dûm sitting not two metres away from them. “That aside, I wanted to speak to you on another matter.”

Celebrimbor put his fork down and turned a bit further towards Durin. “What would that be, Your Highness?”

“Durin's Day is fast approaching. A week hence, the sun and the moon will both be in the sky and signal the end of autumn.”

Celebrimbor felt a pang in his heart and a painful twinge in his chest. Of course. He remembered now, and he had even marked the day in his calendar with a circle of ink. But being here with Annatar and showing Khazad-Dûm to him – this rush of excitement and new discoveries and of being able to show his dear friend a place that was so close to his heart – had taken up all of his attention, to a degree that he had almost forgotten Durin's Day.

“I thought you would want to attend the Wake,” Durin said, and his expression was softer now, his voice quieter.

“I –” Celebrimbor felt something lodged in his throat, and for a moment he worried he would not be able to finish the sentence. “I would be honoured,” he said at last. “It would mean a great deal to me.”

“I know,” Durin said. “Elda though you may be, you have done much for our people, and you are and have been a good friend to many of us. It would be only just to allow you to attend.”

“Thank you.” Celebrimbor watched his hands, which were resting in his lap cold and strangely nerveless. “Is Fundin going to attend as well?”

“I expect as much,” Durin said, already moving to rise.

“I think he is angry at me,” Celebrimbor said quickly. “I have not truly seen anything of him ever since the welcoming feast. I would not want to give offence – or worse, cause him to stay away from the wake of his brother.”

“Narvi Finlisson was Fundin's brother,” Durin said sternly, “but he was also your friend. I cannot imagine Fundin would forgo paying his respects to his brother just because you will be there as well.”

Celebrimbor nodded, and then a sudden idea came to him. “A question, if you would, Your Highness. Did he tell you the reason why he keeps avoiding me? I am not entirely sure what it is that causes him so much grief that he won't even talk to me. He is a dear friend of mine, and it pains me not to know how I could fix the situation.”

Durin's brows furrowed. “Fundin's grievances are his own matter, and I will not interfere. He did not tell me and even if he did, it would not be my place to tell you. I trust you to settle that matter in your own time, as is to be expected of respectable Dwarves and Eldar.” And with that curt dismissal, Durin stood to his full height and then left the dining hall.

Celebrimbor looked after him, then turned with a heavy heart and softly touched Annatar's shoulder.

Annatar, who had just been coming to the climactic point of an argument that must have taken a while to build up, gave him a disgruntled look. “What is it, Tyelperinquar. Can this wait?”

“As it is, I am afraid it cannot. There is something I must tell you,” Celebrimbor said.

Something in his expression must have given away his sorrowful mood, because Annatar's frown quickly changed from irritation to enquiring concern.

“It seems we must conclude this argument another time,” he told Sviar and Sámur, who nodded agreeably despite how heated the debate had become.

“We've been holding up proper dinner conversation for too long already, it appears,” Sviar said. Floki, who had apparently been staring down his tankard of beer for the last half-hour in a stupor in an attempt to blend out the discussion, raised his head and snorted in heartfelt agreement.

“We will finish the debate another evening,” said Sámur. “See you then, Aulëndil, and may the Maker guide your steps.”

*

“So I will refrain from starting or continuing any theological discussions in the future,” Annatar said. “Is that all, or did I do anything else that was offending someone's delicate temper?”

“No, that would be all,” Celebrimbor said, putting another log in the fire, but judging by his clouded expression, it was far from all. The elf turned around and then sat down heavily in his armchair, a strange, unnatural tension in his shoulders and a shadow on his face that did not belong there.

“Tyelperinquar,” Annatar said, and then again, in his mind, What bothers you, my friend?, but much to his surprise and dismay, the walls around Celebrimbor's mind slammed down, shutting himself in and locking Annatar out. Where before there had been the comfortable, familiar warmth of a friendly mind, there was now only a faceless void, impenetrable and defined solely by the surroundings that framed its absence.

It was not something Celebrimbor had done ever since they had befriended each other.

Annatar's stunned irritation must have been clear on his face, because Celebrimbor gave him an apologetic, entirely dishonest smile. “Forgive me. But it is nothing.”

