Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She opens her eyes to a sea of stars, hundreds of thousands of them shining brilliantly in an endless sky of dark. Something in her aches at the sight of the many glimmering lights and she cries, longing for home.

Please, she pleads though she doesn’t quite know what she is pleading for. Please.

The stars twinkle and she stares at them for a long time, then exhaustion finally overwhelms her.

She is so tired, weak, and everything feels heavy—her body, her eyes, and her spirit.

She shuts her eyes and sleeps.

Darkness drags her down into a land of dreams.

We still remember we who dwell...

(She dreams of a crash and the devastation that came afterwards.)

::

The sky is blue when she awakens once more. She is covered by a long white pelt of fur which blankets around her like a warm hug. She doesn’t want to move, but still she does. Willing herself to stand she takes the thick coat and wanders through the forest until she meets a stream. It flows swiftly through the forest and courses long and far— eventually leading to the sea.

She follows it for awhile; drinking from it when thirsty and stumbling over nearby rocks and uneven terrain until she finds the crossing where two streams meet to form a larger river.

The river flows on and on like a road leading home but she has no desire to see the western sea.. not yet. She stops following it and turns her attention to shelter.

She has the strength and reach of a child and it is so very difficult for her to carry heavy logs and branches. She tries to make a clearing in the woods but she cannot. It is too heavy. Too difficult. She is too tired.

She falls to the ground in exhaustion and cries.

Then, as the sun begins to set once more she stands and moves.

She finds a small abandoned cave large enough for her small form to fit and stays there until dawn breaks again. The night is cool, but not cold to the point of peril when she has a thick coat of fur to keep her warm.

(She peeks out in the middle of the night to see the glimmering of starlight.)

She is too tired to dream.

She falls into a dreamless slumber.

::

She wakes again, shivering beneath the crisp morning air and creeps out of the small crack of rock.

The sun rises from the east and its light shines like gold over pine treetops. She leans into its warmth.

The day is nigh.

It comes alive.

She is alive.

The day is for building a proper place for her, a home to call her own, a shelter to protect her from cold mornings.

She will take this day.

Hope builds.

::

The cave is larger than it appears.

Large enough to fit even an adult, she thinks after daring to delve even deeper inside. But not much more than that...

She spends the day coming to and from her new home as she searches her new surroundings.

Her belly aches with hunger and she struggles.

She doesn’t know how to find and forage or scavenge for food in the forest.

But she needs to learn.

She must learn lest she die of starvation.

She struggles.

She is alone.

(She isn’t.)

::

She might be the only human (or so she thinks) in the forest but she isn’t the only living being.

“He—-hello,” she rasps softly with a voice sore from underuse. There are no others to speak with in the woods and it’s been a long time since she’s needed to speak.

Her voice cracks oddly and her face screws up into a grimace.

The squirrel chitters and tilts its head; making an almost curious gesture.

She giggles.

Carefully, she counts what little she has gathered and decides that she has enough to spare some kindness.

She feeds the squirrel.

Immediately, it scurries away and her smile falters slightly.

Shaking her head she wills her smile to remain.

Kindness is never a waste, she thinks to herself and returns to her cave.

The next day she finds a pile of nuts and berries outside.

The sound of squirrels chittering reaches her pointed elven ears and a smile slips onto her face.

She eats knowing that she isn’t alone.

::

She’s learned to tame the birds and beasts of the forest, befriending them, and caring for them as they do for her.

They protect her and teach her how to survive. The squirrels guide her to bushes of ripe berries, and the birds bring her seeds to plant near her cave.

There can be miracles after all.

She believes.

She finds solace in the smell of pine which surrounds her.

::

A grunt of frustration escapes her when she futilely attempts to cut through a branch of pine by repeatedly striking it with a sharp but brittle stone. The stone breaks down with each strike and does not cut cleanly.

A knife, she thinks longingly, I need a knife.

But where can she find a knife in the middle of the great pine forest?

There are no smiths who dwell there.

It is a lost cause and she instead steers her attention into crafting clay pots and jugs to hold water or store food.

These parts of the forest are no longer strange to her, she is no longer a stranger in them and she no longer gets lost. She runs swiftly from her cave to the river, digging until she finds clay and then spends the day trying to filter it.

In the end she abandons that project as well and returns to her cave feeling thoroughly exhausted.

Failure hurts.

Time wasted hurts more.

Bitterly, she weeps with tears of frustration.

It isn’t the first time she cries beneath a starry sky nor is it the first time she’s felt alone in a world too large for her.

She cries herself to sleep praying for someone—anyone—to help her.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel...

(She dreams of a future far, far, away.)

::

Perseverance is a virtue she has grown to know well.

She returns to the riverbed to search for stones; tapping them against each other until she finds one it that makes a high ringing sound.

Perfect, she smiles and sets to work.

She sits and sharpens the rock until it shapes into the blade of a knife.

It may not be the prettiest or strongest of knives, but it works well enough.

She uses it to catch a fish but fails to gather the courage to gut it.

Unwittingly, she discovers her next trial.

(She doesn’t eat fish for a long, long, time.)

Chapter Text

A primal fear floods his very being; a terror which coils around him like a serpent that squeezes the breath from him, choking his writhing fëa.

He is going to die.

A whimper escapes him amidst the snarls and snapping of the great wolfhound of Valinor. And were he elsewhere he would take the time to hate such a sign of weakness, take the time to despise himself even more for revealing such a shameful display of vulnerability, and would quash it ruthlessly.

Alas, he is here in the form of a dark beast, wrestling beneath Huan of the Great Wolves of Valinor.

And he is losing.

He cannot die. He is one of the immortal Ainur, the ëalar who cannot be destroyed or withered away. He is a Maia.

But he knows fear.

(The fear of death, of pain... and of doom.)

The iron maw of the great wolfhound tears into the flesh of his fana and he cries out in anguish and terror. It takes him roughly by the throat, pining him down so that he cannot do else but watch his doom come, flashing before his molten eyes.

He is going to die.

He is going to be destroyed.

Fear clouds his mind of all logic.

Whatever cunning he holds abandons him leaving him with only witless desperation. Pure, primal instincts hold control over him and he twists, struggling.

He tries to flee, he tries anything—he shifts forms, twisting so that he might escape, biting and snarling with all his ferocious might but it is futile; he cannot escape the iron grip of the Valar’s wolfhound.

Huan dominates over his wolvish form and every other, and he lies brokenly at his mercy.

Tinuviel steps towards him as Huan snarls at him with warning and he dares not move. He lies still, petrified, as the elven maiden seems to tower over him, staring down at him with beautiful and cold eyes, though they are without cruelty.

They are stern and full of disgust for what he is and something like pity for what he once was.

(Once, he was called admirable, though those days have long since passed.)

“Thou should be stripped of his raiment of flesh, and his ghost be sent quaking back to Morgoth.” She says to him in a way that sounds more matter-of-factly than mocking. But his fear and pride twist her words into jeers and he can hear nothing compassionate in them.

Huan growls into his bleeding throat.

Fear stops him from responding with scornful words.

“There everlastingly thy naked self shall endure the torment of his scorn, pierced by his eyes, unless thou yield to me the mastery of thy tower.”

There is a glint of pure malicious loathing and fear burning in his golden eyes.

“Take it...” he tries to spit out with as much venom as he can muster but it comes out feebly like a dying croak.

Luthien regards him silently, sternly, as though trying to read any deception in his eyes. She finds none and with a single nod, Huan releases him. Immediately, he shifts into a creature of the night and flies, stumbling into shadow.

He flees blindly, like a fool running in the dark, seeing nothing save for the red of his own blood and feeling only the searing pain of his wounds.

A trail of blood follows him as he vanishes into the pine trees of Taur-nu-Fuin.

He is not pursued.

::

The key to boiling water in clay pots, she learns after much trial and error, is to heat them gradually so that they do not shatter.

She watches the water bubble within her pot with a smile and carefully stirs in her berries with a stick.

It hasn’t been easy but she is proud of all she has accomplished. Somehow, she has managed to survive the perils of the wild.

She turns away, leaving the crushed berries to macerate while she moves to collect more wood to fuel her weakening fire. When she returns, the berries have begun to make a foam-like substance.

Buffaloberries, like most other soapberries, contain saponins which can be used as soap.

And like the language of her thoughts and the many melodies inside her mind, she cannot remember how or where she has aquired this knowledge.

It bothers her that she cannot remember her past but she rarely has time to wonder.

Survival first, she thinks ruefully.

There is howling in the distance.

She shivers at the sound and tightens her grip on her knife.

Yes, she thinks, survival first.

::

Wary of the howls from the previous night, she stays near her cave for the next couple of days, rarely leaving it. But eventually, the need for food and fresh water wins out and she is drawn from her hiding place.

She jumps at the slightest twitch in the shadows and scolds herself for her foolishness.

Come now, she thinks to herself in embarrassment, have some courage and keep some wits about you! The wolves will come suddenly—if they ever do come—and there won’t be much use in running anyways.

She carries a clay jug to the stream and fills it with water, returning to her cave hastily. Water was her first priority and now she has enough to last for the next while.

Food, she recalls with a dull ache in her stomach, I need to find some food.

She ate the last of her nuts and berries the previous night.

For a brief second, she sits and debates with herself how strong her desire for food is versus how strong her need of it is. At that very moment, her stomach growls demandingly and she winces. She is absolutely famished. The ache of hunger prevails over her fear and she creeps out of her cave once again.

I’d rather die with a full stomach than an empty one, she thinks as she pushes herself onwards, carrying a basket.

She picks wild berries and edible plants and places them in the basket, leaving a good amount to grow still for her fellow habitants in the forest.

Turning around a tree she spots the bright red of ripe raspberries and beams in delight. Raspberries are a sweet and tasty treat.

“Beautiful...” she says as she happily adds them to her basket. These must be ever-bearing raspberries, she hums thoughtfully. She hasn’t seen a calendar in ages but the increasing chill of the night serves as a good sign that autumn is coming, if not already here.

Glancing downwards, it’s hard not to take note of the fallen berries all mushed on the ground. It’s a pity. But she doesn’t get the chance to dwell on it as another red seizes her attention. It’s a different, but strangely tantalizing red—bright, in a way that seems almost familiar.

Why does this seem familiar?

Reaching, she brushes her fingertips against it. It feels like silk—smooth and wet. For a moment, she simply stares at the red coating her fingers. And then like a spell suddenly broken, her eyes snap from their haze and it suddenly dawns on her that this is the red of blood.

She gasps, stumbling back with a silent scream still caught in her throat as her heart fills with cold sinking dread.

Swerving around, she is alarmed to find a trail of blood leading further into the thicket.

That’s—-a lot of blood...

She swoons slightly at the thought of so much blood lost. Surely any living creature would be dead by now. There was no recovery for a wound like that in the wild.

Wolves, she thinks while choking on fear, could it be wolves?

Then whatever made that trail was certainly dead.

She turns to leave, her first thought is safety in her cave, but halts and stares back into the thicket.

And if it wasn’t dead? If it escaped the wolves?

Then it must be dying, she thinks to herself but now she is more hesitant to leave.

She wrestles with herself, with survival, sympathy, and everything in between.

Compassion blooms in her chest, courage rises in her, and her resolves hardens like steel.

She takes out her knife and delves deeper into the thicket, following the path of blood.

I hope I’m not to late, she thinks faintly.

Chapter Text

She weaves through the forestry, over and around roots and tree branches, following what seems like an endless road of red, with each step filling her heart further with a sinking dread.

There is a growing tension inside and around her.

Her head feels like it’s spiralling, clouding, almost as if it were trying to disassociate from her fear. Her mind is quiet. Too quiet. Too calm. In her mind she is as calm as a cloudless starry night.

(High above are strong gales.)

Her small body pulses with adrenaline, almost buzzing with it. Her heart is pounding, her eyes darting to and from every shaded corner, twitching at the softest sound or slightest movement.

There is a sudden rustling that sends a sharp jolt scurrying down her spine and she stills, breath hitching as a gasp catches in her throat.

Something is nearby. Or rather, someone.

Crouching low, she begins to crawl beneath the cover of the surrounding bushes and leaves. She peeks through the crack of the green foliage and gasps sharply.

Propped against a tree, lying sprawled around its base is a man in dark armour. From her hiding place, she can see his hair is light and red, close to blond but not quite, gleaming almost like gold in the sun; and it is splayed about, caught messily in the shrubbery around him.

