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The grassy courtyard is quiet but for the sounds of a chirping holly-sparrow’s song. Antheron stands outside the doors to the south forge-hall, watching the shadows and waiting.
As the sun drifts into the center of the sky, a bell rings out in the town below. A moment later, the doors to the spill open and the apprentices of the school of the Mírdain spill out. It is the last demonstration for the week. They are all busy preparing for another of their ridiculous elvish feasts, though this one is a rarity: the festival of the eclipse.
Antheron walks through the rush and into the now-empty forge hall. Celebrimbor stands on the dais next to the coal bed and workbench, scooping singed sand out of a used mold and into a bucket. His long black braid has come unwound and drags in the sand.
Antheron leans against a workbench to watch him work. Celebrimbor sets the bucket of sand on the floor and turns to one of the molds he had used in his demonstration. He tries to knock the metal from it, but it has stuck.
“You could have come in earlier and helped,” Celebrimbor grumbles over his shoulder as he struggles with the mold.
“With the apprentices? They will learn little from me. I would much rather lecture to the artisan students,” Antheron sniffs. He watches as Celebrimbor pulls a pair of pliers from his pocket to try to pry the metal from the mold.
“I find working with novice students to be the most challenging,” Celebrimbor says, grunting as he fails to part the metal from the mold. “First, because you have to know the basics intimately to teach them to another person. Second --”
Antheron strides over, takes the mold from him, and tosses it onto the coals of the open forge pit. He heats it and fishes it from the fire with a pair of tongs.
“Second?” Antheron prompts, banging the mold twice on the workbench before the shaped metal pops out. He drops the hot mold in a bucket of water to fizzle.
“Second, it teaches patience,” Celebrimbor says with a smile.
“I have patience,” Antheron says in annoyance. “Far more than you know.”
“You have no patience, and even less discipline,” Celebrimbor laughs. “If I did not know you were a servant of the Powers, I would think your quirks were evidence of some mannish quality in your ancestry --”
“Oh, no. That’s enough of that,” Antheron says, pulling him around by the strings of his leather apron, and kissing him to stop his mouth. He pulls away and leans his forehead against Celebrimbor’s, triumphant in winning his surprised silence. “Though I suppose you would like very much to think you could teach me better discipline.” He nips Celebrimbor’s lip lightly and kisses him again.
Celebrimbor pulls away, blushing.
“Yes, about that. I have been thinking about these past weeks. I think we need to set some ground rules,” Celebrimbor says.
“Ground rules,” Antheron repeats, because he has found Celebrimbor is comforted when he thinks Antheron is listening to him. He presses his lips against Celebrimbor’s neck.
“Yes. For instance: no kissing in the forge,” Celebrimbor says, extricating himself from Antheron’s arms and stepping several feet away. He pulls the hot mold from the bucket and sets it aside on a table. Antheron scowls. “It’s unwise to be so distracted around hot metal and sharp objects!” Celebrimbor says.
“You hardly leave the forge!” Antheron protests.
“Then perhaps your challenge is to lure me out of it,” Celebrimbor replies, ignoring the dark look Antheron gives in response.
“Fine,” Antheron says, “rule number two: do not take said work out of the forge or the study.” Celebrimbor frowns so deeply, Antheron wonders if it hurts. Antheron adds, “And three: You will no longer participate in critiquing my work. You have been trying to undermine me, I think.”
“Four,” Celebrimbor bites back, “If you will recall, I am still the forge-master of the Mírdain. You gain no extra privileges,” Celebrimbor says, pulling off his gloves.
“Have we forgotten who here is the student, and who the teacher?” Antheron asks, taking a step closer.
Celebrimbor bats Antheron’s chest with his gloves. “Five. Stay out of my workstation. I am tired of you rifling through my things.”
“Six: Stay out of my rooms.” Antheron snatches the gloves out of his hand.
“That is rather presumptuous of you,” Celebrimbor snorts.
The two of them glare at each other for a long moment.
“This isn’t going to work at all, is it?” Celebrimbor asks.
“Absolutely not,” Antheron says, leaning in to kiss him. Celebrimbor makes a surprise noise before he melts, letting Antheron push him back against the workbench.
“Ouch!”
Antheron jumps back. Celebrimbor holds up a finger, where the skin is red from the hot metal he had accidentally touched. He sticks the burn in his mouth.