The lie was obvious, but Annatar took a long look at his friend and then decided to let it go. Even though he had not outright said anything, it was clear that Celebrimbor did not want to talk about it. And however tempting it might have been to know what was going on with his friend, Annatar would not try to pry open the secrets of Celebrimbor's mind, either by force or by subterfuge.

“Fine,” he said, not quite succeeding in keeping the irritation out of his voice, although he was trying. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

***

Celebrimbor did not change his mind that day, or during the days that followed. He was as polite and courteous as ever, but even when he spoke or answered a question, his thoughts seemed to be somewhere else. His mind remained closed to everyone but himself, a dark, impenetrable cloud shielding it from view.

Annatar attempted to reach out to him a few times, but while Celebrimbor did not outright reject him, he did not disclose anything about his thoughts or worries either. He appeared absent during dinner conversations and lessons, and when he replied to questions his answers were only ever as long as necessary so as to appear polite.

Celebrimbor was less present, both in the metaphorical and actual sense of the word. More and more frequently, Annatar found himself spending his hours in the library alone, or knocking at Celebrimbor's door only to find it locked and the room behind it cold and devoid of life.

Annatar, who was not used to being shut out from his friend's mind like that, tried to suppress his own vexation at his friend's behaviour. If there were things Celebrimbor did not want to share with him, that was within his rights – and if he did not want to share the reasons for his suddenly distant behaviour, then that was his choice as well, although it did make for an unusual lack of manners in him.

And yet.

It seemed like an insult, a judgement that Celebrimbor had passed on Annatar without ever giving him the chance to prove himself – that there was something Celebrimbor could not confide in him, that there was something in Celebrimbor's life that Annatar had no right to. (Just as there were things that Annatar had no intention of sharing with Celebrimbor. Yet.) He was not supposed to feel anger at this.

And yet.

His temper wore thin and his patience frayed with every passing day. Initially, Annatar sought out the loneliness and quiet of his own rooms in order to avoid any hurtful words that might have passed between them otherwise, but on the sixth evening after their conversation, his self-imposed resolution to leave Celebrimbor alone burnt up in a flash of temper and impatience after the Noldo had spent an entire afternoon brooding and giving monosyllabic answers to Annatar's questions, asked through increasingly gritted teeth and a clenched jaw.

Annatar crossed his room and threw the door closed behind him without locking it. He marched down the hallway and only slowed when he realized that to any outsider he must look like he was on his way to wrathfully behead someone.

The thought gave him pause.

When he resumed his walk, his steps were slower and more measured, the fire of his temper banked if not entirely quenched. However, his resolution to drag Celebrimbor out of his room and his brooding – by the ear, if he had to – was still very much in place when he raised his hand to knock on his friend's door.

He had half-expected to be met with silence, so he was surprised when Celebrimbor opened the door almost immediately.

A tentative half-smile nearly faded on his friend's features, then fought to remain in place as Celebrimbor looked him up and down. “Oh, it is you.”

Annatar raised an eyebrow. “Yes, it is me. Were you expecting someone else?”

Celebrimbor scratched the back of his head, and shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I – not really,” he said. “I just – do you want to come in?”

“I'd much rather you stopped lying to my face and tell me what the matter is with you,” Annatar said flatly.

Celebrimbor stilled, obviously caught off guard by what had to be the most brusque answer Annatar had ever given him. “I –,” he started, then obviously noticed that whatever he was about to say was about to become another lie and closed his mouth. “Do you want to come in?” he repeated quietly, and this time he was not only looking at Annatar, but seeing him, and maybe it was this or the tone in his voice that soothed Annatar's bristling temper at last.

“Yes,” he said, stepping past his friend and through the door frame.

Celebrimbor's room was in the state of methodical disarray that every place he inhabited for longer than a few days tended to assume. Scrolls, drawings, and books were scattered over the desks and tables, notes in different states of completion accompanied them, and a teacup was standing forgotten on the table next to the sofa, whose entire surface was covered by what appeared to be a scattering of old verses and ancient chants, next to extensive texts of what appeared to be descriptions of rituals whose nature he could not discern at a glance.

Annatar slowly walked over to the armchairs near the now dark and cold fireplace, and picked up a pile of notes, intending to shift it so he could sit down. His eyes fell on what was either a mournful poem or a dirge, with various passages marked, and a few books that bore religious embossings.