The man lies still, unmoving, almost as though frozen in time—a beauty immortalized.

She stares in horrified fascination, her eyes fixating on the savage marks carved into his neck. The skin is torn and bleeding profusely. She winces, cringing backwards and a twig snaps beneath her. The man’s head jerks suddenly towards her, molten eyes closing in dangerously onto her small figure, staring straight into her own eyes. For a moment, she can think only of the pure loathing burning in them. His lips curl into a sneer as he snarls at her in a language she doesn’t know then groans in agony as he aggravates his wounds.

Well, then.

Pressing her lips into a firm line, she glares back at him and pays his distainful words little heed. She doesn’t understand them. Therefore, she has no need to obey them.

That is how it works, right?

Right, she affirms to herself.

He is in no state to resist her when she approaches and begins looking him over.

Asides from the most obvious of wounds, she observes that his black armour is spiked, cracked, and various bits of it are poking into his side. The armour must be uncomfortable to be lying in.

I’ll start there, she says to herself and begins reaching for the broken chest plate. He attempts to stop her but she merely swats his hands away. He says something in a scathing voice and she shushes him. The man’s expression at being shushed is almost comical. She grins cheekily and he scowls darkly, muttering under his breath.

She is no threat to him and he realizes that. Now, she is just a known annoyance. Too tired to protest her, the man resigns and settles with glaring at her instead.

For a while, she struggles with the heavy armour. Once she has peeled off all of the pieces of the fractured garment, she pushes it aside and begins examining his wounds.

She wonders once again how on earth this man is alive.

There’s something off about him in a way she cannot seem to put into words, a whisper in the back of her mind just barely heard like a silent echo.

(Dangerous, dangerous, is he... an instinct whispers, not a man but a maia...)

She gently pats him on the shoulder as if to thank him for letting her help him; and stands, motioning for him to stay put despite him not going anywhere with his current wounds.

Retracing herself partially, she tries to recall where she has seen a specific plant growing nearby.

She spots it growing in the shadow of a pine tree with clusters of small white flowers and fern-like leaves. She rips it from the ground, roots and all. Then she runs back to her cave, fills her basket with supplies, and runs back to the man.

She waves.

The man glares.

Tough crowd, she sighs.

Taking the plant, which is called yarrow, she plucks several leaves from the stem and shoves them in her mouth, chewing, so that the juices are released. Then she stares the man straight in the eye as she spits the chewed leaves back into her hand.

A disgusted whine reverberates through the man’s throat as she begins applying the poultice to his neck, slathering it on every angry laceration she can find. He shudders at her touch. She pauses abruptly, confused eyes staring intently at the points of his ears.

His ears are pointed in a distinctly elven manner.

Something tugs in the back of her mind—a memory maybe—though she cannot seem to place it.

It dawns on her that perhaps this man isn’t human.

Perhaps he is something else.

::

Darkness and agony are all he can see, all he can feel, from the very tip of his being to the depths of his soul. His body aches and his spirit burns. He cannot move or escape it, he is spiralling—down, down, into shadow—down, down, into the abyss.

Master... he calls but none answer.

(Not Aulë, and certainly not Morgoth)

None will come.

None will answer.

He is alone.

The darkness calls him, claims him, and he cannot escape it.

He whimpers softly and stirs painfully.

(Doom, doom, coming to claim him. Like drums... drums in the deep.)

He cannot run or flee from it.

He despairs, spiralling further into the abyss.

Down...

Down...

He drifts deeper into his nightmare.

Damned be the darkness...

Damned be Tinuviel...

Beautiful and strange was she to his eyes, and so terrible and condemning was her pure form to his terrible self.

Too pure and too bright for his darkness. He trembled in the presence of her radiance and hated her for it. Naked, he stood in her light, his weaknesses exposed for all to see.

The light shone on his vulnerability.

He despises her light, coveting it all at the same time.

Beautiful...

Terrible...

He covets the light almost as much as he loathes it.

Just as he loathes the light and shadow alike.

He wants both and neither at the same time.

How can one see beauty in the darkness without light?

(And why does a being of darkness fear the shadow? A shadow that he himself shrouded himself willingly in?

Perhaps it is because he remembers somewhere hidden deeply inside his mind, a memory of the tenderness of the light.

A gentle warmth...

Of the light he once basked in.

Of the Light of Eru.

Of the Will he rejected in favour of his own...

There is no light.

There is only pride and despair.)

His eyes are closed.

And suddenly, there comes an echoing snap and his eyes open to perceive the brilliant light around him.

(The darkness is pierced.)

He sees her.

Frozen like a prey spotted by a predator, standing alone in the bushes and in the shadow of the pine trees was a child.

An elven child.

He stares at her and into her eyes almost in disbelief. And for a long moment, all he can do is stare.

The elves guard their children jealously.

How? Why? Flash briefly through his mind.

And then he regains his wits, lips curling into a sneer.

“Get thee gone from my presence!” He snarls, baring his teeth, “Away!”

She recoils sharply.

He is satisfied to see her flinch away in fear; less so to experience excruciating tremors of pain wracking through his body.

Something like determination settles over the child as he twists in agony and she approaches him.

“I said away!” He snarls again, gritting his teeth. But this time she ignores him, reaching for his cracked armour and beginning to remove it.

He tries to push her away but she only shoots him a stern glare, stunning him briefly when she swats his hand away and shushes him.

Who would dare?

Apparently, she would.

She struggles with his armour and it’s an almost comical sight: a tiny child trying to remove a set of armour much too heavy for her to carry.

She tugs on it and he hisses in pain as jagged pieces of his spiked armour dig into his side. The child pauses, brows furrowing with worry, and eyes crinkling with concern. She tries again. This time more gently. Her small fingers tenderly begin separating the armour from him, peeling it from his bloody torso and he almost groans in relief when it’s finally off.

Immediately, the child begins searching his body and checking his wounds with a clinical eye. It surprises him.

She is trying to help me.

He knows this but doesn’t fully understand.

Why?

Her touch feels warm on his skin. It is gentle—the first kind touch he has felt in ages.

She pats his shoulder twice and beams at him.

Why does she help me so?

There is a feeling in him deep down inside, so deeply hidden that not even he is completely aware of it— one he cannot explain fully—that swells in the radiance of her smile. It feels almost of sadness, of regret, and it hints towards longing.

(How long has it been since another being has smiled at him in such a way?)

She gestures for him to remain still and swiftly runs back through the bushels from whence she came. To his own surprise, he almost calls after her.

He doesn’t and he finds himself alone in the forest once again.

For awhile the only noise he can hear is that of the wind and the sound of his own thoughts. He reflects quietly as the shadows of the pine branches dance, silhouettes on the forest floor growing longer as time passes. Still, the elven girl has yet to return.

Doubt begins to weigh on his mind of her return and he starts to wonder if something has happened to her... not that he cares for it makes little difference to him whether she lives or dies.

Still...

He is curious.

Finally, she emerges from the shadows holding a plant with feathery leaves that has clusters of small white flowers. Upon seeing him, she waves cheerfully and smiles.

He scoffs though a part of him is satisfied with the knowledge of her whereabouts.

Then the child plucks the leaves from the stem while staring him dead in the eye. Now that she has his attention, he watches as she shoves a handful of the leaves into her mouth and chews them, spitting them back into her hand with a grin.

What is she—-?

He has a sinking suspicion.

There is no place to hide.

A disgusted whine escapes him as she begins lathering the mixture of chewed leaves and spit on his wounds, feeling cold on his skin.

“No!” He protests weakly, “Stop—I-I-I don’t have any need for—!”

She ignores him and continues to apply the poultice to his wounds.

He shudders in disgust.

Abruptly, she stops at his neck and stares at his ears in wonder, staring as though she had never seen them before. He can practically see the gears turning in her head as realization dawns on her face, then thoughtfulness.

“What is it?” He asks her and she seems momentarily startled by his voice.

Troubled, she shakes her head.

“Fine then,” he huffs, “don’t answer that but answer this instead: what is thy name?”

She blinks in confusion and frowns.

“Thy name,” he repeats.

“Thy name?”

Her echo sounds unsure and hesitant. The words repeated, but not at all understood.

Clicking his tongue, he tries again but when her confusion remains despite hearing the question in both Sindarin and Quenya, he eyes her in disbelief.

What is this? His mind whirls, does she truly not know any of her mother tongues?

“Man esselya ná?” He repeats again and she stares at him in dismay before replying in a foreign tongue.

He is at a loss.

(And he is intrigued.)

::

“Man esselya ná?”

“That’s the third time you’ve repeated that and I still don’t understand.” She answers helplessly. “I am sorry... I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

He seems to understand her lack of understanding though he doesn’t seem satisfied with it.

They have reached an impasse.

For a moment, they simply stare at one another in silence. The man’s brows furrow, his expression deeply thoughtful for several long moments, and then he points at himself hesitantly.

“Mairon,” he says after a pause, pointing to himself.

Huh?

“Mairon,” he repeats, sounding more sure of himself.

She blinks and it takes an embarrassingly long moment for her to realize that he is trying to tell her his name.

She points to him, “Mairon.”

He nods and points to her.

“Man esselya ná?”

It dawns on her that he is asking for her name. The foreign words are less so now and she can guess their true meaning. Consequently, the question brings a dreaded realization that she cannot remember hers.

A sudden coldness fills her body—petrifying her.

She cannot remember her name.

Chapter Text

She stares with wide, hazy, and unseeing eyes. There is a glaze of shock and hurt coating them in a thin layer of unshed tears. She stares at him—or rather, she stares past him, blinking twice.

A wounded noise throbs from her throat and she feels a sudden pang of deep, deep, loss.

An emptiness—a void—unfillable.

She has lost something. She knows she has lost something. Something she can never reclaim again. She just cannot remember what it is.

She takes a deep calming breath and dries her tears.

(Avec courage... a memory whispers)

With courage... she thinks again, translating the strange language of her forgotten memories into another. Not the time for weakness.

The man—-Mairon looks uncomfortable and uncertain what to do with a crying child. He is even more uncertain of the reason why she cries.

(He does not, in fact, know what to do with crying children.)

Awkwardly, she sniffles, then dries her tears feeling embarrassed.

She has just cried in front of a complete stranger. A part of her is mortified. The other is already scrambling to collect the fragmented pieces of her dignity.

She feels she should explain but lacks the words to do so.

“Mairon” she points to him and then points to herself and shakes her head.

He understands, somehow, and she is so thankful for it.

She doesn’t have a name.

Hastily, she finishes treating his wounds. Then pulls away and with one last uncertain glance, flees into the shadows of the pines.

He stares after her.

(Curiouser and curiouser...)

::

She retreats to the river, emotions swirling inside her distantly, like a faint echo. She needs time. She needs space. She needs—-to remember, to know, to understand—-something. So many thoughts and feelings were consuming her and building almost like a dam. And then it broke and all her pent up stress and sadness came gushing out, leaving her feeling exhausted and drained.

But it was her inability to remember her name that finally pushed her over the edge.

She throws a stone into the river and watches how droplets shoot up into the sky as it splashes. The silhouette of the small fish are chased away by the ripples made by the stone.

She reflects.

She has no idea how she got here or who she was before.

Memories evade her, leaving her only with vague, abstract, imprints and feelings.

Who am I? She thinks desperately, Who was I?

The river gives no answers other than it’s quiet gurgle.

She cannot see her reflection.

::

She doesn’t have a name.

Names are curious things. They hold power: to terrify, to persuade, to hold loyalty and bind people together or bring them apart.

The odds of him finding a nameless elven child are slim but not nothing, he supposes. An elven mother could have passed on mid-journey home but the odds of that happening are next to nothing. Elves only bear children on rare occasions—once in a blue moon, some might say. He knows conception among the Eldar is much rarer. They cherish their children and guard them fiercely, like dragons protecting their hoard.

It becomes stranger and stranger the more he thinks of it. Why is there an elven child in the forest all alone? Why hasn’t she a name? Who and where are her parents? The language she speaks is like nothing he has ever heard. Her lack of knowledge in any of the elvish tongues is yet another thing that leaves him wondering. There is so much he doesn’t know.

Mairon sighs deeply.

His body still aches and feels sore but the pain is no longer unbearable. Whatever remedy the child used seems to be working. It is too soon to try standing however; and Mairon decides the risk of reopening his wounds are greater than his fortune.