“Rule number one,” Antheron repeats. “Noted.”
Celebrimbor glares at him.
“Perhaps you can learn some patience, after all,” he says firmly.
*
Celebrimbor does not let Antheron kiss him for the rest of the day, so he resolves to corner him at dinner and coax him into a walk through the gardens. While Antheron had found it simple to seduce Celebrimbor with promises when he first came to Eregion, it has proven much more difficult to actually seduce him.
However, when Antheron arrives in the dining hall, he finds his place beside Celebrimbor has been replaced with a notebook and three apprentices.
“Surely, if the phases of the moon can enchant runes and mithril, we could utilize this eclipse,” Narmeleth says excitedly. “I have done much of the theoretical research already.”
“I can see that,” Celebrimbor says, looking at the mess of notes she has spread out on the dinner table in front of him, covering the book he had been reading over his meal.
“The next eclipse in these lands is not for three hundred and eighty-seven years,” Arodel points out.
“And I have checked their math,” Faeldor adds in an undertone.
Celebrimbor looks helplessly from apprentice to apprentice. Antheron stands behind them and crosses his arms.
“I see the memory of the elves is once again short of the dangers of the eclipse,” Antheron says suddenly. The apprentices jump in surprise at his voice. He blinks slowly with satisfaction.
Celebrimbor casts a glare his way. “Would you then care to enlighten us, O Servant of the Powers?” he asks dryly.
“I am surprised that you yourself do not remember, Lord Celebrimbor,” Antheron replies.
“If you will recall, I spent a great deal of my time in Beleriand studying in the dwarf cities in Ered Luin, and later in Nargothrond -- underground,” Celebrimbor says through gritted teeth.
“Even then!” Antheron protests, “You could not have missed the most spectacular sight of the first solar eclipse, as Arien’s chariot fell under the shadow of Tilion for the first time.”
“Uh-huh,” Celebrimbor sighs, while the three students sit, enraptured by Antheron’s story.
“Arien was a spirit of fire, and many feared that she would be tempted by Morgoth as she carried the sun across the heavens each day,” Antheron says. “Yet she loved none more than the light; not even Tilion, who he towed his moon in her wake and yearned for her from afar.”
Arodel and Narmeleth share a stifled gasp.
“When the moon first passed over the sun and turned cold and black, the Noldor feared that this was some new vengeance from the terrible Valar, a punishment for their crimes. Many went blind from staring at the disappearing sun. And then, Fëanor --”
“He was dead by then, mind you,” Celebrimbor mutters.
“Maedhros --”
“Was quite busy being tortured in Angband.”
“-- Fingolfin searched for the jewels they had brought with them from Valinor. But all were too clear and perfect, and not suitable for his purposes,” Antheron says over Celebrimbor’s interruptions. “So he went to the rocks they had gathered from Beleriand, and found a piece of obsidian, dark as coal but smooth and clear like glass.”
Celebrimbor clears his throat and starts, “Did you know, you can also poke a hole in a piece of parchment --”
“And then,” Antheron says loudly, “he was able to look closely and see that the world was not ending by some cruel trick of the Valar’s, but that the moon had simply covered the sun for a brief time. And there was much feasting, singing, dancing -- the first festival of the seasons.”
“Oh, by the Powers,” Narmeleth breathes in delight. “We could actually see the eclipse, then? And not hurt our eyes from staring at the sun?”
Arodel leans on one hand and dreamily murmurs to her friend, “But think of poor Maedhros, all alone in the dungeons, without anyone to watch the eclipse with him.”
“What?” Antheron says incredulously, looking to Celebrimbor to see if he has heard.
“Obsidian is beyond rare in these lands,” Faeldor says with a frown. “We are far from any mountain where it would be mined.”
“Well, I am sure you could craft some glass that would be akin to it,” Celebrimbor says casually. “There are substrates that block light.”
“Are you suggesting they try to look through a vial of alum salts?” Antheron asks dryly.
“It’s a more useful suggestion than a rock we do not have,” Celebrimbor replies tersely.
“Perhaps they could add the salts and make tinted glass,” Antheron says.
“Excellent,” Celebrimbor says, clapping his hands and getting to his feet. “What a fantastic project for you and your artisan students.”