Before he could read anything in greater detail, Celebrimbor took the pile of papers out of his hand and deposited it on the bed. “I apologize for the chaos,” he said, “I've had a lot on my mind lately.”

“But nothing worth sharing, I wager?” Annatar asked pointedly.

Celebrimbor froze, and for a few tense moments neither of them spoke.

“Forgive me,” Annatar said at last, and he wished the words would come easier. “That was uncalled for.”

Celebrimbor just watched him for a while, then sat down across from him. For a while he just sat there, leaning slightly forward, his forearms resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on Annatar. He looked worn out and tired, more tired than Annatar had ever seen him. His usually restless hands were still, his lively eyes dull and dark. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked at last.

Annatar shifted slightly. “Shouldn't I be the one to ask that?” he said.

Celebrimbor blinked. “Why?”

“You have not been talking to – anyone, really, for nearly a week. You look like a ghost, and are nearly as untouchable as one. You barely listen to questions and conversations, and you appear to have lost any and all interest in what is going on around you.” He paused, not quite sure whether to say what he wanted to say next, fearing that it might reveal too much of his own thoughts, lead Celebrimbor to conclusions he was not supposed to make –

“You have been keeping me out of your mind,” he said at last, his voice calm and neutral.

“Well, it is my mind,” Celebrimbor said, just as calmly.

Annatar's mouth twitched. “Quite. I was merely wondering whether there was a reason for it.”

Celebrimbor leaned back, and suddenly, all of the tension went out of him as he slumped against the backrest and exhaled with a small “Oh” of realisation.

Annatar sat completely still, wondering what insight Celebrimbor had come to.

“I am sorry,” Celebrimbor said. “That was a horrible thing of me to do. I should have known – after all this time, it was only natural that you would worry about it.” He laughed, quietly and a bit shakily. “No, Annatar, you didn't have anything to do with it, and I apologize for making you worry about it. Everything is all right. Well. Not everything.” He wrung his hands.

“Nothing is wrong,” he amended at last.

“Would it encourage you to share your thoughts with me if I told you that I am not moving from this very spot until you do so?” Annatar asked.

Celebrimbor breathed out through his nose, giving a soft but genuine laugh. “Ah, Annatar, your methods of convincing me are truly something else. You have a way with words like no one else I know, and yet you fall back upon the delicacy of a charging bull whenever you lose your patience.”

“True – and not at all relevant right now,” Annatar said curtly. “So?”

Celebrimbor didn't look at him. He looked at something on the table, then at the fireplace, his strong fingers pressing into the palm of his other hand. “You knew Narvi,” he said at last.

“I did.”

“The message of his death reached me forty-four years ago, and only after he had already been entombed.” Celebrimbor's hands were restless in his lap – wringing, clinging, stretching, flexing, telling the stories his words could not.

“You never said your farewells,” Annatar said, trying to guess where his friend was heading with this conversation.

“No. Of course not. How should I have known when the time had come to say farewell? I knew Narvi was getting old, but he never wrote of illness or his declining health, and when his time had come, our chances to say our goodbyes were gone.” Celebrimbor met his eyes. “But now Durin has invited me to partake in the wake on Durin's Day, when the Khazad honour and remember their dead. I will finally get to see his – tomb… and recite part of the wake for him tomorrow.”

Annatar watched Celebrimbor carefully, waiting for him to continue.

“It is just – Annatar – it has been forty-four years. I have not been to Khazad-Dûm in over two centuries. I was swept up in life, in my projects, in us – in everything we did, and it did not once occur to me to visit his grave.” Celebrimbor buried his face in his hands. “The world moved on and I with it, while Narvi remained behind in his tomb. What kind of friend am I if I forget about my comrades the moment they pass from this world?”

“You were busy,” Annatar said with a frown, surprised that this is what had had Celebrimbor moping around for an entire week. He would have expected something important, something reasonable. “You were needed elsewhere: the living need you. The future world needs you.”

A rotting corpse in a stone tomb doesn't, was what he didn't say.

“That is no reason for why I didn't visit even once,” Celebrimbor said, sounding wretched. “I could have made time. I am not irreplaceable –” Annatar bristled at these words, “ – and no matter what some people try to tell me, Ost-in-Edhil wouldn't crumble just because I left the city to its own devices for a few months. So why didn't I go?”