She has been gone for long while, he thinks to himself feeling troubled. The idea of harm coming to her brings him a sense of unease. If only because he owes a debt that he feels compelled to repay.

Nothing more, nothing less.

::

She returns to him carrying a woven basket of berries and a jug of water.

Setting herself down beside him, she taps her lips twice and lifts a raspberry to his mouth.

“Eat.” She says as he stares at her.

“Eat.” She repeats again insistently, when all he does is continue to stare.

She frowns at Mairon and tries another tactic, popping the fruit into her mouth and smiling encouragingly.

“It’s good.” She assures and holds another berry in front of him.

He scoffs derisively, mumbling something in his strange language.

“Mairon,” she warns sternly, a slight flash of annoyance on her face. “Eat this,” she offers it to him, “Mairon eat.”

He gets it. Or at least he gets an idea of what she’s trying to tell him.

He gives her a look that can only be described as great annoyance and with very great reluctance finally allows the raspberry to pass through his lips. It’s sweet and ripe, and surprisingly tasty. It doesn’t have the lip puckering sourness he expected.

The elven girl absolutely beams in delight.

It’s honestly ridiculous how easily pleased she is.

She offers another.

He eats.

::

The air grows colder and the sky becomes dark as the night approaches.

She worries from the shadows of her cave.

There is a frosty bite to the evening’s cold that tells her this night may be the coldest yet.

She worries for Mairon who is still recovering. His body is weak and vulnerable. She fears he lacks the strength to pull through the chilling cold unaided.

She decides to takes her long ivory coat to Mairon. The fur of the garment will certainly keep him warm and she can afford to live one night without it.

::

He stirs at the sound of footsteps and opens his molten eyes. He is met with a sheepishly apologetic expression for disturbing his rest.

The girl has returned and is carrying a long white fur garment in her arms.

“What are you doing?” He asks her as she unfolds the coat over him like a blanket.

She says something and wraps her arms around her torso shivering. Then she points at him.

“Cold? You brought this to me because you thought... I was...” he trails off hazily. His eyes glazing and becoming unfocused.

It’s a foolish notion to be concerned for him, foolish but very kind. And it reminds him of things he would rather not remember. He inhales sharply as an influx of unwanted memories begin to surge in his mind, bringing with them a spark of... of something else he would rather not confront. Quickly, he forces it all down, trying to suppress the memories.

Too slow. Some memories spill into the forefront of his mind, latching onto his thoughts.

He cannot forget. Though he desperately wants to.

Mairon, the memories call mockingly, kind Mairon, obedient Mairon, the Greatest of Aulë’s pupils.

I am not Mairon, he snarls back. I am Sauron.

Mairon, Mairon, Mairon... The Admirable.

I am Sauron. I am Sauron. I am Sauron, The Abhorred! He argues with the traitorous voice in his head that refuses to be silent. Mairon is dead!

Then why give the child the name of a dead maia, Sauron? You betray yourself. You cannot run forever, little maia. You reek of the stench of guilt.

“Mairon?”

He jolts, startled, blinking his eyes back into focus. The fog lifts from his mind and the haze is gone from his golden eyes.

“Mairon?” She reaches and places the back of her hand on his forehead. She thinks he’s ill.

“Stop that.” He growls and pushes her hand away. “I am fine.”

She doesn’t need to know his words to understand what he is saying. His tone is enough. She looks doubtful and he scowls at the sceptical expression on her face.

“I am fine.” He insists.

She nods placatingly and adjusts the coat so that it covers him better. His eyes fall onto the ivory fur and he sighs deeply.

“You shouldn’t have.” He tells her. “I am of the Ainur and it will take more than the cold to conquer me.”

She tilts her head in confusion and he fails to stop the small, annoying, part of himself from thinking that she resembles a confused puppy.

She does not, he tells himself harshly.

But she does, the not-him purrs.

He shuts his eyes.

Chapter Text

It begins with her sitting down beside him during the hours of sunset. She is awake and alert, admiring the colours of dusk and twilight. The sky is painted, like streaks of ink bleeding into each other with various speckles of light blooming from within. Like salt on watercolour. Orange bleeds into purple and indigo. Stars are blooming in the night sky, awakening as a bright round moon rises into the peak of the darkness. The night is coming alive.

As the dark grows and the day fades away she hears a soft humming—a voice both gentle and kind stirring in her memory. There is a melody she doesn’t know. She is certain she knew it once, long, long ago. And though her mind fails to recall, her soul still remembers. At first she hums along uncertainly. She isn’t quite certain she remembers the song she desperately wants to sing but eventually she manages to find her first note.

Mairon listens to her with his eyes almost shut, though not completely closed. He watches her face screw up in concentration as she tries to remember, listening to her softly hum the melody to herself, and then as she tries to piece together the words.

He doesn’t know the song and still cannot understand her words. But what he does understand is the longing and wistfulness that carries in her voice and sparkles in her eyes. He understands that. And he perceives the sliver of sadness tinging the tune, a sadness which laces her tongue bitterly. Despite the sadness, her voice is sweet and smooth, like honey. It’s tells a story. One that needn’t any words to be told. She sings of a longing for home and laments that she cannot return.

Time passes and the stars continue to bloom in the sky as her soft lullaby serenades below, lulling him and his thoughts into a blissful haze.

Her wordless song speaks to his very soul, kindling forgotten feelings and thoughts from deep within.

For a single night, and this night only, Sauron dreams of days long gone. Days of the past. He dreams of Aulë and smithing, of lost sons coming home, and the soothing of restless souls.

He remembers who Mairon was and a small, hidden, part of him laments—regretting what he has become.

::

Mairon awakens to find a small figure curled into his side. Remaining perfectly still, he peers at the young girl tucked beside him in a very cat-like manner. He stares for a moment, contemplating. Then he takes the fur coat and drapes it over her.

It isn’t kindness, he tells himself.

It’s hard to ignore the echo of laughter ringing in the back of his mind.

(Suppress, suppress, suppress…)

He shuts his eyes and sleeps.

::

“Alda.” He says and points to a tree.

“Alda.” She parrots diligently.

“Sonë.” He rubs pine needles between his fingers and points to a pine tree. “Sonë.”

“S—sone—“

“Sonë.” He corrects firmly and puts clear emphasis on the pronunciation. “Sonë.”

“Sonë.” She annunciates carefully and glows with pride when she finally says it right.

Her eyes sparkle with happiness and excitement. Eagerly, she takes Mairon’s hands into her own then points to the tree. There is affection in her eyes and in her touch. For a moment, it catches him off guard.

“Tree,” she tells him and traces the grooves of the tree bark with her finger, guiding his hand to do the same.

“Ah.” He realizes after a moment, she is teaching me her language. “Tree.”

“Pine!” She exclaims cheerfully and picks up a pine needle, then points it at a pine tree. “Pine-tree!”

“Pine-tree.” He echoes in amusement, watching her happily dance around, point, and name various things.

“Pine needle.” She brings to him said object with such comically wide eyes and solemn voice that he cannot help but chuckle at her expression.

“Sonanel.” He names the pine needle in Quenya.

“Sonanel…” she repeats thoughtfully, her face screwing up in contemplation, then lighting up with an idea. She takes the pine needle and pokes it through the fabric of her white dress, going through the motions of sewing.

“Sewing.” She says as explanation and taps the pointed tip of the needle with her finger. “Needle.”

“Ma séralye?”

Is she pretending to sew? Mairon’s brows furrow in thought.

She frowns and he sighs at her lack of understanding.

How to explain the concept of sewing…?

“Séra,” Mairon mimics her sewing motion and her face lights up in understanding.

“Ah, ah.” She nods in understanding and commits the word to memory.

She is smart, Mairon thinks to himself, grinning sharply, she is quick to understand new ideas.

And within her own mind exists countless completely foreign ideas as well. He wonders about such strange ideas and of her mysterious origins. Obviously she has been raised with the knowledge of what sewing is. She has to have lived with others long enough for her to learn a language.

Definitely not of any elvish languages, Mairon thinks, perhaps it is a tongue of the mortal men?

But if she had been raised by Men how did she end up here? And even if such a thing were possible the Eldar people would likely not leave an elven child in the hands of the short-lived human folk.

Her origins puzzle him.

But Mairon always did enjoy a good puzzle. That never changed, even if everything else did.

::

Your language is weird, she thinks as her cheeks puff out in frustration. I’m going to teach you english instead.

“Mairon,” she says and crouches down.

He raises a brow at her when she uses her finger to draw the alphabet in the dirt and begins to point at each letter and recite their names.

After reciting the entire alphabet, she spells his name, pointing to the corresponding letters.

“M-a-i-r-o-n,” she spells, “Mai-ron. Mairon.”

His eyes widen in surprise, then they shine with unhidden fascination and curiosity. It was a surprise to learn that she actually knew a written form of her language as well.

Mairon’s brows furrow in thought and for awhile he examines the alphabet scratched into dirt—studying it. His eyes wander along the characters, tracing their strokes, and repeating their sounds underneath his breath.

It is impressive and he is impressed by her.

He commits it to memory.

When he is finally satisfied, he gazes into her eyes. He can see a light in her eyes—a bright, sharp, intelligence shining in them. There is a spark of potential in her that burns hot like a white ember. He knows she has talent. A raw, rough, sort of gift—-like an ore, not yet refined. He is a smith and when he sees potential it is in his nature to want to shape and hone it into something beautiful—something masterful.

Mairon wants to nurture that potential.

Carefully, he drags his finger through the dirt, tracing beneath her own line of writing and writing something using the letters of her alphabet.

Her eyes follow his every movement.

Mairon smiles in satisfaction when he finishes the last stroke, of the last letter, and turns to face her.

“Celeriel.” He says and points to her.

She doesn’t understand.

“Mairon.”

He points to himself.

“Celeriel.”

He points to her.

He names her.

“What—-” She trails off then abruptly cuts herself off when it suddenly clicks in her mind.

He just gave her a name.

Shocked, she stares at him.

“Me?” She questions in disbelief.

Mairon nods and says the name again.

“Celeriel.” She whispers at first, testing the name on her tongue.

A tear slides down her cheek.

“Celeriel.” She says again with a growing smile.

I am Celeriel.

My name is Celeriel.

Joy fills her—-she is overwhelmed by it—-to the point where she cannot contain her elation and bursts into tears of joy.

“Thank you,” she buries her face into Mairon’s chest, hugging him tightly. “Thank you, Mairon.”

She doesn’t look up to see his expression but she does feel a hand fall onto her head—gently patting it.

Her name is Celeriel and she will treasure it forever.

Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

Singing keeps her spirits high and her hope alive. Through songs engraved on her heart she can remember things faded from her mind, and her memory. Perhaps the only way to keep her lost memories alive is by singing, she wonders for it is through aching hearts and melodies that she connects to a past previously lost to her.

Celeriel sings whenever she can and he in turn has grown to enjoy listening. The meaning of her words become less lost to him as he learns more and more of her mysterious tongue.

He teaches her Quenya and she learns with great determination and dedication. The process seems slow but Celeriel learns quickly for one with no previous knowledge of the language.

He feels content.

“What are you doing?” He asks when she shuffles behind him with a large grin and a braided circlet of blue and purple flowers in her hand.

“Mairon is pretty.” Is what she tells him as she pulls back his long hair.

“That is not an answer.” He tells her as she begins to braid it.

“But it is the truth.” Celeriel smiles cheekily and places the wreath of woven flowers on his head.

He sighs but doesn’t remove the crown or undo her braiding. How can he when it makes her smile so brightly? And who is there to see him like this? Only Celeriel and he isn’t Sauron, not now, and certainly not to her. To the world he is Sauron, but to her he is Mairon, and that is enough. He can be Mairon just for her.

“Mairon,” Celeriel calls after a thoughtful while. “What am I?”

He blinks in surprise at the question but easily turns his surprise into a reassuring smile.

“You are an elf,” he tells her and gently brushes a finger over her pointed ears. “An elf of the Eldar folk, though of which people I do not know.”

“An elf?” She repeats with furrowed eyebrows.

“Yes,” Mairon says, “an elf.”

She seems troubled by this.

“I do not remember elves.” Celeriel says quietly. “I do not remember many things.”

“I will teach you.” He tells her. “I will teach you everything you need to know.”

“What if I forget?”

“Then I will remind you.”

Celeriel smiles at him.

“Thank you, Mairon.” She wraps her arms around him and his strong arms do the same.

His eyes soften with fondness.

