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Celebrimbor does not want to be in the halls of court.

The air in the great hall is stuffy with smoke and the greasy scent of food and bodies crammed together. Celebrimbor fidgets with the clasps on the silver box he is holding as his uncle argues with a courtier. He catches his father’s eye from the other side of the hall and stills his hands, polishing away his fingerprints with his sleeve.

He tries not to choke on the cookfire smoke. Celebrimbor is as of yet unused to the close, heavy air of the caves, the moisture hanging in his lungs and weighing him down, the inky darkness that they fruitlessly try to stave off with candles and mirrors. The only brightness in this realm is the smithy, filled with fire.

The noise of the crowd quiets as Felagund enters the hall. He sweeps in, cloak flying around him like a bird, crown shining on his brown, and takes his seat on the dais. The argument between Celegorm and the courtier halts. The ceremony begins.

Celebrimbor holds still. When he is called, he is able to ignore the whispers in the crowd and open the box without fumbling. His hands are steady as he offers it. When the king tries to meet his eye, Celebrimbor diplomatically averts his gaze.

He watches silently from the edge of the dais as Felagund turns and presents an ornate pin to each of the guards kneeling at the steps below.

Celebrimbor manages to hold in a bored sigh. The feast is growing cold. His father is growing tetchy. There is nothing for him here in Nargothrond. No one foolish enough to befriend him, no one brave enough to forgive him after what happened in the passes, only the comfort of the warm forge-hall waiting for him.

Then Felagund opens his mouth to sing.

The fire seems to crackle at his voice. His song is solemn and proud, echoing through every nook and cranny in the hall, a memory of sunlight and growing things, sparking in the shadows.

Who will stand when the night is darkening?
Who will answer the desperate cry?
Who will wait at the gate harkening?
Who will stay when all others fly?

The men answer his refrain with their own shaking chorus, echoing the words back to him. Their voices are sour after the music of the king’s. The silent spell is broken in the hall.

Curufin and Celegorm take the box from Celebrimbor and leave. Their men have been appointed to the watch, as they asked, and their business is over. The fracture in the House of Finwë reforged -- at least in the court’s eyes.

Celebrimbor stands there stupidly at the steps to the dais long after the king has stopped singing, and pretends he is standing by the fire to warm himself.

Felagund. How Celebrimbor had jealously wondered what kind of elf would wear a name the dwarves had given to him. He had hardly been allowed into their eastern forge-halls. For a long time he stares at the king, at his honeycomb yellow hair loose down his back, his wide strong shoulders, and the gems and jewels from home that he wears so proudly.

Then Finrod turns his eyes on Celebrimbor and he scrambles back to his seat.

*

He attends the next feast, and the next.

“You are taking a rare interest in the pedantry of court,” Curufin says, when they are alone. “Are you one for politics after all, my son?”

Celebrimbor does not blush, as he has perfected a slow, confused blink.

“What else is there to do in the evening after the smithy has closed?” he asks.

His father sends him on errands after that, plying him with sword belts and heavy necklaces and earrings for the court to see. Celebrimbor does not wear them proudly, though, earrings half-hidden under his braided hair, pendants tucked under his cloak. Yet he is one of few allowed to carry a weapon to court, as a lord’s heir and distant kin to the king, and he cannot hide the scabbard nor the dagger shining bright on his belt.

The weight of the weapon tugs at the pit of Celebrimbor’s stomach, pulling him down, down into the depths of memory. Celebrimbor feels mud sucking at his feet and rain pouring down his neck.

“Whose forge was this made in?”

The voice calls him back. One of the court’s favorite ladies has cornered him at the feast table. She is prying, of course, to know if she could ever hold something made in a forge of Fëanor in her own hands. Celebrimbor feels as though he has become a salesman.

“Right here,” Celebrimbor replies, suddenly bored, “by my father.”

He is used to being ignored at feasts or a victim to their whispers, so the little crowd of admirers is strange to him. They murmur over the weapon and not Celebrimbor, tonight, no one daring to touch the knife that Celebrimbor lays out on a space cleared on the feasting table. Curufin’s work is still but a rumor.

A hand reaches out from over Celebrimbor’s shoulder and draws it from its sheath. Celebrimbor looks up to see who has drawn his dagger.

Felagund stands behind him, golden hair drawn back by a silver clip, shoulders resplendent in fur, holding the dagger Celebrimbor’s father has worked tirelessly to craft. There are little flowers and curls engraved on the hilt. Celebrimbor’s mouth goes dry to see Felagund’s thumb trace over the perfectly polished buds as he finds his grip.

“It is lighter than it looks,” Finrod says.

“The alloy is strong but not dense,” Celebrimbor says automatically. “And the design balances. The hilt is not over-heavy, like most ceremonial pieces. You could carry it into battle for close combat -- stars forbid.”

He does not know why he says that. Of course the king of Nargothrond will ride to fight Morgoth; to imply otherwise is to hint at cowardice. But the king shows no twitch of suspicion.

“How does it do with armor?” Felagund asks, still focused on the dagger.

“It will cut through leather, but not metal, of course. Thin enough to slip through plates, but not to snap,” Celebrimbor says.

Felagund runs through a series of drills right there on the side of the hall, all eyes on him. He seems not to care, though Celebrimbor feels hot and confused by the attention of the crowd.

“Very nice,” Felagund says as he returns the dagger to Celebrimbor. “Your father’s work?”

“Of course,” Celebrimbor replies, tucking it back onto his belt.

“Flawless, as always. So. What do you make?” Finrod asks.

Celebrimbor nearly begins to stammer with dread, for he has not made anything good enough to show a king.

“I -- I am better with metal than with words,” Celebrimbor says on an impulse. “I would have to show you.”

“Then I will visit you in the forge, sometime,” Felagund says, as if he truly intends to.

Celebrimbor does blush, then.

And, oh, that was not what he meant.

*

Celebrimbor’s plate is half empty at the end of dinner. The other half of his meal sits in Huan’s gurgling stomach as he lays under the table.

“The Sindar have his ear too closely,” Celebrimbor’s father mutters, pacing in front of the great stone hearth before their fireplace. “Perhaps he considers old Singollo closer kin than us.”

Like his son, his plate is empty. Only uncle Celegorm, like Huan, has finished his supper.

“Thingol trusts him no more than you or I,” Celegorm sighs. “No, he is not distracted out of foolishness. He is grieving, and slow to war. Give him time and he will listen to you on matters of arms.”

“Grieving? What has he lost that he has not himself misplaced?” Curufin says, voice rising in a way that makes Celebrimbor and Celegorm flinch at the ghost it raises.

“We have all lost much,” Celegorm says, staring into his wine.

Celebrimbor looks down at Huan and cups his soft face. The dog’s black eyes bore into him, as if to agree with what he thinks, Finrod is not the only one caught in his grief. Defeat lies bitterly on the sons of Fëanor.

It is even more caustic in his grandson’s stomach.

“What have you seen, Tyelperinquar?” Curufin asks. Celebrimbor tears his gaze away from the hound.

“Seen where?” Celebrimbor asks dazedly.

“Leave him alone, he is too young and scatterbrained for politics,” Celegorm protests weakly. “He takes after his mother.”

