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Chapter Text

Adar's children turn against him, and time slows. 

He knows that he has earned this death, but despite his acceptance, he isn't prepared for the pain that rips through the mangled remnants of his heart. 

Still, he feels no hatred in the wake of this betrayal. Not for his poor misled offspring, and surprisingly not even for Sauron. There is no room for hatred, only fear. Fear for his children. For what will become of them?  

They would become slaves under the lash of a master who, above all, prized order and thus could never find worth in the distorted forms of the Uruks. Sauron’s disdain would harden to disgust with all the sharp intensity of an artist who had made an ill-wrought brush stroke. 

Adar had known the pain of such servitude. 

The Dark Lord had possessed an unparalleled knack for cruelty. After subjecting their bodies and minds to unutterable defilements, at the height of his barbarism, he had let them go back to their people. 

Melian had counseled her husband to show pity.  Thingol, in his horror and disgust, had instead drawn a sword upon them, killing two before they had managed to flee. What else could they do but return to Morgoth? 

When the Vala had dragged Adar’s broken body up to that mountain top, it had been solitude that had eradicated whatever vestiges of his former self that remained. 

On that frigid peak, Adar had called out to the Valar. First, to Aulë to break his chains, and later, when the loneliness had been past endurance, he had called to Námo to come and claim him and willed himself to die. 

He hadn’t died; his fëa remained firmly anchored to his body. He wanted to weep but could not bring himself to do it. What had Morgoth done to him? What hope could there be for him? Finally, in despair, he had cried out to Nienna, unsure what to ask for. "Help me," were the only words that at last formed on his lips. 

Footsteps sound below him, and for one wild moment, he thought it was the Lady of Sorrow. But there was no whisper of grey robes, no song of mourning. Instead, there was a burst of color, not blinding, but warm as a flame. 

It was not Nienna who had looked unflinchingly at Adar. Instinctively, Adar had known that this being, though he had been beautiful enough to be one of the Ainur, was something else, “You are  his  servant, Saur—”

Sauron had thrust into Adar’s mind like a jagged blade to examine what was left of his fëa with excruciating efficiency. Devoid of strength and hope, Adar had shown Sauron the worst of himself, a mutilated soul to match his fell form, and had awaited the disgust that would undoubtedly follow. 

It never came. 

“I prefer Mairon,” the Maia had said gently as he had offered a cup of wine. 

Never before had he felt so seen ; every memory, desire, and wound had been laid bare and embraced. Adar knew of no way to receive such acceptance except one: he turned his back on the Valar who had been deaf to his suffering the moment that the bitter liquid had passed his lips. Surely, his faith was better placed in this being who brushed featherlight touches across his scarred visage. He could seek no higher clemency than the whispered epithet of ‘Neidragh’, for to be precious to Mairon was at least a tangible grace. It gave the Maia great power over him, which he sometimes used cruelly, but the agony had always been followed by soft caresses and softer words. 

Adar hadn’t chosen to be Morgoth’s slave, but he had willingly borne Mairon’s shackles, and in turn, his devotion had been devoured. He had even granted Adar the special privilege of recusing himself from Morgoth’s breeding program when he had confessed to Mairon that the notion of forced coupling disturbed him, “I do not want them—” 

“You want me,” Mairon finished with a smile.

In truth, Adar had meant to say ‘ I do not want them to be hurt ,’ but Mairon’s words were not wrong for all that they had not engaged in more than a single intense kiss, and few embraces and caresses. It made Adar feel guilty to do more than that when he thought of the horrors that were occurring to the other Moriondor, which usually prompted him to draw away from the Maia.  

“It will be difficult to earn such a concession from our Master. He will demand a great deal from me in return for such a boon.” 

Distressed, Adar had replied, “I would not have you suffer for my sake.” 

“Peace,” Mairon said. “It will be difficult, but not impossible. Morgoth is greatly distracted by Oromë's siege of Utumno.”