Then he catches himself.

No, no, no!

He will not fall.

Sauron feels himself slipping.

Too far. He is drifting too far—forgetting himself again.

He is Sauron.

He is Gorthaur.

He knows that he should not get attached. He does not want to get attached. This child is a weakness and he cannot afford for a mere child to be his undoing—she will not be his undoing. He refuses. He will not care for her. Once he has recovered, he will return immediately to Morgoth’s side. He will not linger and neither will she in the thoughts of his mind.

It is too late.

However unwillingly, it seems that he already harbours an affection for her along with a fierce desire to protect her. He cannot control his desire to keep her safe, to keep her happy. It clings to him like a parasite. He should’ve ended it long ago when the sensation was still weak. Like a trickle of water, but now he can feel it swell within him like the waves of a vast ocean. He cannot fight the tide—he cannot defeat himself.

Sauron hates it.

Mairon doesn’t care.

This is his child.

She has potential and he will refine it, nourish it, and watch it grow just like the trees and flowers of Yavanna. He will watch her grow and celebrate when she blooms and flourishes.

He tightens his embrace around her and she happily curls into his warmth.

There is always a price to kindness.

She helps only because she doesn’t know who he is. She stays only because he has shown a single side of himself. If she knew who he was she would have certainly fled without an ounce of regret, fled without turning back once.

She would desert him.

Sauron—-Mairon cannot have that. The mere thought of it causes his chest to tighten and his heart to ache. The idea of her staring at him in horror hurts. He imagines her eyes filled with Luthien’s disgust.

He does not want that.

(He fears it.)

::

Though she cannot see them behind the treetops, she knows stars are blooming on the horizon. Just knowing that the stars are shining brightly in the sky above is a great comfort to her. They remind her of something. She doesn’t know what it is that they remind her of yet but she knows that their light soothes her.

It feels appropriate to greet them in some way.

She doesn’t know why she says it—-the words just slip out like a sudden whisper of wind to the trees and the sky.

“We still remember, we who dwell in this far land beneath the trees the starlight on the Western Seas.”

A tear slips from her eye and falls to the ground.

A shaky breath is drawn from her lips.

Her first memory is starlight.

Her last memory is starlight.

She shuts her eyes and tries to recall more. Something stirs in her mind, she can feel it. So far memories have evaded her but this one feels different—for some strange reason it feels reachable. And so she reaches, submerging herself in memory.

She remembers pain.

Tongues of flame surround her, growing and growing like a terrible pillar of light that reaches the sky. She tries to move but she is pinned beneath a thick heavy sheet of metal. She heaves and tries to pry it off her legs but her strength alone is not enough. She is too weak.

She cries for help but none move to help her.

Is anyone even there?

She calls again but none answer and none will answer for she is all alone.

(No friends, no family, they cannot help her—- they cannot hear her desperate cries.)

Famished, the flames grow and their appetites swell as tongues of flame begin tasting her skirt. Scorching heat—a deadly heat—-draws closer and closer. She squirms more desperately, trying to inch herself away from them.

It is futile.

Though the fire spreads quickly, time moves slowly for her. She glances up at the sky. The glowing warmth of starlight feels cold and gentle compared to the scorching hellfire around her.

I am born to live and die… but could this be my ending?

She cannot believe it.

The world is still a stranger to her and she still longs to see more of it.

For two decades she has lived and loved this world around her and it still isn’t enough. There is more to see; more to do; more to learn and grow to love. She wants to grow more and live to grow old.

She aches for more.

She reaches for the stars that shine with promises of hope high above the black ashy smoke.

Is this my end?

She prays.

She pleads.

Please, please… someone… anyone…

Orange light overtakes her along with blistering agony and she screams as darkness begins to creep into her vision.

With one last bit of strength, she reaches for the stars.

Please, she pleads. Please.

She stares at them and dares to hope that she might see them again.

She is overtaken and consumed.

(She awakens beneath a sea of stars.)

Gasping, Celeriel steps back, disoriented, and trips onto the ground.

She is on fire.

She is burning.

She—-

Celeriel trembles.

There is no fire.

She is not burning.

She is alive.

She sinks to the ground and weeps.

She cannot see through her tears; she cannot see that there is a monster leering at her with beady eyes hidden in the dark.

::

Unnoticed, the creature crawls closer to her fragile form. She cannot hear it creeping over the sounds of her own pitiful grief. It wonders how well she might shatter and how fun it would be or if perhaps she would please him some other way. She is a pretty little thing with soft skin and lovely eyes. How wonderful would it be to break her like glass!

Or perhaps… even present her to the master.

A malicious gleam lights up in the thing’s eyes.

The master would be pleased and would most definitely twist the pretty thing into something horribly hideous.

How truly despicable.

The creature grins wickedly and decides to bring her to the master.

His wretched claw seizes her suddenly and she jolts in shock and terror. He absolutely adores the way fear etches itself into her face and her eyes.

She will die with that exact expression on her face.

She screams.

::

He has grown accustomed to Celeriel coming and going as she wills.

Most nights are spent with him, curled safely into his side—-and if not that night then most certainly the next one. He doesn’t know where she sleeps when she isn’t with him. It makes him anxious. He prefers her to be within his range of sight, within his range of protection. Soon she would be there. She wasn’t with him last evening so she would be this one.

He waits.

Orange and purple ink mix in the sky above. Sunfire has quenched and died; the moon is rising and millions of stars have bloomed above just as always.

And yet…

Something feels odd; something isn’t right.

The stars shine dimmer this night. An eerie wind blows, closing a curtain of clouds and stifling their brilliance.

Mairon cannot see any starlight at all.

Varda must be troubled this night. He huffs haughtily.

He pauses.

Has Celeriel gotten lost in the dark?

She has yet to arrive and perhaps without starlight to guide her she cannot find the way.

Mairon winces slightly as he tries to stand. His wounds are still healing and he feels how tender they are. They could be easily reopened and aggravated, and he fears reawakening the pain. Still, with Celeriel’s lack of presence he has little choice but to find her himself.

Wobbly, he stands.

A single beam of moonlight lights the way.

Tt. Is that the greatest light you can give me, Tilion? He scoffs in distain.

Almost indignantly, a moonbeam brightens and its light pierces through the dark clouds above, illuminating his path.

Oh, so now you’ve decided to grace me with light.

Mairon sneers at the moon and begins to hobble through the shadows. Pain laces his every movement and he has to curse Luthien and Huan thrice before continuing on.

“Celeriel!” He calls and frowns when he is answered with silence.

“Celeriel!” He calls again.

No answer—not even the slightest whisper.

“Where could she be?” Mairon mutters to himself.

A powerful gust of wind blows high above the trees, carrying dark clouds away and revealing starlight. Somehow, by some magic, the wind leaves the ground untouched allowing for the combined light of moon and stars to shine on the forest floor below.

A strand of coppery-gold caught on a twig catches his attention.

His eyes follow it.

Mairon bends down to pick it up and stands again, alarm in his eyes when he touches something red and wet. There is another strand of Celeriel’s hair, and another, and another—-they make a trail, as does the scent of her blood and the scent of… an orc.

She was taken. She was stolen from him.

Mairon’s fëa swells with fury and he lets out a terrible howl. Golden eyes gleam in the dark and burn with rage as an earthshaking wind whips around him. His hair glows hot like fire, his body like molten gold, as wrath takes his fana and reshapes it; once again, he dons the wicked form of a werewolf. This time, a noble hunt in mind.

He chases after the trail.

Sauron snarls.

There would be no mercy.

Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

She is silent, not daring to make even the slightest of sounds in fear of enraging her captor. Celeriel doesn’t know what to do—what can she do? She cannot fight and cannot flee. With every step she grows farther and farther away from Mairon—the only one she knows might save her.

Blood continues to drip onto the ground and soak into the white fur coat draped over her shoulders. It’s all over her face and she can feel the warmth leaving her as it oozes down her arm. The wound is painful though not yet lethal and she wonders how long it might be until it is. She continues to press down on it with her dress, hoping that the bleeding will stop; it does not.

She is glad that she hasn’t been killed. The monster could’ve decided to kill instead of capturing her but it didn’t.

And yet..

She fears a fate worse than death awaits her at their shared destination.

She glances upwards.

A star twinkles brightly and she is struck with an idea. She stills suddenly as the orc shifts and readjusts his grip on her so that she hangs over his bulking shoulders. He cannot see her hands or how she manipulates them. He cannot see her long copper hair which shines silver in the moonlight. Quietly, she begins plucking strands of hair and leaving a trail of them behind. The trail is discreet and the monster does not notice. She desperately hopes that Mairon will.

Time passes on and Mairon has yet to be seen.

She waits, and waits, but Mairon does not appear.

Her heart sinks into the ground, and she sinks further into despair and fear. Her eyes sting with tears and she stifles a whimper.

Celeriel is terrified.

Mairon is not coming.

She trembles at the thought.

She doesn’t want to die alone. She cannot bear that pain again. The memories of despair and loneliness bring the worst sort of agony.

Celeriel feels cold.

Her coat does nothing to ease her; it feels like the chill is coming from inside. Its weight over her shoulders is no comfort at all. Suddenly, the orc growls and roughly shoves her off his shoulders. While still maintaining a firm grip on her arm, he snatches her white coat and throws it to the ground. He snarls something to himself but she doesn’t understand. She assumes it has something to do with the weight of the long garment. Fur is heavy, and the coat must’ve been adding too much weight for the orc.

She shudders now that she is exposed to the night air. It is freezing, and every time she exhales she can see her clouded breath.

She is too tired and too cold to feel anything but exhaustion.

She is numb.

Celeriel glances down at the pair of white coats, now stained red, and blinks. Now there is only one again.

I’m seeing double… how wonderful…

She is vaguely aware of the blood pooling beneath her and the sense of unease it brings her. Her mind feels hazy and it takes so much effort to keep herself alert and aware.

When her tired eyes land on a sharp stone lying just within her reach, they sharpen back into focus.

There is a choice to be made now.

She could try to fight.

She could try to run.

I cannot give in to despair…

To surrender would mean defeat which in turn means death.

Celeriel decides to live.

If no one is coming to save me… she thinks, eyes steeling. I will save myself.

Celeriel grabs the stone with a trembling hand and hides it behind her back. She can hear her blood pumping in her ears and feel the adrenaline pulsing through her veins.

The orc is muttering to himself now, standing in a manner almost dismissively of her. His back is to her and his iron grip has slackened considerably. It is clear that he doesn’t view her as a threat.

A mistake. Maybe even a fatal one.

With nimble steps and deadly silence, Celeriel bludgeons the stone into the back of the orcs skull. She can feel the stone shatter bone beneath her and the orc falls like a stringless puppet. She watches it fall—limbs sprawling across the ground.

The bloodied stone drops to the ground, followed immediately by Celeriel herself. Her face is ashen, and her wide eyes are fixated on her fallen captor.

She just——

Nausea swells in her stomach and she has to clap a hand to her mouth to stop herself from vomiting.

She trembles.

Is it… dead? Am I free?

Her arm throbs.

Celeriel shuts her eyes and tries to regain control over her uneven breathing. She can feel herself growing weaker and knows that she must stop the bleeding immediately.

She moves to stand.

Something yanks her by the neck.

She is strangled violently as two hands suddenly seize her neck. She struggles desperately to pry them off but it’s no use. She is not strong enough. She failed to kill the orc and her attempt only enraged it. She can see the glint of madness in the orc’s eyes as it leers at her with pure loathing and its fingers tighten around her throat. She gasps for air—-she tries to scream. But there is no air for her to scream with. She cannot scream. She cannot escape. She can only hear her heart pounding like drums.

(Doom, doom, doom.)

Her eyes roll upwards and she can see stars.

Please! The corners of her vision darken. Please!

The world spins and blurs in and out of focus. It feels like she is falling, and falling, as the world goes round, and round—spiralling into darkness.

The moon and stars seems unbearably bright and illuminates the entire forest below. In its light, a large silhouette suddenly soars above them, through the tops of the pine trees, and into the orc who howls in agony as the great adamant jaws of a golden beast tear into his arm, throwing him off Celeriel.

Now freed, Celeriel sputters and gasps desperately for breath; air fills her burning lungs and they cry in relief as the dark patches in her vision slowly fade away. Now she can properly see the titan-like wolf growling at the squealing orc, baring its fangs. The wrathful beast radiates with a power that makes the earth quake. The fury in its terrible gleaming eyes burn like molten gold.