“What have you observed in Findaráto’s court since we arrived?” Curufin continues, ignoring his brother. “You are always at their feasts. Does he have many Sindarin guests? Where do his favored lords hail from?”

“I have hardly seen Felagund attend, much less speak to anyone in particular,” Celebrimbor says, meeting his father’s eye only for a brief enough moment to see some shattering emotion swelling in him.

“Perhaps you should speak less with Dúveril and more with his lords,” Celegorm advises, attempting to stave off his brother’s lecture.

“Dúveril is the only other person I know who understands multivariable calculus,” Celebrimbor protests, though it is far too childish a complaint.

“She is a glorified bean counter, not the mistress of the treasury. Some of the lords, however, are great hunters or warriors. They are wise in the way of war,” Celegorm continues.

“I think war is perhaps not for our Tyelperinquar,” Curufin says. He stops behind where Celebrimbor is sitting, hands on his shoulders, and tucks a loose hair back into his braid. “But what is a soldier without his weapons? A king needs someone to craft his sword and shield.”

“The king,” Celegorm corrects. “They notice when you forget the definite article.”

Huan nudges Celebrimbor’s knee with a wet nose. Celebrimbor swallows. He shrugs out of his father’s heavy touch, letting his uncle’s argument fade into the background. Swords and shields. He looks down, trying to forget his father’s words.

“Huan wants to be let out,” Celebrimbor says, swallowing down his panic, extricating himself from his father’s grip and his uncle’s lecture.

Huan pads obediently to the door.

In the little courtyard, Huan walks across the stone pathway to do his business next to a poorly-carved stone sculpture of an unidentifiable Vala. Celebrimbor looks upwards out of habit. There are no stars in the wide cave where their stone mansion lies, only an inky blackness of stone.

There were no stars on the battlefield, either. They had winked out one by one in the black cloud that spewed into the sky. The rain was gray with ash and tainted the sky with a yellow haze for weeks afterwards.

Out here, alone, Celebrimbor can let the memory wash over him of the Shadow in the Pass. Mudslides crashed down from the craggy rocks and dying horses’ screams echoing as they were buried.

The Shadow was like a hand reaching out to strangle the air from his lungs. Why play captain in a war where you should be King? it asked, pouring inside his head. The white-sand shores of home would have been his, by rights, if he were not an exile. A circlet on his own head and a kingdom built on his shoulders. A mighty forge filled with glorious, powerful things --

Huan noses at Celebrimbor’s ear to break him from his reverie. He is no better than his father or uncle.

“Oh, Huan,” Celebrimbor whispers, shaking. “You are better to any of us than we deserve, scheming in the dark.”

The hound turns away to scratch his ear.

*

The grinding wheel spins under the gem. Celebrimbor lifts his foot, presses down on the pedal, lifts it, presses again. The rhythm turns to a song and he half-hums to himself, letting himself be lost in the shaping of the gemstone.

Celebrimbor holds a lens to his eye and gazes through at the sparkling stone beneath. Magnified, the tiny ridges of the gem are like mountains. He begins his measurements. It is simple work, this. Mindless, but mindful enough. His mind wanders to a familiar melody, worrying over it until he recalls the chorus: Who will stand when the night is darkening? That is the question -- who?

Gold flickers at the edge of his lens as though bidden by his thought. Celebrimbor lowers his lens and looks up from the sparkling gem. The golden hair is Finrod’s, streaming down over his shoulders as he leans in to look at Celebrimbor’s work uninvited.

In the bright light of the forge, Celebrimbor sees the gold of Finrod’s hair is very fair, more like platinum than the buttery gold they have mined and melted. Celebrimbor watches as Finrod tucks a lock behind his ear.

“I swear that none of the sons of Fëanor could ever be described as quiet, in the many days of my youth that I spent near your father and uncles, so it surprises me that you are always so silent,” Finrod says.

Celebrimbor stares at him a moment, caught off guard, before he remembers that being spoken to demands an answer.

“I have been told I inherited my mother’s temperament,” he says with a shrug.

“And your grandfather’s talents, I see?”

“Talent? No. I do not believe in such a thing. Only practice, and learning, and marvelous teachers,” Celebrimbor says.

“Some would call that luck, if not talent, but I suppose you have an answer to that accusation as well?” Finrod asks.

“I plead innocence, if the charge is privilege,” Celebrimbor replies. “I was taught a little by my grandfather, yes -- mostly my letters. I learned jewel-craft from my father and the petty dwarves most of all.”

“The dwarves?” Finrod asks, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, my dear, do not carry on any more about the forges of the Blue Mountains. We will all be sick with it, and our host might take offense,” Celebrimbor’s father says, with a tone that says he is joking and a sharp eyebrow that says he is not.

Celebrimbor slips the gem he has been working with into his fist and out of his father’s sight.

“You traveled that far East?” Finrod asks. “Curufin, if your son has any suggestions on how we might improve these halls, I would hear them immediately! We are indebted to our dwarvish friends.”

“You might wish to settle your armory before you call the stonemasons,” Curufin replies smoothly. “You have given us a tall order to fill. Send me smiths, not builders, if you would like to see it before the year’s end.”

Celebrimbor blushes at his bluntness. He had thought that he had learned to control his face long ago, but Finrod’s presence seems to inspire him to lose all semblance of control. His father notices immediately.

“Though perhaps the fault is my own, if my son would spend his time cutting petty gems instead of sharpening spears,” his father snaps, tapping Celebrimbor’s fist. He opens it to reveal the rough jewel.

Celebrimbor reddens as deep as the ruby.

“I only work on them when I am caught up on my tasks,” he protests, eyes lowered. “I apologize, I did not mean to tarry while the king’s orders were unfinished.”

“They are indeed unfinished,” Finrod says, “as I came today to make another.”

Curufin’s eyes flash greedily. “What do you desire, my lord?” he asks. “A new sword for your belt, perhaps? A parrying dagger?”

Though Curufin has stepped between them, Finrod’s eyes linger on Celebrimbor.

“I have in my mind’s eye a circlet. These days are too dark for a crown,” Finrod sighs. “I would be modest.”

“Of course,” Curufin says with a nod. “I will begin at once.”

“I must beg your pardon, but for this work, I had in mind the craftwork of another,” Finrod says. “I think it is high time I test the mettle of Celebrimbor.”

*

Celebrimbor waits outside the solar for over an hour. The guards outside are quiet no matter how he prods them or hints that his appointment is some time past. They are Finarfin’s people, no one that he knows or that would take pity on him. Yet returning to the forge-hall empty-handed would be worse, so he resigns himself to waiting. The wooden doors are too thick for him to hear if the king is even inside.

When the doors burst open, Celebrimbor is sitting opposite them on the flagstones, drawing halfheartedly in his sketchbook. He jumps to his feet before he realizes who has emerged: a bored-looking Orodreth, the temperamental seneschal, and a light-haired man Celebrimbor does not recognize. He bears a bronze pin, acid-etched with a device: a winged moon. The three are arguing. Celebrimbor stares after them as they walk down the hall.

“I suppose Celegorm will be the first to know of this?” comes a familiar voice. This time, Celebrimbor is ready for Finrod.

“I believe you are confusing me with Huan, though I understand why,” Celebrimbor replies. “We are both as handsome as we are lazy.”

“Is it true, then, that the beast speaks at night when all are asleep?” Finrod asks.

