Multifandoms fan

Did you say once survivors of Nargothrond fled to Doriath? That would make for a pretty bad family reunion between Celebrimbor and dad... (and later in Sirion, if he didn't have the good sense to camp out with Gil-galad on Balar)

It was midwinter night.

That had not seemed remarkable to Celebrimbor, beyond a chance to get some really fine etching work done without anyone coming into the forge to bother him. Snatches of noise from the main hall reached him still though, shrieks of laughter and the clatter of a dropped serving platter.

In hindsight he should have realised sooner that platters did not clang so harshly, and that shrieks of joy were rarely so shrill or so prolonged, but Nargothrond and even the horror of the Sack had seemed so distant from this still winter’s night.

Not so far though that, when the door was kicked off its hinges, he wasn’t up and over his workbench with a phial of acid in his hand before it even hit the tiles.

It was no orc though, that strode towards him, no cringing servant of the enemy. He knew the helm’s faceplate near as well as the features that lay beneath - much of the gilt he had inlaid himself.

“Father,” he almost said but didn’t. He didn’t say anything as the figure picked its way between the anvils and slack tubs, dully gleaming in the forge light. He drew his arm back further. His hand scarcely shook.

“You’re looking well,” said Curufin Fëanorion. “I hope I did not interrupt anything delicate.”

Still Celebrimbor did not speak. Too many words had stopped his throat - words of bitter spite for a traitor and a murderer and of forgiveness for the man who had sung him cradle songs and taught him all the craft he had to teach. “How are you here?” he choked out. “Why are you here?”

“I did not raise you to ask questions you can reason out the answers to.”

The jewel, of course the jewel but for one moment he had thought- no matter now. The alarms hadn’t sounded, likely wouldn’t get a chance to - his family always had excelled at what they put their minds to, be it ornamental metalwork or war. Soldiers in the corridor and a sword in his father’s hand but surely there was something he could do. His eyes flicked about the room, looking for a weapon, some way to warn the Thousand Caves.

Curufin smiled. “My soldiers will keep you here and keep you safe,” he said. “I’m sure it will ease your mind to know you had no choice, no chance to change what is to come. Perhaps you will thank me for it when all is done.”

“Have some pride, Father. You raised me to be a better man than that,” Celebrimbor hissed. But he did not throw the phial. It would do no good against such armour anyway.

“I have no more choice in this than you,” said Curufin, who had always been an excellent liar, even to himself. “Remember; always use beeswax for your saw blades, never tallow. And do not stay up working overlate-”

“I shall stay up as late as it pleases me just as you shall kill and steal as pleases you. Get out, and thank your luck I have no sword.”

He would thank his own luck later, if he did not thank his father.

Curufin had, after all, raised his son to be rational and there was little good to be had in giving thanks to a corpse.

Tumblrprompt: Maedhros helping Maeglin and/or Celebrimbor deal with the whole 'tortured by the Great Enemy du jour' thing, for whatever given value of "helping" you think he could muster.

In Tirion he would have crawled into his parents’ bed for the comfort. He was too old for that now and even were he not, his father slept so little Celebrimbor would not countenance disturbing him. Instead he wandered the camp, letting the drizzle wash the fear-sweat from his face and the soggy grass turn his bare toes numb.

There had been water in his nightmare and so he turned towards Lake Mithrim, digging his feet into the chilly sand upon the shore. He was of the line of Fëanor and Finwë and he would not flee from childish fancy, even when he saw the moon’s reflection staring up from the waters like a drowned face. Like something from his dreams.

He had not dreamt the figure though, standing upon a bluff and looking out towards the north, ignoring him. It wore a hooded cloak but it did not conceal the height or twisted shoulder.

“Uncle.”

“It’s late, Tyelpe,” Maedhros said hoarsely. “Why are you up at this hour?”

Celebrimbor could have asked him the same but he thought he knew. “I’m afraid,” he said, for both of them.

“Then you should find your father. Your uncle Finrod. Anyone else.”

“I don’t wish to be comforted. I’m not a child.” But his voice was as shrill and breathy as one, and he felt his cheeks colour despite the coldness of the air. 

Turning from his vigil, Maedhros joined him on the sand. He dropped, with some difficulty, to one knee so that their faces were level. “What do you wish?” he said, eyes shining bright despite the darkness and the shadow of his hood. “Should I tell you that you’re right to be afraid?”

“It’s true, isn’t it?”

An appraising look and then his uncle’s left hand dipped beneath the collar of his tunic and drew out a pendant upon a fine copper chain. Celebrimbor thought it only jewellery at first, but he knew his father’s work when he saw it and knew more of blades than probably a boy probably should. It was a little thing, only an inch long, too small to be any use in a fight. “Take it,” Maedhros said when Celebrimbor hesitated. “I have others.”

Celebrimbor took it. The hand was damp and cold from so long in the rain, but the metal was warm.

“Your enemy is hope,” his uncle said gently. “Hope that they’ll spare your looks, hope that they’ll leave you whole, hope that you’ll survive. They turn it against you and it cuts deeper than their blades ever could. The Valar can bind spirit to flesh, and once they have you there is no escape. You must act first. Keep the blade hidden. Learn to draw it fast. Don’t hesitate.” He showed Celebrimbor where, tapping the proper place on his own throat. “Don’t hope. And don’t tell your father.”

“I won’t.” He dropped the chain over his head and tucked the blade beneath his nightshirt, the metal warm against his chest. “Thank you, Uncle. Sleep well.”

“And you, Tyelpe.”

His bed was cold when he returned to it, and his feet trod damp sand into the sheets. He clutched the knife and did not sleep and did not dream. 

Your enemy is hope, his uncle had said once. 

But Annatar, whatever else he was, was Celebrimbor’s friend. He would listen to reason. He could still be saved. Even as the gates creaked, splintered, gave, even as black arrows hissed down like the rain, Celebrimbor drew his sword and not his knife, and hoped.