“Celebrimbor --”
“I am sure you will be patiently waiting for the eclipse to come,” Celebrimbor says happily, gathering up his book and heading on his way.
Antheron does not even get to say good night.
*
Antheron calls in far too many favors to set up the northern forge-hall for glass work. The hall is cleared for the festival and the local glass-blower lends him his tools. They even manage to alter one of the forge ovens into a makeshift melting furnace.
The experimentation begins. As Antheron and his three students busy themselves with metals, salts, and glasses, the other smiths and apprentices of the Mírdain stop by to watch curiously. After a quiet few days, Antheron feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when Celebrimbor arrives, hands buried in his pockets, and sits quietly on a bench to watch.
He has been frustratingly coy as of late. Antheron had tried to corner him behind a hydrangea earlier that morning, but Celebrimbor had interrupted his overtures with a sneeze and claimed allergies.
“Narmeleth, I think it is quite hot enough,” Antheron says in a low voice. “I will need your assistance.”
He picks a hollow pipe from an oven. At the mouth of the furnace, Antheron gathers molten glass on the end of the metal pipe. The heat rolls over him before Arodel closes the door. Antheron has to turn the pipe in his hands to keep the bubble of molten glass from drooping. He pauses for a moment to blow into the hollow end of the pipe. The glass gather grows, orange and almost liquid.
Antheron nods at Narmeleth. She sprinkles the alum salts out over Celebrimbor’s metal-topped workbench. From his seat, Antheron hears a splutter of protest.
Antheron rolls the glass gather in the salts and pulls away. The orange is speckled with white, now. He blows into the pipe, watching the bubble expand and fade into a deep red. Antheron smiles triumphantly. He puffs his cheeks and continues to blow.
Crack! The bubble shatters and bursts onto the flagstones.
“Goodness!” Narmeleth says in surprise, jumping back.
Antheron drops the hot rod into a quenching bucket. He stares down at the cooling shards and clumps of glass dejectedly. At the other end of the forge-hall, Celebrimbor stands up, arms crossed.
“Try creating a resin from the salts and coating the glass,” Celebrimbor says, as though it is obvious. “They cool at much different rates, you know.”
Antheron casts a long, annoyed look across the hall.
“Trust the process,” Celebrimbor adds cheerfully before he turns towards the doors. However, he halts, his path blocked. Two others have walked into the forge: the glass-blower and an elf woman.
“Ah, just the man I wanted to see,” the glass-blower says, striding past Celebrimbor and stopping before Antheron. “I trust your special Mírdain projects are going well?”
Antheron steps in front of the mess he has made of the floor. “Of course,” he lies.
“Well, Nedhrien is so very grateful,” the glass-blower continues. “She is the lead organizer for our eclipse festival. I have told her all about your idea for your, er, sun lens.”
“Oh, excellent, we’ll be the laughing-stock of the town,” Faeldor groans from where he is sweeping up broken glass. Arodel steps on his foot.
With Celebrimbor’s eyes on him, Antheron bows slightly to the dark-haired elf-maiden. “At your service,” he says.
“And yours, our Lord of Gifts,” Nedhrien says with a slight curtsy. “I hoped that you would repay my father’s kindness by making a small appearance at our eclipse festival on behalf of the Mírdain. It is so rare that a servant of the Powers bless us with his presence -- rarer even than an eclipse!”
Antheron opens his mouth to politely decline, but he pauses.
“On behalf of the Mírdain?” Antheron prompts, catching Celebrimbor’s eye.
“Absolutely!” Nedhrien says with a grin. “The festival committee wishes to invite you to open our ceremony -- as leader of the jewel-smiths and an emissary of the Valar!”
“I would be honored,” Antheron replies with a little smile.
Scowling, Celebrimbor turns and stalks out the doors.
*
The work on the lenses goes better after they follow Celebrimbor’s damned advice, though Antheron is loath to admit it. He finds himself returning the forge-hall to its usual arrangement while his three overactive apprentices deliver the eclipse lenses to Nedhrien. The dark, resin-coated monocles are an unbelievable success.
Celebrimbor seems to be waiting for his apology. He only speaks to him in monosyllables and dinner, and even took his morning breakfast in his study alone. Antheron wonders if he has underestimated Celebrimbor’s pride.
Celebrimbor’s metal workbench squeals as Antheron moves it across the floor. He pushes it back in its place by the wall. One of the drawers tips and spills out onto the floor.