“I would not know, as I would be sleeping,” Celebrimbor replies.

Finrod looks too tired to smile properly. He motions for Celebrimbor to join him. The guards close the doors behind them, leaving Celebrimbor to ponder over the panic of realizing he has never been alone with Felagund before.

Aching to ask permission but knowing it would make him look a fool, Celebrimbor sets his bag on Finrod’s table, trying not to glance over the papers strewn about. He pulls out a roll of measuring tools and sets them out.

“Is your sister well?” Celebrimbor asks, surprising Finrod as well as himself. Yet, he is not so dull as not to have noticed the unfamiliar man was one of Thingol’s men.

“Yes,” Finrod says, looking surprised, “she and her husband both. Her last letter just arrived -- she has become quite good at spinning, and picks up the most ridiculous gossip as she does. She made me this. ” Finrod shuffles through the papers on his table and holds up a misshapen object knit from light-blue dyed linen yarn. Celebrimbor’s face crumples.

“Oh,” Celebrimbor says, trying to hide his reaction, “Well. The yarn is finely spun, I see.”

Finrod laughs. He throws the blue knitted thing on the table. “She wrote, ‘I cannot remember the size of your head, but I assume this will be large enough to fit how it has grown in your kingly pride.’”

“Well,” Celebrimbor smiles, holding up his measuring tape, “we will send your measurements in your reply.”

Finrod grins. He sits down at the table. He is tall, but Celebrimbor is as tall as his grandfather, and Finrod does not have to stoop so Celebrimbor can measure around his head. His scalp is warm under Celebrimbor’s fingertips. His pale gold hair smells vaguely of anise and almond oil, rare luxuries after war had halted their ships to the south and east.

“Will Galadriel visit us here?” Celebrimbor asks, carefully wrapping his tape around Finrod’s temples. “It has been so long since I have seen her. I believe I told her she was my favorite cousin, once, because she let me ride her horse when my mother said I was too small.”

“I forgot you two were closer in age,” Finrod says. “She was likely too small at the time, as well. You followed her around like a -- oh, what did she call you?”

“Oh, no,” Celebrimbor groans.

“Her little mouse!” Finrod says. “Like a cat and a mouse, perhaps. What fun she would have to see you again and have you meet her dear Celeborn.”

“Might you visit them sometime, if they are near to your heart still?” Celebrimbor asks, blushing and delicate, for he knows he does not have leave to enter Doriath, but surely Finrod would...

“No.” A note has entered Finrod’s voice like a low mourning dove. “No. I long to visit them, but it is not to be.”

Celebrimbor pauses while noting down a measurement in his little sketchbook.

“I think it is almost harder to miss the ones who are within reach,” Celebrimbor says. “Strange, how I forget to miss my mother, but I think of my uncles each day. When it rains at night, I wonder if the same rain passed down over Himring in the morning. I feel as though I am mourning them before they are truly lost.”

For a long moment, Finrod says nothing. Celebrimbor is gentle as he presses the tape around the crown of Finrod’s head. His pale hair is soft. When it catches on the measuring tape, Celebrimbor gently disentangles it.

Finrod gazes up at Celebrimbor through his eyelashes when he pauses to note another measurement. “The ones we lose are the hardest to remember,” Finrod says softly. “The memory never fades as we would like it to. Hardest yet is losing those who fall beside us in battle--”

Celebrimbor’s fingers, so cautious and still from work in the forge, turn clumsy on the crown of Finrod’s head.

“Is this too tight?” Celebrimbor interrupts bluntly, holding the measuring tape taught. “Is this where you would like the circlet to sit?”

“Celebrimbor, I did not mean --”

“It should fall at your hairline, if in the style of Tirion,” Celebrimbor continues over him. “Unless you have something else in mind.”

Finrod closes his eyes for a moment. “That sounds very fine,” he says. “Whatever you wish. You are the artist, after all.”

“No, do not flatter me as such. I am only a smith,” Celebrimbor replies. He snaps his sketchbook shut.

*

The sketchbook lives at the bottom of Celebrimbor’s bag and feels as heavy as an old tome. He does not open it for weeks. When he does, his designs are messy and lifeless. He rips out the pages of his sketches and measurements and tosses them on his workbench in the forge-hall.

Celegorm finds him sulking and sharpening daggers in the smithy. He presses Celebrimbor with a new red cloak of fine wool and fur and sends him to the midwinter feast with Huan. New visitors from Doriath, he says quietly. With his father’s silver dagger on his belt and rubies sparkling in his ears, Celebrimbor feels like a prize pig taken to market.

He does not think his uncle intended for him to drink four glasses of wine and forget to spend time with anyone save Dúveril, who Celebrimbor suspects only speaks to him for the rare privilege of petting Huan.

Yet he does not mind, for tonight, there is singing. So, Celebrimbor hangs at the edges of the hall and clings to his goblet, hopeful that one golden voice will join the game of rhyme and verse, and help him to forget about the sketches sitting unfinished on his bench.

The throne at the head of the hall sits empty all night. As the hours pass and he waits in vain, Celebrimbor loses track of the goblets of wine he has taken. Finduilas has joined Dúveril at the table, much to her annoyance, in the hopes of gossiping about some boy who works under the chamberlain. They are soon joined by a small crowd.

“Come, Finduilas, you promised you would dance,” a pretty Beleriand-born maid says, tugging at her wrist. She casts a dark look at Celebrimbor and whispers, “You should not be seen sitting with him.”

Celebrimbor recognizes the girl with a jolt; her sister had been one of his captains, lost to the pass, the arrows in her quiver spent.

“To be a kinslayer once by choice is lamentable; to be a kinslayer again by neglect is embarrassing," another woman says, not bothering to lower her voice.

Celebrimbor excuses himself. He is certain that Huan is only here to report on him, so he is happy to leave the hound with the gossips in search of a potted plant he can vomit into.

Soon after, in an alcove in the hall, Celebrimbor straightens up and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. His head is swimming.

“Is the food so terrible?” a voice asks from behind him.

“No, only the music and the company,” Celebrimbor replies without thinking.

He turns around and wishes he hadn’t as the floor bows and swims before his eyes again. He leans back against the wall and slides down to sit on the floor. A moment later, a pair of strong arms lifts him. Celebrimbor feels as though he is floating as he is carried down the hall and through an unfamiliar door. He looks to see who has found him and wishes he hasn’t.

“Are you going to throw me in the dungeons for public drunkenness?” is all Celebrimbor can ask as Finrod maneuvers him sideways through a narrow door-frame.

“I was considering the oubliette,” Finrod replies.

“I didn’t know you had one,” Celebrimbor says, head lolling on Finrod’s shoulder. He is wearing velvet sleeves. They are soft against his cheek.

“We’re building it just for you.”

Celebrimbor closes his eyes and drifts off into the rhythm of Finrod’s steps. When he feels himself laid back on a soft feather bed, he opens his eyes wearily. The purple bed curtains are spinning around his head. Celebrimbor squints up at Finrod.

“This is not my bed,” Celebrimbor says. “Are you going to ravish me?” he asks, because his mouth has decided to bypass his brains.

Finrod’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “You seem to jump to the worst conclusions in every situation, Celebrimbor,” Finrod says.