Because standing in front of a stone likeness of Narvi and talking to it, pretending his dead spirit is listening to your prayers, is an exercise in futility if I have ever seen one, Annatar thought. Aloud he said, “You wouldn't even have known whether you would have been allowed to do so. Knowing Dwarves and their secrecy, it is a sacred rite that you would not even have had the permission to attend.”

“I could have asked.”

“And now you have been invited, and you get to attend a memory service at last,” Annatar countered, his voice taking on an impatient edge. “So what has you worried now? You have not done anyone harm. You have not broken a promise. You have done nothing even remotely reprehensible that I can discern, and yet you act as if you had failed someone's expectations in you.”

“What –”Celebrimbor blinked. “Who gave you the idea that I failed someone's expectations?”

“You mean other than your every single action this past week, and this conversation in particular?” Annatar responded blankly. “You are speaking as if the dead would hold you accountable for your actions, which – even considering the sentimentality of your race – is something so absurd that I wouldn't have thought it could be an issue, even for you.”

“Well, of course the dead won't hold me accountable for what I did or didn't do,” Celebrimbor said evenly.

Annatar breathed in, breathed out, summoning his patience. “Then why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Oh Annatar,” Celebrimbor said, and it was a sound that was filled with sudden realisation and something else Annatar could not put his finger on. It felt like forbearance, like the irritation of a misunderstanding turned to lenience when he at last understood why Annatar was asking all these questions.

Celebrimbor looked at something in the middle distance, a slight crease in his brow, as he continued, almost absently: “Narvi would not talk to me about either age or sickness, claiming that I as an Elda could understand neither. He always said that he never expected me to stand by his grave and weep after he died. He never demanded anything of me, be it in life or in death.” Celebrimbor paused, then looked directly at Annatar. “I have not failed Narvi's expectations of me.” He breathed deeply, as if mastering himself. “In fact, I have done exactly as he expected an Elda to do, and in this I have failed myself.”

“Tyelperinquar –”

“He was my friend,” Celebrimbor said, fixing him with a gaze as dark and unrelenting as the stone at the heart of a mountain. “And I am still his. And as a friend there are duties I have towards him.”

“You should not feel apologetic for living, Tyelperinquar,” Annatar said, his frown deepening and his temper veering dangerously close to annoyance.

“I don't.” Celebrimbor's gaze did not so much as flick away for even the blink of an eye.

“Yes, you do,” Annatar said, then leaned closer, his eyes intent, his voice urgent. “Why are you blaming yourself for your nature?” he asked. “Immortal is what you are, and your life is made for permanence and meaning beyond the lifespan of a mere mortal, just as mine is. Why would you blame yourself for the passing of others who were created lesser than you? Why would you foist their destiny onto your own shoulders, and feel responsibility for not paying them some kind of absurd tribute, long after it has ceased to be of any use to them?”

He reached for Celebrimbor's hand, but his friend pulled away. “Annatar,” Celebrimbor said. His eyes were the colour of slate and when he spoke, he placed each word as deliberately and carefully as a tile in a game of katuranga¹ against a grandmaster. “You do not understand.”

Annatar bristled. “If by 'understand' you mean follow and accept your frankly absurd reasoning and rationalisation of your self-flagellation, then no – no, I do not.”

“Does it really surprise you then that I chose to keep this matter close to my own heart and not share it with you?” Celebrimbor said. His voice was soft and quiet. His words hit with the force of a javelin.

Annatar sat very still.

“This is not about the dead,” Celebrimbor said, and all of a sudden he looked at Annatar with a soft smile that looked like it could shatter at any moment, with the slightest pressure, and any pointed retort the Maia might have made died on his tongue. “This is about the living. These kinds of things – regrets and remembrance, wishes and wakes – they always are.”

He looked down again, and everything about him was still and contemplative and closed, and it made Annatar want to shake the life back into Celebrimbor and pry his mind open, just to be with him again, to understand, and then lecture Celebrimbor on every minute detail of why he was going about this all wrong.

But Annatar was silent. It was not because he was torn between his anger and his desire not to have a fight with Tyelperinquar, but because beyond what Annatar thought and wanted, Tyelperinquar was right.

Annatar didn't understand. And for the first time Annatar could remember, the fitting words that usually sprang so easily to his tongue would not come.