It terrifies her.

She trembles as the wolf lunges at the orc, fangs piercing his neck and gripping it tightly as it violently throttles it this way and that. She blinks as blood sprays onto her face. The orc’s torso falls to the ground with a wet plop, but the head still hangs from the wolf’s maw.

Oh my god…

Celeriel stumbles backwards and falls.

They stare at one another.

The wolf drops the disembodied head. The head lands with a splat and rolls towards her with its tongue hanging limply out of it’s gaping mouth.

She scrambles away from it.

The wolf winces and steps towards her. She stares at the wolfs maw, blood-soaked fur, and sharp fangs with a horrified expression.

No, no, no!

She bursts into hysterics.

Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

Oh god—-I—please—

She flinches back as the large predator approaches her. Her eyes fixate on the blood dripping from it’s mouth and soaking into it’s fur. Blood, blood, blood—-there is blood everywhere. She is covered in it, drowning in it; she cannot escape it.

“P—please…” she whispers, “please stay away…”

Will I be torn apart just as that monster?

The salt of blood and the salt of tears cover her face. She sobs wetly and tries to wipe them from her face but it only smears it across her arm.

The wolf’s ears flatten and it whimpers softly.

“S—st—stay…” she stammers.

To her surprise, the wolf stills at her desperate pleading, almost as if it can actually understand her. She dares to hope it does and that she might not die a violent death by mauling.

Shuddering, she glances up towards the night sky. Her eyelids feel heavy—too heavy—and it is a fight to remain awake. Through her exhaustion, she wishes for Mairon.

If only he had come… she thinks tiredly.

But he has come, says a gentle voice in a gentle whisper into her mind. That is Mairon, dear one.

Celeriel blinks.

That is definitely not Mairon. That is a wolf.

She feels a soft touch on her shoulders and though she cannot see anyone there—-it is warm and very real. It gently guides her to look again and into the wolf’s gleaming eyes.

Look carefully. The voice insists, and nudges her forward.

Mustering great courage, she peers into the eyes of the beast and stiffens. She can see pain in the great predator’s golden eyes.

Golden eyes? Celeriel thinks to herself. I know… wait…

She knows those eyes.

But she knows them on…

Could it be?

“Mairon?”

::

Mairon’s ears flatten at the sound of Celeriel’s frightened crying and he steps towards her, whining softly when she flinches away with a whimper. Her eyes are filled with terror of him and his heart sinks at her fearful expression.

What should I do?

She cannot recognize him; not in this form. She is distraught and terrified by him and won’t allow him to come any closer. Should he change forms again? Or would that alarm her further? He is drenched in blood and that won’t change even if his form does. He could leave, shift, and come back. But Celeriel is wounded and needs immediate care. He cannot leave her. He does not want to.

Celeriel eyelids droop as she shudders and blinks tears out of her eyes. She is cold, her lips are blue, and she is still bleeding. Mairon takes another step towards her and she eyes him warily. Dismayed, his tail swishes uneasily behind him.

Her tears capture starlight in her eyes and though the thought disturbs him he can’t help but think that her eyes look beautiful. The light caught in her eyes is beautiful, almost as beautiful as a Silmaril, and he cannot stand it.

He despises the pain in her eyes. And her fear of him brings him grief for many have looked upon him and died with the same horror etched onto their faces. And while Sauron has relished in such expressions on the faces his enemies, Celeriel is no enemy of his.

If only she would recognize him.

Like a prayer heard from beyond the far west, her weeping eyes meet his own and are filled with a sudden clear understanding and wonder.

“Mairon?”

He freezes.

She recognizes me.

Mairon’s body emits a brilliant light as his fana twists and reshapes itself in accordance to his will; his wolfish form melting away, disappearing.

“Celeriel,” he says, retaking a form like the Eldar folk, and kneeling by her side.

He is relieved to see her eyes full of relief instead of fear. Then alarmed when she shuts them in exhuastion.

“Do not sleep,” he tells her and she forces her eyes to open again. “You mustn’t sleep now.”

“But I am tired,” she says and his eyes soften.

“I know.” He tells her. “But not yet. Soon.”

Mairon begins to sing, his voice soothing her pain and lifting her spirit. She cannot properly describe the sensation, but if she were to try, it feels almost as though all of creation paused to listen to Mairon’s song. There is power imbued in words and in sounds; there is magic intwined in the motif and music.

He sings softly and an ancient magic stirs within him and around them. Mairon invokes the echo of the Song of Creation, the Ainulindalë, and remembers a theme of hope and healing Eru Iluvatar wove into the Music himself to resolve Melkor’s discord and disharmony.

Mairon takes that theme and sings a variation of it.

Surrounded by this strange healing music and powerful magic, colour gradually returns to her complexion and her eyes widen in disbelief when her wound begins to mend itself; it appears almost as if time is reversing before her very eyes.

“How?” Celeriel whispers.

“The world was created by music.” Mairon tells her. “There is magic in the power of song.”

She regards him with amazement; his strange magic and skill at skin-changing fills her with awe. How did he do that? What is Mairon? A million thoughts whirl through her mind, but then her thoughts of wonder are drowned by memories of her helplessness.

She buries her face into his chest.

“I thought that I would die.” Celeriel whispers as his arms wrap around her. “I was afraid that I would die alone.”

Mairon inhales sharply. “I would not let that happen.”

Celeriel looks up at him with a smile.

“I know.” She says.

Then she blinks.

“Are your wounds alright, Mairon?” She asks in concern.

“Yes, I am fine.” He says.

Celeriel narrows her eyes.

“You should not lie, Mairon.” She scolds him sternly.

“I am not lying.” He assures her with a smile.

Celeriel makes a face. “There is blood on your teeth.”

“And there is blood in your hair.” Mairon points out.

“Does monster blood taste good?”

“That monster is called an orc.” Mairon crosses his arms with an amused sigh. “And it tasted awful.”

“Disgusting.” Celeriel says, and scrunches up her face.

“Very.” Mairon deadpans.

“But… you are alright, aren’t you?” Celeriel asks quietly.

“I am.” He promises.

Celeriel shuts her eyes with a yawn.

“Good,” she whispers. “Then I am going to sleep.”

He pats her head fondly.

“Rest well, Celeriel.”

::

Mairon watches over her sleeping form with a growing restlessness in his heart. This child—Celeriel—has become dear to him. He cannot deny it; he has killed for her—binding himself to her.

You stand on a dangerous edge, Mairon. A part of him whispers. You cannot balance on a spider’s thread forever.

Mairon hisses and tries to shut the voice away. He fails to silence it.

You cannot have both absolute fear and admiration. It continues. You will have to choose.

There exists a simple solution. A voice like Morgoth’s drawls chillingly. Sever your bond.

Mairon shuts his eyes.

You did it with Aulë and you can certainly do it again. But this child is no Vala—you can sever it permanently. Morgoth’s voice continues smoothly. You have the strength, don’t you, Sauron?

“I do.” He whispers, voice quivering. “But I do not want to.”

(Then don’t. A kinder voice says.)

Mairon pulls a strand of hair from Celeriel’s face and tucks it behind her ear.

“Not this night.”

Chapter Text

She dreams of fire, melting glass, and clanging metal.

In her dream she stands before a monster of white flames. The eye of the beast gleams like the blood of the earth—molten and hot. She can feel the swelteringly heat roaring over her sweat-drenched skin as she thrusts a steel pipe into the eye and spins it.

Glass twists and stretches on the end of her pipe like an abstract something between a liquid and a solid. It glows red and orange in the heat. She pulls back and flies to her workbench, immediately setting to work. She molds the soft glass with tweezers—-pulling—-prodding—and twisting it into her desired shape.

She smiles at her work and is filled with pride as she separates it from her blowpipe with a sharp clink. She sets her creation in the annealer where red glass cools into a speckled blue.

She is a glassblower, a master of lampwork; an artist who has tamed fire.

Fire is a monster; it burns and consumes and destroys. It turns everything it touches into ash and dust. Fire is an untameable beast—wild and dangerous. It is a thing to respect.

She has tamed it.

She commands the fire and it obeys. Instead of destruction she wills it’s hot tongues to burn with creation and it does. She takes what destroys and uses it to create. She defies what once was and contradicts it. Fire is no longer dangerous. It is a thing to master.

I am in control, she thinks to herself.

Someone calls her and she turns around to answer with a smile. They speak gravely and their eyes are full of pain. Why are they so sorrowful? Why are they so solemn? She doesn’t know and listens as they relay a terrible truth to her. Her smile fades.

He is dead.

(She learns of a crash and spirals into devastation and grief.)

Blue speckled glass shatters in the annealer.

Her world is shaken and any semblance of control slips like water through her fingers.

::

It rains.

The sky is dark and grey. Shadows loom over the forest. The cold slurry of rain and ice burns as it falls, stinging her cheeks. The sting numbs her skin and the cold makes her eyes water.

She pulls Mairon by the hand, leading him onwards and to her cavern home.

As she steps into the refuge of the cave but a tug from behind informs her that Mairon hasn’t. Bemused, she turns around. Mairon is standing at the mouth of the cave, staring strangely at it.

“Mairon?”

His mouth presses into a firm line as his eyes crease. There’s thoughtfulness in his eyes along with a glint of… something. She cannot identify it, whatever it may be because it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

“Have you been here all this time, Celeriel?” He asks, finally entering the cave and glancing around. There are various small clay pots and jugs placed against the cavern wall filled with seeds, nuts, and berries. A half-woven basket sits beside a carpet of soft leaves and flowers.

“For almost as long as I can recall,” she says with a slight furrowing of her brows.

Her first memory was starlight.

(Her last memory was starlight.)

“And your parents?” Mairon presses on. Someone had to have raised her up until now after all. Someone had clearly taught her how to read and write in her strange script, and how to speak in her strange tongue.

“I do not remember them.” She says in a quiet voice, suddenly feeling small underneath Mairon’s gaze. “I remember only waking beneath starlit skies.”

Ah, ah.

There it is—the mystery, suddenly greater than before. It’s odd how bits and broken pieces of the puzzle that is Celeriel are slowly revealing themselves to him. She has no known relations, and her origins remain an unknown, though he is beginning to suspect there is more to it than star-kindled skies.

A bitterness fills him.

Of course she would likely know the truth I seek, Mairon thinks sourly, face darkening at the thought and inner voice mocking. The one the elves call Elbereth.

The Queen of the Stars.

Varda.

“Hn.” He huffs with a scowl on his face.

Celeriel tugs on his sleeve.

He blinks.

“D—-did… I do… something wrong?”

Why would she think that?

“No.” He says, kneeling with a wince. “You did everything just right. I was thinking about someone… unpleasant.”

Celeriel’s eyes widen in horror.

“Mairon you’re bleeding!”

Cursing, he presses his hand against his wound, now reopened. Fury ignites in Celeriel’s eyes and her face twists into a scowl.

“You liar!” She cries angrily. “You said that you were alright!”

“I am alright.”

Celeriel glances at the blood pooling in his hand, then at the small puddle collecting on the cavern floor dubiously.

“Sit,” she orders, setting to work. “Don’t move.”

He watches her produce a long strip of cloth, brows furrowed in concentration as she stanches the bleeding; the tip of her tongue peeks out of her mouth as she bandages his wound.

It’s endearing.

She endears herself to him.

If he isn’t careful she might come too close. Then it would be far more painful when the time inevitably came for him to end it.

“You need to rest, Mairon.”

He is broken from his reverie.

“Yes, I will.” He promises, heart squeezing at her attempt to appear stern. Her arms are crossed and her cheeks are puffed out.

He hates himself for thinking it, but he can’t help it.

So precious.

She’s a treasure.

He found her—she found him, actually, but what difference did it make?—and wanted to keep her.

She was his.

Why should he let her go?

Mairon doesn’t want to ever let her go.

She would struggle on her own. She needs him. It would be too cruel to abandon her or to kill her.

Are we not Gorthaur the Cruel? A mocking voice asks, reminding him of all the things he does not want to think of.

Not to her. He bites back, feeling tired of the voice, a voice which sounds like a twisted echo of Morgoth.

To her, I am Admirable.

You are Sauron. It reminds him nastily.

I can be Mairon for her.

Chapter Text

It takes courage to grieve. It takes strength to let go and move on. But how can one grieve someone they cannot remember? How can one mourn the loss of something that never was?

This thing that she cannot remember was once.