“I have had much practice in ending in them, as well,” Celebrimbor says queasily. “Do you have a bucket? I think I --”

He is just in time with the chamber-pot. Celebrimbor empties the rest of his stomach into the porcelain pot. Finrod is still there, which should be mortifying, but his hands holding back Celebrimbor’s long dark hair are gentle. When the sickness has passed, Finrod takes the pot away and offers Celebrimbor his handkerchief. Celebrimbor runs a hand through his hair and is startled to find that Finrod has braided it back and out of the way.

“Water, to rinse your mouth,” Finrod says, pouring him a cup from a nearby pitcher. “I have a bottle of anise seed here, somewhere, if you like.”

Celebrimbor takes the water abashedly. “You have a lot of experience with drunkenness?” he asks, a little more harshly than he intends.

“You yourself will need more, if you intend to enjoy a regular presence at feasts,” Finrod says in rebuttal.

“I was not enjoying it,” Celebrimbor says grumpily. “I only came because I thought I might hear you sing again.”

“Me?” Finrod’s voice is soft but dry with doubt.

“Yes, you, don’t sound surprised. Your voice at the ceremony of the guards...So beautiful. Like -- I don’t know. I’m a smith, not a poet,” Celebrimbor grumbles, wiping his mouth, “like something beautiful.”

“I will wait patiently while you find a suitable metaphor,” Finrod says. “Might I suggest something you are familiar with: the clang of your hammer, or the screech of steel against steel?”

“Never!” Celebrimbor gasps. “I may not know any metaphors, but my ears are not yet deafened by a millenia of forge-hammers. I have never heard a song like yours. It ensnared my attention immediately.”

Finrod sighs. Gently, he pushes Celebrimbor back onto the bed and rolls him onto his side. “You are still drunk. You should sleep it off.”

“I am not,” Celebrimbor protests, but Finrod’s hand is strong on his chest and the ceiling is spinning far too much to try to sit up. “You cannot keep me here. My father and uncle will look for me.”

“All the better reason to hide here,” Finrod says, “this is the last place they would look.”

Celebrimbor huffs, but he cannot move save upsetting his stomach again, and the bed is a soft feather-mattress, and the thought of his father’s dismay at seeing him stumble drunk out of a man’s chambers is enough to make him retch and reach for the chamber pot again.

Finrod has the patience of a Vala. Celebrimbor tells him so.

“One must, to deal with the persistence of Fëanor bundled into a foolishly charming little mouse,” Finrod mutters.

“I am not nearly drunk enough to be compared to my grandfather,” Celebrimbor groans, covering his face with a pillow.

“Then you should rest until you are sober enough to face the truth,” Finrod says, though his voice is muffled to Celebrimbor’s ears.

“No,” Celebrimbor says into the fabric. “Sing to me, first.” Finrod snatches the pillow away.

“What did you say?” Finrod asks.

Celebrimbor turns to look at him, hazy in the candlelight. Finrod’s hair, golden yellow again in the flicker of the candle, is pulled back with a low bow. Celebrimbor lets his eyes trace Finrod’s brow where it wrinkles and drift over his face until they meet his clear eyes.

“Sing,” Celebrimbor says bravely. “I only came tonight to hear you sing. I refuse to end the party until I hear a song.”

“I regret that the workmen have been so slow on the oubliette,” Finrod says, clutching the pillow in his lap.

Celebrimbor reaches a hand out from the bed to cup Finrod’s chin, but misses. Finrod takes his hand where it flops down on the bed.

“Please,” Celebrimbor says.

Finrod squeezes his hand. He hums to himself for a moment before he begins to croon a lullaby.

“Come softly now the tides of sleep,
Dozing, dreaming of the dark so deep.
The silver moon shining in the light,
The sun’s first --”

“No,” Celebrimbor interrupts sharply. “Not that rambling nonsense about heavens or dreaming. A real song.”

“You said you were not a poet. What is real to you?” Finrod asks.

Celebrimbor fumbles for the words for a long moment before he gives up, tongue clumsy in his mouth, feeling hot and foolish.

“It is real when you mean it, as is anything created,” he says sulkily, burrowing his head back into the nest of blankets. “Never mind. I am much too tired to explain.”

He falls asleep with a crick in his neck.

*

Celebrimbor wakes up and his heart jumps as he realizes he has fallen asleep with a candle still burning. He turns over in bed to extinguish it before he realizes he is not alone.

Beside him on the feather bed lay Finrod, lying asleep with a leatherbound journal on his chest. His chest moves steadily with his breath. Celebrimbor lies still as a stone and savors the chance for his eyes to roam freely over his fair face. There are little lines around his eyes and mouth that soften in sleep. His eyelashes are fine, almost auburn-colored over his cheeks. His mouth, so often smiling, is lax now. His pink lips are parted.

Celebrimbor wonders how it would feel to kiss them. Would they be soft as a petal or smooth as stone? He catches the thought, but allows himself, just for a moment, to dream that he leans forwards to kiss Finrod awake. Then, he bundles up the delusion and stores it away in the back of his mind, locking it away.

Careful not to wake Finrod, Celebrimbor slips out of the bed, bare feet hitting the cold stone floor. He ignores the dry, foul taste on the back of his tongue and the heavy cloud the wine has made of his head.

He finds his boots sitting neatly at the foot of the bed and laces them up, but he does not see the silver dagger his father had given him to display on his belt. Celebrimbor looks around the room desperately, squinting through the darkness .

The jeweled belt and scabbard are nowhere to be seen, but the dresser is littered with other trinkets. Most of them are little stone carved animals. On an impulse, he picks up one in his hand.

Finrod stirs in the bed. Celebrimbor freezes. When Finrod does not awaken, he turns towards the door, slipping the figurine into his pocket. He slips out the door and into the hall. The door clicks as it locks behind him.

*

“The king has not missed a feast in recent months, they say.”

Celebrimbor looks up wordlessly from the dagger he is sharpening at the grindstone and into the eyes of his father.

“Perhaps he enjoys the food,” Celebrimbor replies.

“He sits at his table and hardly speaks, they say,” Curufin continues, tapping his foot.

“He must miss his sister in Doriath,” Celebrimbor suggests.

“And yet you have not attended a single feast since midwinter,” Curufin says. Dread bursts in Celebrimbor’s chest when he wonders if someone could have seen him slip out of Finrod’s rooms. If his father had heard...  “And the crown Findaráto commissioned sits unfinished, unseen,” Curufin continues, saving Celebrimbor from his own anxiety.

He nearly sighs in relief.

“Oh, the circlet!” Celebrimbor says, standing up from his seat at the grindstone and turning to his sketches at his workbench. He picks one out to show his father. “I have thought to change the design, I’ve just got it here, but I was working on the set of daggers --”

“That is not my point, Tyelperinquar,” Curufin says. “Forget the daggers.”

“Forget the daggers?” Celebrimbor repeats listlessly, lowering his diagrams. He has spent every moment in the smithy working on the damned things, daydreaming, hoping that he could forget the daggers.

“Craft the crown,” Curufin says. “Show them what a smith of our house can do. You are capable of quite more than arms,” he adds begrudgingly. “And when you are finished with it, you can devote your time to all the orders that are doubtless to follow.”