With a sigh, Antheron kneels to pick them up. He once again finds himself sorting through Celebrimbor’s messy, scattered papers full of drawings and notes.
Antheron shoves the papers back into the drawer and returns it to the bench. He straightens up and turns to leave.
Then, he turns around again and pulls the papers back out.
Hastily sketched in ink beside a drawing of a silver belt buckle, he sees his own face and form. Antheron stares at the paper for a long moment before he flips the paper over. There are other drawings of him at work in the forge. He holds a hammer, or squints at a gem, or bends over a project at the bench. One drawing takes up most of a page, showing him bare-chested and sweaty, trousers dipping low over his hips, arms bulging as he hauls buckets of ashes from the forge.
There are actually rather a lot of sketches of him without his robes, Antheron realizes. And, how could Celebrimbor possibly know that his hipbones --
“Nedhrien sends her thanks!” Arodel says cheerfully, bursting through the doors of the forge. “She also wants your measurements for -- oh.”
She catches a glimpse of the unfinished nude sketch before Antheron shoves it back into the desk. Celebrimbor’s desk.
Arodel stares at Antheron for a long moment. She blinks rapidly.
“You know,” Arodel says, voice dropping an octave, “I had hoped to write to my father and let him know I had passed this summer’s forging preliminaries with flying colors.”
Antheron thinks some of these apprentices would have given Melkor himself a headache.
*
In the familiar halls of the house of the Mírdain, Antheron’s gold-and-silver embroidered costume feels heavy and conspicuous. He has never worn anything so ostentatious in Caras Gelebren. He fidgets. Nedhrien pulls aside the heavy velvet curtains to peek through the windows at the crowds.
“Do the Valar ever smile, my lord?” Nedhrien asks as she adjusts an ugly golden circlet in his dark hair.
Antheron desperately wracks his memory for an answer that seems appropriate. “Not Mandos,” he answers.
“Well, you may want to learn the skill while you are among us elves, lest you be mistaken for one of his,” Nedhrien says brightly, patting his hands. After a moment, she is called away on some errand, leaving Antheron to wait alone for his grand entrance.
He shifts impatiently from foot to foot, pulling the curtains aside himself to see the size of the crowd.
“By all the powers and stars,” comes a strangled voice from behind him. Antheron spins around to see Celebrimbor standing behind him, on his way past to join the feast outside.
“What are you wearing?” Celebrimbor asks, looking dazed.
“One of your damned elvish festival costumes,” Antheron replies. He looks down. He is draped in silver and gold silk, the cloth tied around a golden belt and thrown over his shoulder like a sash. His chest and arms are bare but for his sapphire necklace. Even his black trousers are tight against his calves.
“That is not an elvish costume,” Celebrimbor mutters, eyes dancing with delight. “Is that crown of Mannish make? What is it, tin painted gold?”
Antheron recalls the sketches he had found of his chest and crosses his arms protectively over his nipples.
“And what are you wearing?” Antheron scowls. “Blue, again? Do you own any other color?”
“At least I am not draped in Valinorean fashions that have been outdated for a few thousand years,” Celebrimbor chuckles.
“You should note that it is I, not you, who has been called upon to start the ceremonies,” Antheron sniffs.
“Is that why you look so pleased?” Celebrimbor says sarcastically. “Or perhaps...Are you not enjoying representing the Mírdain?”
“On the contrary, I am honored,” Antheron says haughtily.
“You are something.”
“Shall I take it off?” Antheron snaps.
Celebrimbor’s lips part in a silent oh.
Antheron finds himself pressed up against a wall and hidden in the darkness of a velvet curtain.
“You drive me absolutely mad,” Celebrimbor says, before he kisses him feverishly.
Antheron gasps at the hands wandering down his bare chest and underneath his silk sash. Celebrimbor takes advantage of his gasp to kiss him deeper. A firm leg presses between his.
Outside, a horn blares. The two of them startle and stop, panting for breath. The great doors open. They hold their breath and stand still, terrified, as footsteps enter the hall.
“Damn,” comes Nedhrien’s voice, swearing as she finds Antheron missing. “I knew it.” She stalks off towards the kitchens, leaving the entrance hall empty.