It was.

And then it was not.

Celeriel can recall the echo of a song; a faint voice which sings with the voice of a mourning lark into the darkness of twilight.

The twilight of her life.

A lullaby of tragic hope sung during a time of despair. Darkness would fall but dawn would rise again. It always did. But not everyone would rise again with it.

Celeriel doesn’t understand her dreams. She doesn’t understand the significance of the melodies engraved into her very soul. There are stories that live on inside her even though she cannot fully recall them. It’s hard to remember. But even still she clings to what precious memories she does have; even if they are sad and painful.

What is identity if not the essence of memory and morals tangled together?

“Yal-di ha-tov veh ha-rach… Al ti-ra veh al tif-chad…”

She hums alongside the memory, humming until sleep finally claims her.

The woman in her dreams is warm and kind. Though her face is hazy, she can see clearly a smile on the woman’s face. It’s a sad smile. The woman sings and in her dreams she sings with her through hiccups and tears.

(He is dead.)

She doesn’t remember everything.

Not yet.

But that’s okay.

When Mairon pulls her close to his chest and she can feel his warmth and protection—-everything is okay.

Celeriel dives into memory knowing that Mairon will be there when she resurfaces.

::

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Pale faces. Dark colours. Solemn.

Tears fill up her glasses, spilling down her face. Without them she can’t see, and a part of her almost prefers it that way. She doesn’t want to see his inanimate stillness. His face is etched with sternness, an expression that will remain until the flesh has decayed. It doesn’t look right on him, not when she can remember him dancing and laughing. He was never a stern man.

The funeral is a quiet affair.

He was beloved by many.

Even by people who are strangers to her.

She clutches her glasses in one hand, a tissue in the other. People walk up and down the chapel aisle to memorize his face before his body is buried. Without her glasses their dark figures look like shadows. Shadows come and go, saying their prayers and farewells, whispering over his opened casket one last time.

It’s her turn.

She doesn’t remember walking down the aisle. She’s just there in an instant, the world fading away behind her.

Quiet.

Still.

He was never a religious man. A good man, but never religious. She had tried to broach the topic once or twice before but… It’s moot point now.

She’s religious.

He isn’t.

She loved him regardless of their differing beliefs. Maybe she loved him more for it, hoping that her love might be enough to convince him, to save him. The sting of his passing is evermore painful when she thinks about souls, heaven, and damnation. The worst part is that if what she chooses to believe is true then he isn’t at peace at all. And that’s the most bitter pill she’s ever had to swallow.

If what she believes is true, then he isn’t at peace.

If what she believes isn’t true, then what’s the point?

She loses both ways.

But what did he have to lose?

If God isn’t real then there was nothing to lose except time.

If God is real then there was everything to lose including the salvation of his own soul.

God, she prays, please don’t be real.

What a thing to pray.

If God isn’t real then everything she believes about this world is wrong. There would be no peace after death; nothing would happen after death. But then, at least, her father’s soul wouldn’t be in pain.

No heaven. No hell. Nothing.

God, she prays, please have mercy. Please…

Mercy for his unbelieving soul.

He will never know his children’s children because what could’ve been will never be. Those children that could’ve been will never know him now. He wasn’t robbed of the world; the world was robbed of him, his smile, his laugh, his humour——the world will never see them again.

“I love you.” She whispers, kissing his cheek one last time. He’s cold. “Goodbye, D—dad.”

They close the casket.

Her father’s body is swallowed by shadow.

They bury him.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Her loss.

Yes, she has lost something precious, someone precious. But if what she has chosen to believe is true then the greatest loss here isn’t hers.

It’s his.

The greatest grief here is hers.

She wants to have faith. She wants him to be at peace. Why can’t she have both? Why can’t she have both?

“Who was he to you?”

Everything.

“My father.”

She wants her father back. She wants her father safe, happy, and at peace. Was that really too much to ask?

He didn’t deserve cancer.

Her father was a good person, but he didn’t believe. He had the greatest respect for her but none for her religion. He wanted nothing to do with her God. Would her God want anything to do with him?

(Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?)

She despairs the death of her father.

She lost him.

She wants him back.

::

Someone hums into her ear, singing a soft lullaby as they soothingly stroke her head.

Her eyes remain half-lidded, her vision blurred by drowsiness.

Dad?

She blinks. It’s Mairon.

“Celeriel,” he inquires at her startled expression.

Cold. The graveyard was cold. Her father’s body was cold. But Mairon feels warm, safe.

Celeriel nuzzles closer into his warmth.

“Don’t leave me.” She whispers into his chest. “Don’t leave me.”

Bemused, Mairon blinks.

“I won’t,” he says, “why would I leave?”

Celeriel doesn’t answer.

Her eyes are closed, chest rising and falling steadily.

She is fast asleep.

::

“I have a gift for you,” Dad told her one night, “I think you’ll like it.”

“What is it? A book?”

“An astute observation.”

“Can we read it now?”

“Only if you don’t tell your mother how late it is.” He said to her mock-solemnly.

“I won’t!”

“Then let’s begin…. Chapter One, An Unexpected Party,” he began with a smile, “‘In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell…’”

His voice carried off into the night, adventure and wonder growing inside her mind as they read together beneath starlit skies.

These are the memories which will colour her childhood and she will carry them forever…

Even to her next life.

Chapter Text

He watches over her slumbering form with fondness in his eyes and affection pulling his smile. He reaches, brushing a stray hair behind her pointed ear.

Celeriel is beautiful, and kind. Her smile is blinding. The feelings of joy and wonder she exhibits when observing the world around her are contagious. She’s a refreshing breeze on a hot summers day. A breath of air after resurfacing from a deep pool of blue. Her gentleness and compassion are foreign to him. Or maybe they aren’t. Maybe he has forgotten how to be compassionate and gentle. Maybe, before meeting her, he had forgotten what it felt like to be treated with kindness.

Celeriel makes him feel more like Mairon than Sauron.

He doesn’t hate it.

Mairon doesn’t hate being treated like Mairon. In fact, he finds himself enjoying her admiration immensely—enjoying her affection immensely.

He frowns.

This cannot go on forever.

One day he will have to return to his master. And when that day comes, he fears the worst. Morgoth is cruel, and ruthless. He has no delusions of pretending otherwise. Celeriel is young, and naive. She could never understand the reasoning behind what they do—what he and his master are doing. She won’t understand. She needs to understand. He hopes she will. Sometimes, one is required to dirty their hands with unsavoury acts to achieve their goal; to achieve a greater good. This victory, this greater good, will overshadow every atrocity, every evil, committed to attain it. He’s certain of that. He has to be. Else all this has been for nothing.

No. It won’t be for nothing.

It cannot be for nothing.

Sauron has spilt too much blood for it to be for nothing.

He will carve this world and reshape it, molding it into his vision of perfection. He will have his perfection, his order, and Celeriel will be there to see it.

She has to be.

(He might go mad if she isn’t.)

How foolish of him to allow her into his heart—-to allow himself to want her kindness, to need it. How foolish, is he that somehow, through his folly, he cannot bring himself to regret it?

He is a fool—the most foolish of all fools.

But he is, incidentally, happy.

Celeriel looks at this discordant world like it’s a work of art. Mairon will make that vision an actuality, a true work of art, for her.

::

“Celeriel,”

She glances up, lowering the clay jug in her hands and setting it on the ground.

“Yes, Mairon?”

Mairon holds her gaze.

“I’m leaving, Celeriel.” He says gently, kneeling.

“Oh,” her heart sinks, stomach twisting awfully. She had wondered if Mairon would leave. She feels stupid now, though. Of course Mairon has a past—-a life outside of being with her, before meeting her, that he wants to return to.

“Okay,” she nods, accepting. Celeriel cares for Mairon and sometimes caring for someone means being able to let go. Caring means looking out for what’s best for them and doing it even if it’s difficult to, doing it in spite of the difficulties.

She’ll have to readjust to his lack of presence. It might be lonely, but Celeriel would survive. She would be alright. Eventually.

“You too,” Mairon tells her, and her thoughts stutter to a halt. What did he mean by that?

“Me too?” She asks hopefully.

“You’re coming with me.”

And so they leave, together.

Mairon leads her away from her cave. She follows him, willingly—-even through all her reluctance and fear to leave behind the only home she has ever known because there is, if nothing else, trust in Mairon. She doesn’t ask where they’re going. It would be pointless to ask when she wouldn’t recognize the destination. The only thing to do is to follow Mairon and enjoy their shared adventure.

::

The sharp air tastes bitter. The cold ground feels firm beneath her feet. Dust of ivory falls from the sky in large tuffs of snow.

Celeriel can see wisps of her own breath. Her rosy face and the tips of her ears feel numb. The cold is formidable and she is unprepared. Her fur coat can only do so much to protect her from the harshness of the surrounding elements.

Up ahead, Mairon growls in frustration. Behind him, Celeriel stumbles on the uneven terrain, legs giving out beneath her as she falls to her knees.

“Celeriel,” Mairon calls out to her, concern knitting his brow, “are you alright?”

She sneezes miserably.

“I’m fine.” She tries to say but it comes out sounding something more like: “Mmmphn.”

For whatever reason, Mairon seems dubious. Maybe he misheard her?

Mairon is making a funny face.

He says something and frowns. She doesn’t hear it. She does, however, hear the distressed noise he makes afterwards when she tosses her coat to the ground.

“It’s hot,” Celeriel declares, pushing Mairon’s hand away and falling backwards into the snow.

“No.” He scolds, lifting her up and wrapping her in the fallen coat.

“It’s so hot…” Celeriel whines petulantly, flinging her coat into the snow, then stating rather dramatically: “I’m going to catch fire and die...”

Again.

“No,” Mairon says plainly, “you are cold. Too cold. Put your coat on.”

“Noooooooo….” She wails, sniffling. “I don’t want tooooo!”

The winter air has addled her judgement.

“Celeriel—-”

“I don’t want to burn!” She sobs, flinging herself back towards the snowbank to Mairon’s increasing distress.

“Celeriel!”

She’s sick, Mairon thinks, stricken. She’s too cold. Her soul will depart for the Halls of Mandos if I don’t—-

“Come here, Celeriel.” He says sternly.

“Mmmnn?”

“You aren’t burning.” He informs her firmly. “You are freezing. Now come here and put on your cloak.”

Celeriel frowns, brows furrowing.

“I’m cold?”

“Yes,” he nods curtly, picking up her cloak. “Now come here.”

Slowly, she approaches with an uncertain pensiveness etched into her eyes.

“Are you sure?” Celeriel asks quietly.

“Yes.” He promises, wrapping her in the fur garment.

She shudders as a gust of wind ghosts through her, brushing against her aching bones, and making her feel horribly hollow.

“Sleep.” Mairon urges, eyes gleaming brightly.

Immediately, she drops into his arms, falling fast asleep.

She dreams of soft golden fur.

Chapter Text

She dreams in orange.

Orange is the colour of flame, sunset, and sunrise.

(Sometimes, when sunlight falls perfectly on Mairon’s hair, it gleams a spectacular orange.)

She dreams of ash and smoke.

“But if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?”

Smoke came like a roaring tide and swept her away.

She dreams in orange.

(Flames lick her blistering corpse, engulfing her in orange, charring her bones.)

“Grey clouds roll over the hills, bringing darkness from above.”

She hates orange.

::

She’s crying.

Mairon wipes a tear off her cheek.

Celeriel whimpers softly, weeping in her dream.

“Please…” she pleads, anguish clear in her voice, “please… !”

“Celeriel,” he jostles her but she does not wake.

“Ah… ! It hurts…” she cries out, thrashing. “It… hurts… !”

Mairon is at a loss of what to do.

Celeriel is in pain and he doesn’t know why. She is crying and he can’t stop her tears.

What do I do? He thinks with desperation in his eyes. What am I to do?

She wakes with a jolt—terrified wide eyes staring through him as though unseeing. She gazes passed him; complexion paling as if gripped by death.

“Who am I?”

There’s confusion and a wild, desperate, fight for survival in her eyes. Where is she? Who is she? She doesn’t know. She’s confused and afraid. He hates seeing her afraid. He calls her name; recognition tempers the wildness and she crumples in his arms.

Mairon. She thinks, nuzzling into him. Safe.

He tenses at the blatant display of trust. If he wasn’t aware of how ill-equipped he was to handle elven children before he certainly is now.

What do I do? He wonders, awkwardly accepting the child clinging to him.