Celebrimbor takes a moment to unravel what his father has said. He nearly drops his sketches on the floor in his excitement.

“I do not mind making daggers,” Celebrimbor says quickly. “But I -- I thought -- thank you, I should say.”

“Thank me by working on the blessed piece, Tyelpe,” Curufin says, eyeing his notes with scrutiny. “Have you recorded his measurements correctly? I find it unlikely that your calculations are quite right, unless you mean for the jewels to cover his eyes.”

Celebrimbor looks down at the paper in his hand and frowns at his mathematics.

“Damn,” he swears. His father is right. He squints down at the scrawled numbers and wonders how he had made such a large error.

When Celebrimbor looks up, he notices his uncle Celegorm watching from the corner of his eye as he sits at his workbench. When Curufin returns to his side, he hands him the half-sharpened dagger without a word. His uncle only nods.

Celebrimbor looks again at the ink blots splattered over his calculations. He curses again.

*

When he begins his work again, Celebrimbor remembers why he had stalled the project in the first place. He sits at his bench and stares at the little stolen figurine, turning it around and around in his fingers. The light had revealed it to be an owl carved of soapstone, the dwarves’ favorite material for whittling. Celebrimbor had pestered his uncle to find the name of the rock.

The bird sits in Celebrimbor’s hand until the stone warms from his touch. Had this been a gift from the dwarves? They had spoken to him, called him Felagund, and showed him how to delve into the earth to make his kingdom. He had spent as much time under the earth as under the trees, one of few welcome within Melian’s girdle or the firesides of the Edain tribes.

What could serve as a crown for a king of stone and tree and flame? Celebrimbor is not the right craftsman for this work. He is a dagger-sharpener, a bladesmith of war. He is not a jewel-smith like his father.

The stolen owl is a weight in his pocket as he stands in front of the doors to Felagund’s study. Dúveril sighs impatiently, tapping her foot as Celebrimbor pleads with her.

“I only need you to pass on this letter,” Celebrimbor says desperately. “It is important, it is about his new crown.”

“Do you think you are charming, abandoning me with Finduilas at midwinter and then not bothering to speak to me until you need ask for a favor?” Dúveril says tersely.

“I -- I don’t see what this has to do with my request,” Celebrimbor grumbles. “All I ask is that you allow me to place this letter in his study.”

“You ask too much,” Dúveril says. “These are his private rooms. Do you not realize how many want the ear of the king?”

“I do not want his ear, only to leave him a note,” Celebrimbor replies, throwing his hands up. “I have lost his measurements, and I cannot complete the crown as originally planned. I wish to apologize for --”

“Carelessness on your part does not constitute a crisis,” Dúveril snaps, exasperated. “The hunt leaves tomorrow, and he will forget he ordered another paltry diadem while he is away. I have counted at least a dozen in the treasury.”

Celebrimbor feels like a flame has been lit within him. He had thought Dúveril was his friend. He had planned to sneak inside, leave the letter, and tuck the stolen carving into a drawer. Now, he does not care now what she thinks of him if she sees him leave the owl with the note.

“If my work matters so little, give him this note yourself and be done with it,” Celebrimbor says sharply, holding out the envelope.

The door to the study opens and Finrod pokes his head out. “How have you possibly provoked Celebrimbor into raising his voice, Dúveril?”

“By informing him that you were not to be disturbed, my lord,” Dúveril lies easily.

“Well, I am thoroughly distracted now, so I will invite him inside,” Finrod says, eyeing Celebrimbor up and down. He hands Dúveril a parcel of papers. “There. Return this to Orodreth. I will labor no more before I depart tomorrow.”

Dúveril leaves with a warning look to Celebrimbor that promises her friendship is not forsaken, only vexed.

The study doors close behind Celebrimbor, trapping him alone with Finrod. He clutches his note in his hand, feeling the fire rush out of him all at once. He had hoped to take the coward’s way out.

“I trust you have been well, kinsman,” Finrod says, strangely formal, eyes darting quickly over Celebrimbor and away again.

Celebrimbor feels suddenly very small and dirty, wearing his robe with the sleeve singed and his dark hair tied back in a messy knot for forgework. Finrod looks resplendent even in a loose linen tunic, with braids curving around his temple and disappearing behind his peaked ear. He collapses back into his chair and looks expectantly at Celebrimbor.

“What do you have for me?” Finrod asks with a tired sigh.

Now that he is there in front of him, he is paralyzed by an inability to speak. Celebrimbor shoves the note down into his pocket. He grasps for the stone owl.

“It appears I stole something from you while I was drunk, to my embarrassment," Celebrimbor says, holding out the owl. “I am sorry.”

Finrod looks at the soapstone figure in his palm and laughs. “Is that why you have avoided me? I would have given you one if I knew they caught your fancy. They are just a bit of my practice at stone-whittling, as my friends among the dwarves have taught me.”

“But they are beautiful!” Celebrimbor says, looking down at the owl. “I did not know you were a sculptor.”

“Perhaps I should take it up, for I think I am a better sculptor than a poet,” Finrod says, gesturing at the papers scattered across his desk. “I set about writing you a real song after midwinter, but I think I have forgotten how to craft words.”

Celebrimbor’s mouth goes dry as when he had woken up hungover in Finrod’s bed.

“I often think I have forgotten what my craft is, until the moment I realize what I had always meant to create,” Celebrimbor blurts. “Of course, it never quite comes into being how I imagined.”

“Truly? I always thought your craft would be more straightforward than song or stone,” Finrod says, closing a notebook in front of him. He smiles crookedly up at Celebrimbor. “What was it you said? ‘It is real when you mean it.’ I am still puzzling that one out.”

“Oh, dear,” Celebrimbor blushes, “I hope you are not listening to the words of a drunken man. Most would call it folly.”

“Except in you, in whom wine seems to loosen the wisdom you are too shy to share,” Finrod murmurs. “You care about beauty. Even when darkness and despair threaten to overshadow our days, you wish to create beautiful things. I admire that.”

“One might say it is foolish when what we need are swords, and not jewels,” Celebrimbor replies, looking away.

“No,” Finrod shakes his head, “It gives me hope. I think that will save us, in the end.”

Celebrimbor exhales and looks back at Finrod, meeting his sparkling eyes.

“You give me hope, most of all,” Finrod murmurs, “that there is still something worth living for in this land. It is as though I want to truly deserve what I have claimed as king.”

“You do,” Celebrimbor says instantly.

“I am still uncertain,” Finrod shakes his head. “For even my hands are not clean, and these lands were not free for the taking. But still, I have the charge of it, the burden, and the kingship some covet. So tell me, how fares your work on my kingly circlet? Is there anything you require?”

Celebrimbor feels the edge of the note poking his leg through his pocket. It burns like a brand. He should tell Finrod the truth: that he is an unworthy smith, that the expectation is beyond his skill, that he is foolish and prone to error.

“I am afraid I have lost my calculations in the chaos of the forge,” Celebrimbor says awkwardly. “I came to ask if I might retake your measurements.”

Finrod laughs, wrinkles appearing around his eyes. Celebrimbor feels the tips of his ears burning like coals.

“Typical artist,” Finrod says. “Very well, then. I submit myself.”

Celebrimbor is grateful he has carried his bag with him as he searches for his tools. He stands behind Finrod, tape in hand, and hesitates.