“The partial eclipse has begun,” Celebrimbor says in a whisper, “But it will be an hour before it reaches totality.”
“Yes, I know,” Antheron frowns.
“An hour,” Celebrimbor repeats slowly. His hand, resting on Antheron’s waist, twists to rub little circles in the arch of Antheron’s hip bones.
Antheron’s breath catches in the back of his throat. “My rooms are on the next floor,” he whispers.
He glances out from behind the curtain before he pulls Celebrimbor along with him up the winding staircase, skipping the creaking stair, and locking the doors to his rooms behind them.
*
“Oh. Hold still.”
“Oh? Have you decided you are in charge? I thought you had tired.”
“No, no, ouch -- stop moving -- my hair, it’s caught in your sun circlet.”
“Oh. Damn.”
A moment later, Antheron frees the silly golden circlet and sets it atop Celebrimbor’s dark hair.
Celebrimbor blushes. He opens his mouth to say something, likely something sarcastic or dry-witted, something to make Antheron sigh and respond in kind, but Antheron does not give him the chance. He kisses him, not only to quiet him, but because he can, because his mouth is soft and hot and right there -- his to claim. If he can earn it.
Celebrimbor’s eyes flutter shut as Antheron kisses his bare shoulder, his collar bones, his chest. His head bends to kiss Celebrimbor’s stomach, a new territory to explore, to conquer with his mouth.
He can feel the wry murmur on the tip of Celebrimbor’s tongue. He raises his head and kisses him again to silence him for words, treasuring the gasps in the back of his throat.
Antheron wins more little gasps as he pulls Celebrimbor into his lap and pulls him close. He looks up at Celebrimbor, wild hair falling out of his dark braid, the poorly made festival crown askew in his hair, and buries his face in his neck.
Celebrimbor’s fingers dig greedily into the roots of Antheron’s hair and hold him there with strength like steel. He moves under his grip, solid and warm. Antheron feels a terrifying compulsion to stay like this forever, to pull Celebrimbor into himself and make him a part of everything he is.
When Celebrimbor finally goes still, Antheron does not move. He is uncertain, glad for Celebrimbor’s uncharacteristic silence.
This is the first thing he has done that he has not planned.
Celebrimbor rolls away and stretches lazily back in the bed. “My goodness, is it evening already?” he yawns. Antheron looks over to see dark sky and stars from the window.
“The eclipse!” Antheron cries, slipping out of bed and striding over to open the window. Celebrimbor follows him clumsily.
“Oh,” Celebrimbor murmurs, looking up into the darkness. “I did not think there would be stars.”
They twinkle down at the two of them from the deep blue sky. Hanging in the center of the sky, the sun has been blotted out by the heavy circle of the moon. Radiant white light halos around it.
The courtyard below looks strange, half-lit by daylight, silent of birds, but hanging underneath the night sky. Cheers echo up from the crowds that have gathered in the streets.
A cool breeze carries through the window and Celebrimbor shivers. The summer air has grown surprisingly cool without the light of the sun. Antheron retrieves a blanket.
“Here,” he says, wrapping it around Celebrimbor’s shoulders. He stands behind him, wrapping his arms around Celebrimbor’s waist, and lets Celebrimbor lean into his chest. The crown still sits askew in his hair.
They watch for a few minutes more until the moon begins to move. Antheron retrieves the tinted glass he and his apprentices made. He holds the rounded lens to Celebrimbor’s eye so he can watch the sun reappear.
“It is like watching shadows dance around each other,” Celebrimbor murmurs softly, squinting with one eye closed. “Do you think they mind that we watch?”
“Hm? Who?” Antheron asks, confused.
“Arien and Tilion,” Celebrimbor says, blushing a little. “It does seem like we should give them a little privacy. It must be lonely, up there.”
Antheron is quiet for a long moment. He does not know what to say.
Celebrimbor lowers the glass and turns to rest in the bracket of Antheron’s arms. He buries his head in Antheron’s bare chest and waits there until the sky lightens back to blue. When the light returns, he leans up and looks at Antheron.
In his eyes there is something unlike anything Antheron has seen before. He wishes he could keep it, hold it, that it did not feel fleeting.
“Come,” Antheron says softly, “kiss me, while we have the time together.”
“We have plenty of time,” Celebrimbor laughs, “I’m only impatient to spend it all with you.”
***
Fin.