Comfort her, a voice advises. It’s as easy as that, dear Mairon.

Comfort? Who’s comforting? Him?

Mairon wants to laugh. And maybe even cry too.

I have no idea what I’m doing! Mairon thinks as he shifts her into a more comfortable position, holding her and whispering tender comforts until calmness returns.

She hiccups once or twice and then passes out in exhaustion. (As children, and perhaps even adults, tend to do after emotional fits.)

You did well, Mairon. The voice whispers approvingly but he pays it no mind. His attention is taken completely by the child in his arms.

Leaning forwards, Mairon kisses her forehead.

“Sweet dreams, O sweet Celeriel,” he whispers.

::

Weak, Morgoth’s voice spits. She’s ruining you. And you’re pathetic for allowing it.

Mairon winces and releases a loud hiss, head throbbing.

Watch and see, Morgoth continues cruelly, once she knows who you are and what you’ve done… Fear and disgust will twist that expression of admiration you so adore into hatred.

“Tt…”

He tries to silence the voice, but his efforts only serve to make it louder.

Mairon clutches his head, tugging painfully at his hair—maybe the pain will make it stop, ground him. He’s torn between denial and shame, guilt and despair.

I know that! A part of him screams. I am Sauron—the Abhorred. I have killed and tortured more of her kind than she could ever conceive! I should not be playing nursemaid to an elder child. I am Sauron but——-

He chokes, silently reaching for her slumbering face. She is so beautiful. She is too good. This elven child is a light brighter than the Silmarils.

—-I don’t want to be. His thoughts whisper treacherously. Not anymore.

Illuvatar’s vision grows increasingly tempting. A vision of the Ainur, elves, and men—even the adopted dwarves of Aulë—all together, weaving a song.

Elves.

Celeriel.

He denounced this vision.

Mairon denied it and rebelled—he became the Apostate Maia, Sauron.

Where had that led him?

It led him under the foul yoke of Morgoth where he was called the Lieutenant, but in truth, he was nothing more than a dog to the Black Foe. He chose Morgoth for the power to change all of creation, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not create anything truly beautiful—orcs instead of elves, curses instead of blessings. Morgoth taught him how to create monstrosity.

The vision of Eru is more beautiful and lovely than anything he and Morgoth had ever made.

He has no right to want it.

But a treacherous part of him wonders: could I still be apart of that vision?

Desperation and madness war within him.

I want it. I want it. I want it. They chant. That power, that beauty… I want it. I want to build it. I want to help. I want to help make it…

He thinks of Celeriel.

I want her. He thinks desperately. I want to raise her—-raise her as my own. I want her to be mine.

He wants to give her the world.

He wants to give her paradise.

He’s already fallen. But to climb up—to claw his way back into the light—would mean to acknowledge he ever fell into darkness in the first place. To take a different path now would mean to acknowledge that he took the wrong path before.

Will his pride allow that?

Could he endure the humiliation?

If I am wrong, then what have I done? Mairon thinks with dread. All this pain and death—-for what?

He had a justification before, a reason for all this suffering. Why isn’t that enough anymore? When did it stop being enough?

I cannot go back to Morgoth, he realizes. I cannot take Celeriel there.

She would die.

She cannot die.

Mairon couldn’t bear it.

Mairon imagines Morgoth’s slimy touch upon his beloved Celeriel. The thought of Morgoth tainting her, twisting her with his dark sorcery nauseates him. His vessel revolts at such a thought and he takes physically ill, throwing up.

If Morgoth wins, Celeriel will never be free. He thinks, sinking into dread at the thought. She will never be safe if Morgoth wins.

If Morgoth wins, Celeriel will be hurt.

Morgoth would tear her apart and take pleasure in it.

Morgoth cannot win.

Mairon won’t let him win.

Chapter Text

Celeriel awakens, blinking the drowsiness from her eyes as she stares up at an unknown ceiling. Realization quickly dawns on her. She’s lying on a bed—an actual bed with a mattress, warm blanket, and cushions.

Celeriel wants to cry.

How long has it been? She can’t even recall.

Celeriel quickly pulls herself together.

The bed is nice, but there are more pressing matters to attend to.

She drapes the blanket over her shoulders and swings her legs around, climbing off the bed.

Where is Mairon?

As if sensing the thought, the door swings open and in comes a man. His hair looks a lot like hers, and he’s well-dressed and—-

She squints.

Not a man, she amends. His ears are too pointy and he’s too pretty overall to be a normal man. He has a familiar face, but Celeriel can’t explain why.

“You’re awake,” says the elf in fancy robes and she stiffens because that voice, those eyes—-

“Mairon?”

Mairon-who-doesn’t-look-like-Mairon nods and picks her up, gingerly placing her back on the bed.

“You changed your face,” Celeriel exclaims in awe, then frowns. “Is this something that happens often?”

“Only when it needs to,” Mairon answers, sitting down beside her. “Celeriel, you must listen carefully, can you do that for me?”

“I’m listening.” She replies.

“From now on, my name will be Annatar. Please don’t call me Mairon, or mention Mairon, and anything that happened while I was Mairon. Can you do that?”

“I can,” Celeriel nods, extremely confused, “but why—-”

“I promise to explain everything,” Mairon, who suddenly has a really weird aversion to his own name, tells her, kissing her forehead, “just not… presently.”

Celeriel frowns, considering. This is all rather suspect- highly suspect, in fact - but surely Mairon has a good reason for it?

“You promise to explain?”

His eyes surge with affection, betraying only the slightest hesitance. She doesn’t notice.

“I promise.” He says after a beat.

“Okay, then.” She smiles, then falters. “Do I call you Annatar, now?”

She doesn’t mind the name. It isn’t bad, or anything, but it’s not ‘Mairon.’ She likes his previous name better. This would definitely take some getting used to.

“Ah,” he shifts, stammering, “well, I was hoping that—erm… you could, perhaps, maybe—-”

Of all the times to lose my reputed silver-tongue, he curses, heart fluttering. His form is practically vibrating with anticipation, trembling with it, even, and he can’t stop—-

“Breathe, Mairon.” Celeriel advises with a slight giggle. How cheeky.

“If you are comfortable,” he retries after a moment, “you could call me, ‘Ada.’”

Her mind cranks into ‘conversion mode’, scrambling through different kinds of elvish, finding the word, then rearranging it into its english translation.

“Ada,” she repeats slowly, “as in—-”

Father.

Her eyes widen.

“Are you adopting me?”

“‘Adopting’?” He repeats, smiling. “Well, yes, I suppose——”

Celeriel squeals, blanket thrown to the floor as she emerges from it - tackling Mairon, who catches her easily, into a hug.

“This is the best day of my life!” She exclaims, laughing into his chest.

“Mine, too.” He agrees, laughing also. “Mine, too.”

::

Every village has its blacksmith. Or every village should, at least. But what to do with the loss of their only smith before the training of his apprentice? Nothing, but wait for catastrophe. A village needs its smith. Someone to make their blades, shape their horseshoes, and craft their tools and nails. Without weapons, they cannot defend themselves. Without tools, they cannot work.

Without a smith, they’re stuck.

Or were, until he came.

“I’ll teach you my craft if you shelter and feed my daughter,” the elf had said, carrying in his arms a young elven child.

“We agree,” they had replied, easily, “we accept your terms.”

And so the elf taught them, but not once after making the deal did they see his daughter.

::

“Stay here, Celeriel.” Mairon, now known as Annatar, instructs for what seems like the millionth time. “I’ll return in three hours.”

“Can’t I come?” Celeriel asks. “You always leave me.”

“I’m a blacksmith, Celeriel.” He tells her gently, watching in amusement as she puffs angrily, much like a displeased cat.

“Well, I’m—-” she starts before even knowing what she’s trying to say. She wants very badly to argue, to counter with something. The word is on the tip of her tongue, almost - as if reaching for the memory of an old forgotten habit. She used to know this word, she used to love it - love doing it, but now she can’t remember and it’s breaking her heart.

Celeriel cries.

Mairon is immediately by her side.

“Don’t cry, dear Celeriel, please.” He soothes, wiping her tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just, well, you’re afraid of fire and I thought—”

Celeriel wails louder.

“Urk,” he says, frantically trying to appease her. “Don’t cry, pl—please, um. Fine. Fine! Alright, you can come but—“

His half-hearted invitation fails to satisfy her.

“I w-won’t co—come,” she sniffles, hiccuping. “A-Ada doesn’t want me t-there and I—I don’t want to—to be a bother…”

His heart tightens. Oh, how he’s weak to her tearful face. He hates seeing her like this - possessed by grief, miserable. All he wants is to see her happy, smiling at him.

“That’s not what I meant,” he sighs, hugging her. “I would be honoured to have you join me… but must you? Won’t the flames alarm you? A-and the people of this village, I don’t—“

He doesn’t want them to see Celeriel.

He doesn’t want to share.

“We’ll be leaving as soon as my debt has been paid.” He says. “I don’t want any of us to get attached.”

“A-attached?” Celeriel repeats with a slight bite in her tone. “How? I’ve been in this room since ever! I’m a person, not a thing to keep locked away. I’m not part of your hoard of treasures, Mairon.”

He winces at the bluntness of her statement. It’s true that he hasn’t let her out of this house since they’ve arrived. He understands her frustration. Perhaps, he has been a tad too extreme with his protection, but it’s for her own good. Celeriel has no way of defending herself. She’s been kidnapped before and——

What if she’s taken again?

What if Morgoth finds them?

Mairon has so many reasons to hide her. Good reasons. Justifiable reasons. There are ways to justify this treatment of Celeriel. She’s unhappy, but better unhappy than dead, right? But, he wilts, there’s no way to justify this to her. He can imagine it, what she would say after he gives a list of reasons why:

“It’s for your own good,” he would say, pointing to his list. “See? You’re alive, Celeriel. Your life was more important than your happiness.”

She wouldn’t care.

“Who were you to decide that?” She’d answer years from now with anger and resentment burning in her eyes.

The way he’s treating me, Celeriel thinks, trembling. The way I feel—-

The sudden recollection of a memory prods her to speak.

“You aren’t Feanor, Ada.” Celeriel says, breaking him from his thoughts, and it’s like a slap to the face. “And I’m not a Silmaril.”

Her words devastate him.

Her eyes are angry, frustrated, but there’s not an ounce of resentment in them.

She’s right.

The realization is humbling.

“I’m sorry, Celeriel.” His shoulders slump. “I’m so sorry.”

“Protect me, Ada.” Celeriel says fondly. “But don’t treat me like a prisoner.”

Chapter Text

She’s like a butterfly, fluttering about with excitement in her eyes. It warms his heart to see her so content. She’s truly happy to be out here with him. However, beneath her eager exterior, Mairon can sense an underlying nervousness in her posture. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes dart to and from the flames. She’s as skittish as a puppy.

“Stay several arms length away from the forge.” Mairon instructs, suddenly pursing his lips in distaste. There are people watching, looking at Celeriel in awe and wonder. He understands the sentiment, Celeriel is wonderful, but he doesn’t like it - the prying eyes. It’s a miracle how brave she’s being right now with her close proximity to the fire. He doesn’t want these stupid men ruining it. “Do not speak to strangers. Stay by my side, Celeriel.”

“Yes, ada.” She chirps obediently, watching Mairon tie back his hair.

It’s odd seeing him like this; with features just a fraction too similar to her own. They look alike now. Almost like a true father and daughter pair - as if it were real.

But it is real, Celeriel reminds herself giddily, Mairon adopted me.

They were family now.

Celeriel was no longer alone.

::

Word of Celeriel’s appearance at the workshop spreads, garnering attention and curiosity. Villagers flock towards the forge, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elusive elven daughter. It isn’t often that someone sees an eldar child. Such an occasion is rare and the presence of one stirs up a big commotion.

Celeriel tenses at the whispers. The excitement in her eyes dim, replaced with anxiety and wariness. There are too many people. She doesn’t like it.

They’re human, and that causes strange feelings to rise inside of her, but there are too many of them and they are too loud and—-

It’s a complete sensory overload.

Mairon’s embracing her before she has the chance to react badly, enveloping her with his arms and shielding her away from the world.

She tucks herself into him, burying her entire body in the folds of his apron. The leather is thick, heavy, and she lifts it up to hide underneath.

She might be hyperventilating.

This was a mistake—

She didn’t think there would be so many people. It’s too much. She just wanted to see a forge and watch Mairon make something, teach—-

She clings to Mairon’s frame, shuddering.