“Oh,” Finrod says, realizing, “I will need to take down my hair. Help me, would you?”

Finrod’s golden hair curls on his shoulder as he unties the bottom of a braid. Today, he wears several tiny braids that curve over his temple and around his head. While Finrod unravels them from the larger plait, Celebrimbor’s fingers hesitate.

He begins at the ends of a small braid, pressing his thumb between the strands to loosen them. Finrod’s hair is soft and fragrant. The scent of his perfume oils curl up upon Celebrimbor in a haze. Celebrimbor swallows but keeps working, unwinding, untangling, terrified Finrod will notice if he dares to pause and catch him in his admiration. He moves on to the next braid.

Soon, his fingertips sink into the crown of Finrod’s scalp to loosen the plait there. It is warm under his touch. Celebrimbor combs through the golden hair with his fingers and lets it fall in curls over Finrod’s shoulder.

Beauty. Something worth living for.

Only then does Celebrimbor realize Finrod had stopped unraveling the braid to let him do the rest of the work. He swallows. His blush persistently betrays him.

“Tyelperinquar --” Finrod begins, but his voice is hoarse in his throat, and he cannot speak.

“Stay still,” Celebrimbor commands softly. He unrolls the tape measure around his head. As his fingers brush Finrod’s smooth forehead, he is grateful the king cannot see his face from where he stands. “I will only need a moment.”

*

The horns from the hunt ring in Celebrimbor’s ears. His brown palfrey ambles behind the others as they canter through the green undergrowth. He can hear the crash of the boar through bushes and thickets. The party follows.

Huan has jilted the other hounds to follow close to Celebrimbor. His uncle had insisted he take Huan as a companion, then handed him the hunting spear in his hand and the bow on his back. Yet the weapon is heavy and unfamiliar, as Celebrimbor had not forged it. He does not like how it feels to hold.

He watches as Finrod urges his horse forwards, leading the party downhill through the woods. His hair ripples behind him in the wind. He is fair and magnificent in his quilted coat and golden standard, with a well-used handsome steel spear in his hand and bow on his back. Celebrimbor feels small beneath his hastily borrowed hunting coat and heavy arms.

He had only a night to prepare for the trip, and nothing of his own to bring -- but Finrod had asked. He could not say no.

Celebrimbor hears a noise in the undergrowth to his left and flinches. His horse feels his fear and veers away with a sharp whinny, almost careening into Huan.

“Hush,” Celebrimbor says, slowing his horse. “It is nothing.”

The others have moved ahead. Celebrimbor watches them weave through the trees, a colorful parade of standards and surcoats in the greenery. They are a weak mockery of a war march, chasing the boar as though it can reclaim some of the glory they lost in their last defeat. He hangs back and wonders if he should return to camp. It would not hurt their opinion of him; even Gil-galad and Finduilas pull ahead of him when they ride.

Huan lets out a gentle bark. Celebrimbor looks over at him, startled, to see the hound point northwards with his nose. He rides forwards through the trees to where Huan points, a place where the forest slopes down into a thicket of green and burgundy thorns. There is barely enough room for his horse to pass through, but it does, leading him into the shadow.

In his mind’s eye, Celebrimbor sees another Shadow pulling at him, drawing his horse to crying madness and pressing into his every thought.

Huan pushes forwards ahead of his palfrey and darts into the brush. A boar comes rushing out. Celebrimbor nearly drops his spear as he startles.

The orc had snarled and cried out as they met his sword, one after another, a tide that seemed to have no end.

Huan bays, his long and loud call echoing through the trees. The others will hear and come at his call, and find Celebrimbor standing their stupidly. Their laughter will never cease. Celebrimbor curses his uncle for insisting he bring the dog. He spurs his horse forwards with an ankle.

The warhorse had not moved to his command or his touch, not when it was blinded by fire and rain.

Hooves clamor in his ears like an uneven heartbeat as he chases after the boar half-heartedly. The thicket had been at the head of a long ravine, and Celebrimbor rides down, horse splashing through the shallow stream. When the land levels off, he catches up to the boar easily. It stops at the edge of a creek, slowed in the mud, and Celebrimbor raises his spear to throw it.

Thunder crashes. The pass is thick with their dead. The Shadow turns to him.

He hesitates.

He hears another horse come up from his left and throws wildly, desperately, on the chance that the rider will witness his fatal throw, and half-hoping that he misses.

It is worse. The spear glances off the rear flank of the boar, leaving a streak of red and the boar screaming in pain. It crashes through the water of the creek and into the bushes on the other side. An arrow flies short and buries itself in the mud on the bank. Blood curls into clouds in the muddy water.

A horse rides up beside him, its rider lowering his bow.

Celebrimbor looks over and into the eyes of Finrod. They are filled with pity.

Finduilas rides into their silence. She stops by his side and sees the tears in his eyes. “Oh, Celebrimbor,” she says.

Celebrimbor feels wretched. He hears the rest of the party coming up behind him and turns away so they can not see his face. He imagines them chasing after the boar, driving it to foaming madness and fear as it bleeds into the dirt. A painful death.

“You should return to camp,” Finduilas says kindly, “I will say you are hurt --”

“No,” Finrod says sharply. “He should see this through. I will go with him. Tell the others.”

Shame burns Celebrimbor as he gathers his spear and guides his palfrey to follow Finrod’s through the shallow creek.

They trot through the trees, Huan tracking the boar’s path until their horses cannot make it through the thick underbrush. Finrod shoulders his quiver and motions Celebrimbor to lead. Huan stops to sniff at a red winterberry bush. Celebrimbor feels sick to his stomach when he realizes that it is only red with blood.

Huan leads them to a little hollow in the side of a hill. They hear the boar before they see it.

Celebrimbor’s shoulders begin to shake when he sees the boar lying on its side, snout nuzzling at its wound. As it turns to stare at them, blood drips from its open lips, bright red, startlingly red, so red that Celebrimbor almost cannot believe it is blood. The boar struggles to get to its feet. Its tusks look dull and yellowed this close.

Celebrimbor pulls Celegorm’s spare hunting dagger from his belt. Finrod lays a hand on his arm.

“Give it to me,” he says, and Celebrimbor wordlessly allows him to take it. The boar growls, a guttural, gurgling sound. Huan growls back.

When the beast lies still, Finrod gives Celebrimbor the knife to clean.

“Why make me follow, only to watch you slay the beast?” Celebrimbor murmurs. Tears still well in his eyes, but he fights them. Finrod kneels beside Celebrimbor on the forest floor and lays an arm around his shoulders.

“It is a mercy to see a thing no longer in pain,” Finrod says. “I thought it would soothe you to know it had a quick end.”

“This does not feel like mercy,” Celebrimbor says, staring at the dead boar’s glassy eyes. “It feels... selfish, to chase a beast to its death for sport alone.”

He pulls away from Finrod’s touch and stands so he can sheath his uncle’s dagger.

“I am unaccountably selfish indeed,” Finrod says, still kneeling. His eyes are wide and pale as they gaze up on Celebrimbor. “I wanted you here with me on the hunt. In these dark days, you are like a bright spark. I have missed you since midwinter, and I wanted you to watch me and admire me as the rest of them.”

“You were kind to invite me,” Celebrimbor says, politely.