Neither friend knew what to say, and the silence between them was heavy and laden with unspoken words and lack of comprehension.

At last, Annatar shifted in his seat. “So this is it, then? The thing about mortals that even gods cannot truly grasp?” he asked. He was trying to sound neutral, and yet it came out with a tinge of annoyance.

Thankfully, Celebrimbor did not gloat in triumph at Annatar's caustic admission. He looked thoughtful, his fingers tracing his lower lip in contemplation. “I guess,” he said at last. “But then again, how should you? Some things you need to be subjected to in order to truly understand them, and mortality and incarnation are among them. I do not think you could possibly grasp the meaning of mortality, of being an Incarnate fated to die, unless you contrived a way to fashion yourself into a mortal being.”

“Which I do not desire,” Annatar said drily.

Celebrimbor shrugged. “In this case, you cannot possibly understand mortality, just as I cannot possibly understand your nature. It is not so bad not to be able to do something, Annatar,” he added in a softer tone. “Learn to live with it – other beings do it all the time.”

Annatar looked into the blazing fire. “I am not used to being … unable to grasp something,” he admitted, equally quietly. “Even if something is beyond my power, I can usually at least understand it.” His fingers clenched at the armrest of his chair.

“There are some things we cannot do and other things that we cannot even comprehend, and these are facts we cannot change. We can only decide how to go about accepting our limits with grace, make the best of it, and move on.” Celebrimbor leaned back, and they lapsed into silence.

All of a sudden, there seemed to be a divide between them that hadn’t been there before, as the extent of their differences was suddenly laid bare in all its unsettling clarity. Annatar felt like he had never understood Celebrimbor less than he did in this moment: how he acted and lived and thought both like an immortal and a mortal in the most paradoxical ways. How, he wondered absently, could Celebrimbor unite inside himself the greatness of mind that was touching on that of a god, and yet be at once so fettered to mortal limits and fallacies in his being and understanding? How could he exist in this perpetual state of contradiction, and what would it take to free him from it?

Celebrimbor seemed to have misinterpreted his silence, though, because he suddenly said, “Annatar, accepting that you do not understand something doesn't make you deficient.”

Neither of them spoke for a while.

“How I wish,” Annatar said at last, “that I could understand you better.”

“What?”

“I consider you my closest friend, my brother, the one to whom I would go to with the greatest troubles of my heart. I felt like you were more similar to me than the kin I left behind in Aman, and yet – now you make me wonder whether we can understand each other at all.”

“As for that matter, I do think that we have some fundamental differences in our views there,” Celebrimbor said. Annatar noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and then he felt more than saw Celebrimbor reaching out for him. Annatar raised his gaze to find that his friend had indeed extended his hand to him. “However,” Celebrimbor said, “I do not think there is a gap too vast to bridge – if we only extend understanding to each other for what we don't grasp – and if we put to our work the best of what both of us have to offer.”

A long silence followed in the wake of this statement, but Celebrimbor waited patiently with his hand extended.

“You make it sound so simple,” Annatar said, looking at the offered hand but not taking it. “As if it were truly so easy – to yield and to accept.”

“Would it be so hard for you?” Celebrimbor asked in return.

“I –” Annatar started, but before he could finish this sentence, there was a knock at the door and Celebrimbor leaped to his feet like a coiled spring suddenly released.

“Ah. Is that the one visitor you were actually expecting tonight?” Annatar asked, one eyebrow raised.

“We can continue this later if you want –” Celebrimbor started.

Annatar waved it off. “No, I think I shall take my leave. This evening hasn't yielded the most productive insights in any case.” He rose. “I will see you tomorrow. Good luck with your preparations for the Wake, and good night.”

And without another word he brushed past his friend, and pulled open the door. He looked down at Fundin, who shrank back from him, looking for all the world like he would rather be anywhere else than here, and at the moment, Annatar could empathize – though for different reasons.

He gave the steward a perfunctory nod, then walked down the hallway in the direction of his own rooms, feeling but not quite allowing himself to accept the fact that he was indeed feeling – envy, rejection and not least of all, frustration at having discovered what might just be an unbridgeable distance between Celebrimbor and him.

 

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1 This is likely a reference to the Indian board game chaturanga, which is an early predecessor of chess.