Mairon says something to the villagers in a language she doesn’t know and they respond in kind. His tone is scathing. The villagers sound sheepish and apologetic, but Mairon seems displeased, unsatisfied by their answer.

A loud murmuring slowly fades as the crowd disperses. It becomes apparent that few are willing to try the protective parent’s patience for a few glimpses of his child.

Moments later, Mairon lifts his protective apron to reveal a bewildered Celeriel.

“Are they gone?” She asks, peeking out from his apron. “Oh!”

The crowd is more or less gone, but a handful of people remain.

“Who are they?” Celeriel whispers, hiding behind Mairon who seems annoyed.

“They are…” he hesitates, “my students, I suppose.”

They make awful blacksmiths.

(In his complete, totally honest, and unbiased opinion.)

Few of them appreciate the art. It’s all about crude tools and functionality without any elegance. Some learn better than others, but… well, the only student Mairon ever really wants to teach is currently afraid of fire. He’s stuck with his current students. How awful. (Then again, even the brightest of students would feel dull in comparison to his ideal student for a single reason: others might be good, but Celeriel is exceptional.)

He would be absolutely delighted to teach her his craft.

Oh, now that’s a thought.

He lets himself wonder. Imagining what would happen if they crafted something together. It may not be beautiful or perfect. It wouldn’t need to be because it would be true and authentically Celeriel-made.

If she ever wants to learn, he thinks sombrely.

He knows her trauma runs deeper than what she’s shown. There are secrets hidden in the same place she hides her wounds. And that’s okay.

Mairon can wait.

They have an eternity to look forward to after all.

::

The sound of Mairon’s voice, the rolling heat, and rhythmic clanking of the smithy makes her feel sleepy and warm. As a pleasant drowsiness overtakes her, Celeriel flops onto her side, curling into a little ball.

Mairon pauses his lecture.

His students exchange glances, some cooing at the adorable sight.

Mairon struggles not to melt into a puddle of affection. He has a reputation to uphold and—-

Oh, how he wishes he could eternalize this moment - eternalize this happiness.

He’s happier now than he’s ever been.

::

Celeriel jolts to attention.

Mairon blinks down at her, watching as her expression shifts. He had been carrying her in his arms whilst lecturing his students.

“You can put me down now, ada.” She flushes in embarrassment.

She waits for him to set her down. He doesn’t.

“I don’t want to.”

Celeriel gapes in betrayal.

“Ada!” She squeals as he lifts her onto his back piggyback style.

“Do you want to see how swords are made?” Mairon asks, inwardly hoping for a yes. She might say no. She might not like swords. He hopes he hasn’t made a mistake.

“Swords?” Her eyes glisten. “Like pointy stabby things that people swing around?”

“Yes… those.”

“I’d love to, ada.”

::

Celeriel watches Mairon work his craft like it’s magic. The skill he exhibits while working is apparent only by the ease in which he manipulates the molten metal.

How pretty, Celeriel thinks as Mairon shapes the yellow metal, tapering both sides evenly.

Mairon halts, glancing towards his daughter.

“Would you like to try, Celeriel?”

“I’d ruin it.” She replies bashfully.

“No,” he shakes his head, smiling warmly, “you wouldn’t ruin it.”

She hesitates.

Blacksmithing feels a lot like glassblowing.

Glassblowing.

The word comes to her suddenly and the building pressure in the back of her mind finally eases somewhat. Something had been blocking her memories. Now, that barrier was breaking. It’s like there’s a dam built in her brain preventing her from remembering, but her memories were now leaking out of the cracks.

“I—I… um,” she shifts anxiously, “well, erm, the thing is—ah, um…”

She doesn’t know the word for glassblowing.

“I don’t know what it’s called.” Celeriel admits, biting her lip in frustration. “I’m looking for a word I do not know.”

“I might.” Mairon says helpfully. “Describe it, if you can.”

“Blacksmithing, but… not?” She tries. “Changing sand crystal into shapes. Blowing them into… bubbles using hollow logs?”

“Glass? Crystal?” Mairon blinks, frowning thoughtfully. “Maybe… crystal-shaping or crystal-blowing?”

“Why ‘crystal,’ and not… um, ‘glass’?”

“That word is used to describe both glass and crystal.” Mairon tells her. “‘Maril’ refers to both crystal and glass… Like the ‘Silmarils.’”

Silmarils?

“Though, ‘calca’ could be another word appropriate for this context.” Mairon continues with a hum. “It refers specifically to sand crystal made by melting sand.”

“Oh. Then, yes, that’s it.” She hesitates. “Maybe.”

Mairon pauses, fighting a smile.

“‘Hollow logs’” he begins as she flushes pink.

“Pipe!” She squeaks, hiding her face in embarrassment. “I meant to say ‘pipe!’”

“I know.” He smiles fondly. “I know.”

::

The shortsword Mairon forges for her is much lighter than she thought it would be, and prettier than any blade she’s seen before. He follows a leaf motive when designing the blade, a theme evident in the silver design embedded into its wooden hilt.

It’s too pretty for a weapon.

Celeriel can’t explain how, but the blade resembles emerald. She knows, logically, that Mairon never touched emerald, and that the metal hasn’t oxidized. There’s no explanation for its magnificent green colour except…

Mairon’s weird magic. Celeriel scrutinizes the smiling maia.

He never did explain it.

Magic hands, magic hair, magic singing…

Ah.

Mairon must be a Disney Princess.

Although, Celeriel doesn’t quite remember what a ‘Disney’ is.

“Do you like it?” Mairon asks, breaking her from a train of confusing thoughts.

“I love it.” Celeriel answers, happily slipping the sword into its teal leather sheath. “It’s beautiful, ada.”

“I’m glad.” He says. “I’ll teach you how to use it. Hopefully, you’ll never have to, but just in case…”

Something flickers in his expression.

“If you’re ever in true peril, point it skywards and listen.”

Celeriel makes a face. That made little to no sense.

“Is that a riddle?” She asks.

“Something like that.”

She glances down at her hands.

“Are we going somewhere dangerous?” Celeriel asks quietly.

Mairon twitches almost imperceptibly. His brow furrowing slightly as he carefully contemplates his answer.

“Perhaps.” He says eventually. “But it’s the lesser danger.”

The lesser danger? Then what’s the greater danger?

As if reading her thoughts, Mairon summarizes everything in a single word:

“Morgoth.”

The wall fractures at the name, jagged fragments of memories scrapping along the edge of her mind. Fear numbs her legs despite the sudden urge to run.

“The Enemy.” Celeriel whispers almost immediately, blade slipping from her grasp as her knees give out beneath her.

Morgoth.

She knows that name.

From where?

A book? A song?

It isn’t clear how she knows it, but she knows that Morgoth is bad news - that Morgoth is bad.

“W-Why are we running from Morgoth?” She quivers. “Is he… Is he chasing us?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Mairon breathes. “Not yet, anyways, but he is a threat to all who live in this world. We must remain vigilant. We’ll leave this village and go someplace else.”

“Where?”

A place he won’t find us. Mairon thinks like a prayer. A place he might never find.

“Gondolin.”

Chapter Text

Gondolin.

Why does that name sound familiar? Celeriel wonders. Where have I heard that name before?

So close - she’s on the cusp of recollection.

“Ada,” she tugs on his sleeve.

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me more about Gondolin?”

Mairon pauses, his eyes thoughtful as he considers his answer.

“Not much is known about the city itself asides that it exists.” He tells her eventually. “Gondolin is a well-kept secret - presumably built by King Turgon to escape the watchful gaze of Morgoth. Few know its exact location.”

“Do you?”

“No,” Mairon shakes his head, “but there are ways to find it.”

“Then why hasn’t it been found by the e-enemy?”

“Because he isn’t truly desperate to find it - not like us - and that makes all the difference.” He sighs, furrowing his brow. “If anything, I will find it simply because I must.”

He looks and sounds desperate.

Celeriel isn’t used to seeing Mairon this way - seeing him so stressed. It worries her.

She wants to be more useful. She wants to help.

“Why Gondolin?” She asks. “Why not elsewhere?”

“Because he cannot destroy what he cannot find.“

“But Gondolin is no exception,” the words spill out of her lips without thought, “Gondolin will fall - its location betrayed by Maeglin, the king’s nephew.”

“How do you know that?” Mairon asks sharply, eyes widening in alarm.

How did she know that?

She wracks her mind for the source of her knowledge, but the memory eludes her.

“I…” Celeriel swallows, frowning, “I don’t know.”

Mairon grips her shoulders firmly, though his grip remains gentle, and stares at her with a stern expression.

“Do you often have visions, Celeriel?” He asks, kneeling. “Do you have thoughts and dreams of the future? Of things you don’t fully understand?”

“Well, yes,” she hesitates, “but also not quite.”

“Celeriel?”

“It… it is difficult to explain.” She whispers. “Sometimes, I get these feelings and thoughts, but they feel more like half-forgotten memories than visions.”

“You saw the fall of Gondolin as a memory?”

“No, I - that’s not it either.” She bites her lip in frustration, tasting blood. “It wasn’t so personal as that. I - it - there’s a sort of detachment. Like I’ve read about it in passing. I can… I think I — well, maybe… it can be prevented, perhaps.”

She knows her words don’t make sense. She can’t expect Mairon to make sense of it either - not when she doesn’t understand it herself.

“Sorry.” She whispers.

“Do not apologize.” Mairon tells her. “You’ve made no mistakes.”

“Haven’t I?” The words slip out before she can stop them. “I feel like I’ve done everything wrong. I should remember more, but I can’t - and I fear that people will suffer because of it. I’m not strong enough to make a difference. My knowledge is useless if I can’t remember when I need to, and I feel—-”

I feel useless too.

What’s the use of prophetic knowledge if it cannot be used or accessed when needed? She feels like she should be doing more - like she should be capable of more - but she hasn’t the strength. Mairon wouldn’t understand. Her plight is full of irreplicable circumstances.

If only I had the strength of a thousand, and the ability to change this world for the better.

Celeriel isn’t an elven king, nor is she a hero of great renown. How could she try to change the world? She feels so small compared to everything that surrounds her. Who would listen? Who would believe her? Maybe if she were Luthien they would. Maybe if she were known and respected like Elrond would be.

“I want to be stronger.” Celeriel says. “I want to learn how to fight, and have the courage to stand against M-Morgoth—-“

“No,” says Mairon with darkening eyes, “you will never face Morgoth. I will not allow it. I would sooner die then let him set his eyes on you.”

Point.

“M-maybe not Morgoth,” she swallows, “but I do need the knowledge to defend myself. I want—”

“You want power.” Mairon interjects with a troubled expression. “You think having more power will give you what you need.”

He would rather that Celeriel never encounter a situation requiring the power she speaks of. He should be powerful enough, he must be powerful enough, for the both of them.

“Well, no,” she says, “not exactly? Power is too bothersome to attain, and wanting power in that sense is dangerous. But… doesn’t strength decide who dictates the future?”

It’s not like Morgoth will be defeated by the power of love. Thinking that way is just silly - naive at best - even Celeriel knows that much. Whoever defeats Morgoth will be very powerful.

She just needs to speak with the right people at the right time.

Someone strong enough to fight against Morgoth, she thinks with a sigh, someone strong enough to withstand Sauron, too. Someone like—-

She glances at Mairon.

—-Fingolfin?

Except he’s dead.

Who isn’t dead?

Celeriel can count only a handful of living elves who could probably maybe hurt Morgoth in battle.

Glorfindel, maybe?

And if not, then she would have to become stronger.

“I don’t need to be the strongest.” She decides. “I just need to be strong enough.”

Strong enough to protect Mairon from Morgoth and the Dark Lord that comes after.

“It wasn’t strength that dictated my future.” Mairon says meaningfully, giving her a strange look. “My future changed completely - and it wasn’t power that changed it. Speaking from experience, I know that strength isn’t everything. It can’t … ”

Right. I have to become as strong as Glorfindel - at least! Then, I could probably take a balrog. Or die trying. Dying while trying shouldn’t be too difficult. That would probably give Mairon more than enough time to run away.

…

What’s a balrog?

“…do you understand, Celeriel?”

“Yes, ada.” She says with an obedient nod.

Mairon narrows his eyes.

Celeriel smiles all doe-eyed and innocent-like.

She didn’t hear a word I said. He realizes despairingly.