“No,” Finrod shakes his head. “Not kind. I knew you were not one for blood sport, but I asked, knowing you could not say no. Can I ask for your forgiveness?”

Celebrimbor cannot find the words. He holds out a hand in offering, to help Finrod to his feet.

Finrod takes his hand and bends close to kiss his knuckles.

Celebrimbor feels Huan’s eyes on them. He pulls his hand back. “There is nothing to forgive,” he says, strangled by his fear and his shame. He is the one who needs to be forgiven.

Finrod gets to his feet. His shoulders fall, dejected. He takes a rope from his pack and begins to tie the dead boar to his spear so they can carry it back to camp.

“Will it trouble you terribly to help me carry it?” Finrod asks gently. “You can ride back and ask that they bring the sledge.”

Embarrassment quickly turns the lump of grief into anger in Celebrimbor’s throat.

“And hear the gossip even more loudly, that I could not even carry the damned beast?” he says. “No. It is my fault it was not a clean kill. I will do my part.” He stops at Finrod’s side and begins to tie the beast roughly by its limbs.

“Ah, there is your pride,” Finrod replies, watching his work. “I wondered if you had escaped it somehow. They say you take after your mother.”

“They whisper many things,” Celebrimbor snaps, jerking the rope tight, “would you repeat them all to me again? Kinslayer, ship-burner, spoiled would-be princeling, bugger, craven, fool...”

“I rarely listen to whispers,” Finrod replies.

“You should,” Celebrimbor continues angrily, “I have heard that being seen with me will ruin your reputation. They are right, about it all.”

“I suppose if we do not get it out now, it will fester,” Finrod sighs, teeth gritted in frustration. “I do not care what you did in the past, if you cursed me and my brothers, if you lit the fires, even if you danced naked while you burned the ships. I know the mad anger that led me to kill to steal them. It is forgiven. I know what kind of man you have become, Tyelperinquar.”

“That is two of their accusations redeemed in your eyes, but what of the others?” Celebrimbor asks, bitter as winter. “Two hundred soldiers lay dead because of what I have done, and I did not even have the decency to join them.”

“What did you do any differently than the rest of us, who also lost that day?” Finrod asks.

“I ran,” Celebrimbor says. He picks up the other end of the rope.

“I do not think that craven or foolish,” Finrod responds. “The fool is Curufin, not you.”

“What?” Celebrimbor says, turning to Finrod.

“Leaving an untested captain to defend a vital holding is foolishness indeed,” Finrod says in an even tone. “You were hopelessly outnumbered. You never should have been left alone to command those archers, inexperienced as you were. The fault is your father’s, for expecting more than any man should ask of his son.”

“Not for a descendant of Fëanor,” Celebrimbor says, knuckles white as he clutches the rope.

“Fëanor is dead,” Finrod snaps. “Whatever skill of his you have learned, it did not come innately, did it? You learned. You made mistakes.”

“A high cost for a simple mistake,” Celebrimbor retorts. “I lost all of my host. We were the last to lose the pass -- to Him. I ran instead of standing my ground and left them to die. I cannot help but wonder, if I had stood --”

“No more of that. It is foolish to think you could have stood against the Enemy,” Finrod says. “You would have died. I nearly did.”

“It would have been better to die a fool than live with the guilt of those I failed,” Celebrimbor mutters.

“Do not speak too quickly or eagerly on your death,” Finrod says, “or it may just find you.”

Celebrimbor secures the knot around the boar’s legs. He cannot speak, or he will sob, for he wishes above all that he had fallen on that field to be remembered for his defiance, and not his failures to live up to greatness. He does not wish to be a man who runs.

Finrod’s pity is too much to bear. Finrod -- who could rightfully claim injury against Celebrimbor, as had so many of his kin, but who will not.

“Tyelperinquar,” Finrod whispers, “You are bright and lovely, and kind above all. Guilt is a shadow on you. Let the fault go. It was not yours.”

“Please,” Celebrimbor replies, finding his voice. “Call me Celebrimbor. I truly do not mind. It feels like a fresh start. Perhaps they are right. ‘Tyelperinquar’ is a name drenched in blood.”

*

Celebrimbor busies himself packing his things inside his lonely tent. His servant does not protest when he instructs him to send word ahead that he will return early, but leaves to outfit his horse.

Outside the flaps of his canvas canopy, Celebrumbor hears Finduilas’ teasing laughter and an answering hum from the others gathered around the fire. The fire crackles. Someone clinks their goblet against their plate. Harp strings waver, discordant.

“Oh, Finduilas, you could have tuned it,” Finrod’s voice comes faintly.

Celebrimbor freezes. He throws the last of his bloodied clothes into his bag and hurriedly ties it shut, rushing to the entrance to his tent.

Celebrimbor peers out through the gap in the canvas. Outside on a stool by the campfire, Finrod sits with a harp in his lap. He shushes the others as he tunes the strings. Finduilas claps, leaning forwards and blocking Finrod from view. Cautiously, Celebrimbor steps out into the camp to watch.

Finrod flexes his fingers. He murmurs something that Celebrimbor cannot hear from this end of the clearing. As the others laugh, he clears his throat and raises his voice in song.

When hopeless we waited for the Spring,
Did we know what Summer brings?
Nursing hurts in splints and slings,
Stealing joy in sweet small things.

Hanging up the battered sword,
  Hands now pluck and play a chord.
A head that bows to its craft,
  The heart allowed to slow at last.
The rhythm, the rest, the time,
  The larks sing, the noonbells chime.
City lanterns burn so bright
  To forget deep evernight.

Then, memory tumbled in the mind --
  The grief, regret, a word unkind.
Tears that water the scorched ground,
  No glory in war to be found.
Now, laughter under torches shining,
  Gentle hands the braid unwinding.
Rubies red as passion’s blush,
  The old song, the new rush.

When returns the Winter’s harsh sting,
Cold fingers playing broken strings,
Pray the precious memories cling --
Find hope when great beauty sings.

Finrod’s song carries to the edge of the clearing and into every corner of Celebrimbor’s spirit. Even when his voice fades and his fingers still, the harp strings reverberate in Celebrimbor’s chest. He does not know when they met eyes, but he is locked now in Finrod’s gaze, deep in shared grief and understanding.

To be king is to keep joy at a distance, for others, never himself. To steal it in pieces and horde it, only to give it away as he has given the rest of himself utterly. To keep grief fresh and mourn what could be lost, lest he lose it also.

Celebrimbor knows now he would never be King, even if he claimed it as the Shadow promised, for he is selfish to the splintering bone. He craves the bright light of gold and silver under his hands, of beauty that can be his. He creates because he must.

Finrod lowers his harp, still staring at him across the camp, and tilts his head as though he is offering up something to Celebrimbor.

Wordlessly, Celebrimbor nods in response.

*

Celebrimbor rides back to the stables with only Huan for company. His uncle is waiting from his message. Celegorm greets his hound and looks at his nephew askance. Celebrimbor only shakes his head.

“The hunt is not for me,” Celebrimbor says, “nor the battlefield. I cannot carry a spear, a sword, or a tune. The forge is my place.”

Celegorm nods once. “Your father will be pleased,” he says simply.

Celebrimbor does not believe he cares anymore what his father thinks.

He returns to the forge-hall in a fury that frightens the apprentices and prompts his father to stand at the edge of the hall, watching him from the corner of his eye. With his hair loose around his shoulders, Curufin is the ghost of Fëanor standing there. The truth is that Fëanor haunts every forge Celebrimbor has entered, and always will. He must exorcise him to create.

He starts with silver smelted in his smallest forge oven.

“It should be gold for a king, Tyelperinquar,” his father says, leaning over his benchtop.

“If silver is second-best, why do you insist on naming me Tyelpe, even now?” Celebrimbor replies. “Let me work.”

“Very well,” Curufin says, “only be sure you do not become known to bite the hand that feeds,” and leaves him be.

It does not feel like a victory.

Under Celebrimbor’s hands, the silver becomes a band that he must carefully hammer into shape. The circlet grows spirals like curling leaves and little peridot gems like buds bursting in the spring. He grinds each gem carefully, until the tips of his fingers are dry and scratched.

He is in the forge so late each night that his uncle brings him dinner and bids his rest. “Do you think you can complete a year’s work in a week?” Celegorm asks incredulously.

Celebrimbor pretends not to hear him while he stokes the oven to melt more silver. When he disappears, Huan stays behind to sleep in front of the warm forge.

Late into the night, Celebrimbor files away the sharp lines and buffs out the scratches until he sees his own dark eyes -- his father’s eyes, his grandfather’s eyes -- reflected back at him.

Celebrimbor finishes the circlet, sets it in a box of oak with a harp carved on the lid, and waits to hear of the hunting party’s return.

He is not a man who runs.

Before, he might have sought out the senechal, or sent a wordy letter threaded with compliments, or wrung his hands as he stood outside the great hall. Instead, Celebrimbor walks past the guards and opens the heavy wooden doors.

The long tables are empty, the hearthfires died down to coals beneath the grate. Finrod sits on the dais on his stone throne, chin in hand, attempting not to frown at the captain and patrolmen in front of him. They have not even shed their jackets, their muddy boots tracking dirt over the flagstones.

Finrod’s eyes glance over Celebrimbor where he stands at the edge of the hall. They flicker back and linger on him in surprise.

Finrod sits back upon his throne.

“Thank you for taking the journey here,” he says to the travelers, not unkindly. “It has been a long way, I know well, and you should rest before we speak more tonight. Feirlam,” Finrod turns to his seneschal, “find our guests food and beds. I have another matter to attend to. See that we are not disturbed.”

The seneschal nods, looking through Celebrimbor as he leads the elves through the hall. Feeling Finrod’s eyes on him, Celebrimbor steps around the mud tracks and stops before the throne. The heavy doors boom shut behind him.

“I thought you would forget or forsake me,” Finrod says in a low voice, so it does not echo in the wide hall. “And if you had, I would have deserved it.”

“No,” Celebrimbor responds easily, “I could never forsake a heart as full as yours. You have treated me in a way you thought was kind.”

“Then I am forgiven after all?” Finrod asks, hopeful.

“You sang for me,” Celebrimbor says, “you sang me. I could not ask for more of an apology than that. Now I have made you something in return.”

“What is it?” Finrod asks breathlessly, eyeing the box in his hands.

“Your circlet.”

Finrod’s eyebrows betray his surprise and joy.

“I only apologize that it took longer than anticipated,” Celebrimbor says. “You were right. I had to learn how to leave it behind and trust myself again. I had to learn you, all of you, for it to be your crown.”

“Is that what you meant, when you said you had to mean it for your work to be real?” Finrod asks.

“I have no idea what I meant,” Celebrimbor laughs, “I was drunk.”

Finrod chuckles. “Then, do not keep me waiting! Show me,” he commands.

Celebrimbor opens the box and sits it on Finrod’s lap. The king looks down at the circlet and jewels he has crafted.

Finrod is silent for so long a moment that Celebrimbor thinks he is going to burst.

“Even I do not have words for these,” Finrod murmurs. “This is more than I asked for, Celebrimbor, this is...”

“A crown to shine in dark times. Modest, but kingly,” Celebrimbor says slowly, “an impossible task when your hair is so fine that it outshines even the purest gold. And what gem could I use? I have nothing brighter than your eyes, so all seems dull in comparison.”

“Hush,” Finrod says quietly. “These works are a wonder. You have outdone anything else I have worn.” To Celebrimbor’s fascination, Finrod blushes as he looks at him. “Well? Will you not adorn me with your work?”

If Celebrimbor had thought it a challenge to work silver or cut gemstones, he was wrong. He has never had such beauty under his hands as he does now.

Finrod sits still and silent on his throne as Celebrimbor stoops over him to take his jewels and the hoops from his ears, one by one, and press them into his warm palm. They are Valinorean gems, bright and pure, but Finrod tosses them to the flagstones.

Celebrimbor tucks a golden curl behind Finrod’s ear to thread the silver droplets through his piercings. The skin of his earlobe reddens under his work. Celebrimbor pauses and resists the desire to trace the jaw where his thumb rests. Finrod presses him on.

Those bright eyes do not drift from him as Celebrimbor lifts the hair from Finrod’s neck, leaning close to clasp the pendant at his nape. He feels the warmth of his body like a wave over him and his fingers shake, failing to work the clasp.

Celebrimbor pulls back, seizes the clasp again, and leans in again to secure the necklace. Finrod’s hand drifts to his hip and rests there, reassuring.

Celebrimbor ignores the warmth flushing through him as he reaches for the circlet. He holds it with his fingertips as he sets it into place. Fingers brush temples as he makes his adjustments.

It fits him perfectly, as he knew it would. Finrod lifts his chin, testing the weight, and stares up at Celebrimbor.

“Am I torturing you, Celebrimbor?” he murmurs.

“If this is torture, let me be your prisoner for an age, my lord,” Celebrimbor says breathlessly, kneeling before him.

Finrod takes Celebrimbor’s hands, pulling them to his knees. “A king must be careful. You are free to leave as you please. I do not hold you here, expecting some favor.”

Celebrimbor’s heart batters his chest harder than a war drum.

“I think you will find that it is you who owes me a favor,” Celebrimbor says. “For I have crafted you these jewels, but I have yet to receive payment or appreciation.”

“What is your charge?” Finrod asks. “You have seen my poor carving work and seem unimpressed with the game I have caught. I hope it is not a song, for my words are unworthy of your work.”

Celebrimbor’s lips part.

“I would claim a kiss,” he says.

Finrod swallows.

“Then let me pay you in gold,” he says, “for I would overpay you in kisses, if I could.”

He leans down and cradles Celebrimbor’s face in his hands as he kisses him.

The rush of relief is almost as great as the swell of joy at the feeling of those lips over his.

Finrod’s kiss is a bright light shining in the darkness, blinding him to all else. Celebrimbor kneels until his knees turn to stone before the throne and his jaw is aching. Finrod allows him to claim kisses wherever he would wish, sweet on his mouth and lingering over the skin of his chest and onwards, until he has claimed more than is his right, and must be urged on and on.

Long after, Celebrimbor will remember the hand on his cheek and repeat his and the king’s murmured words in his memory until he has forgotten what they truly said, and doubt if they ever passed his lips at all.

It is fleeting, in time and memory -- a golden moment in a dark season.

***