Even from their room within the depths of the fortress, the sound of battle could still be heard ringing above them. “Why is he attacking us?”

“Have you not been told?” Sauron questioned as he tucked a strand of hair behind Adar’s ear. “The Valar have found out about the Moriandor. They are disgusted by your existence and have been ordered to punish our master for breaking the edicts of Eru. Once he has been conquered, they wish to set what they view as ‘the natural order’ back to rights.”

“They would seek to kill us?” Adar gasps, though he had forsaken the Valar, he could not deny that the rejection hurt. “Why? We did not choose to become as we are now.”

“I know,” the Maia soothed. “It is cruel to have so little pity for your plight.” 

“Are they likely to win?” 

“This time? Yes, they will,” Mairon replied. “Melkor’s defense is too disorganized and chaotic, but even as the Valar seek to kill you and your brethren, they will not kill one of their own. I do not doubt that our master will return once he can slip their leash.”  

“What will we do?” Adar asks in horror, “I do not care if they take Morgoth, but I will not let them have you.”  

Appearing very pleased with his words, Mairon leaned in close and whispered, “Do not fear, sweet one. I have powers at my disposal which the Valar know naught. They will not find us here, these rooms are well concealed. Now, how can I reward you for such loyalty? Would you like to hold me?” 

A flush had crept up Adar’s pale flesh. Holding Mairon always rendered strange feelings in his body, yet he craved the sensations like nothing else: “I do not need a reward.” 

“You have already admitted that you desire me,” the Maia said confidently as he guided him towards his bed. He leaned back against the pillows and, with an edge of irritation, dragged Adar on top of him, “What qualms can you have left to indulge in?” 

“Of course, I want you,” Adar told him. “There is no being alive who could look at you and not feel desire.” 

The praise seemed to smooth some of the Maia’s ire. With more patience, he asked, “Then what is it?”

His thoughts were a confused jumble when he finally replied, “I have never—you know that I haven’t—the Moriondor in the slave pits, it always looks so painful—I would not hurt you in such a manner.” 

“My Neidragh, you are so good,” Mairon said with wonder in his tone, frustration completely abandoned. Adar turned his face away to try and disguise the effect that the praise had upon him, “There are as many forms of pain as there are moments in time, and not all of them are so bitter, but we will start gently. Let me show you.”  

Following Mairon’s prediction, Morgoth was captured by Oromë, and the fortress of Utumno was left a ruin. Adar and his lover remained safe, but the same could not be said of the rest of the Moriandor who had been crushed in destruction. He had removed the remains of his brethren from the wreckage and buried them with as much gentleness that he could muster. Their living had been brutal, the least that he can do is give them a soft farewell.  

Somewhere, their children survive. Mairon assured him that he would do everything that he could to find out where Melkor had spirited them away. Probably, Adar should have hoped that they were dead. It would have been kinder. Selfish, as it is, he finds that he cannot wholly wish for it. 

After the siege, they had heard whispers of Melkor being dragged back to Valinor, bound in chains. 

Though he mourned the Moriandor, what followed were some of the happiest years that Adar had experienced since his half-forgotten days as an elf. He poured out his heart to Mairon, even sharing his scant recollections of Cuiviénen, which he had once thought he would never be able to speak of openly. The memories are fragmented, but he speaks of the sound of the song which had awakened him, of water lapping at his ankles, of the awe when the first child had been born, and how the sight of that baby in her mothers' arms had made him weep, though he knew not why. 

With a strange greed, Mairon drinks in these tales and sometimes even shares a few of his own experiences before they had met. However, he never discusses his time as a smith of Aulë beyond the skills that he learned of the forge (of that Mairon can speak till the breaking of Arda). Adar did not press, even though he was desperate to know of that shining admirable Maia who had been beloved of Eru. 

Then Morgoth returned, with three blazing jewels and scorched hands. Suddenly, everything went strange and crooked, and the ease of his relationship with Mairon turned furtive. On a quiet night, Mairon had turned to him and whispered, "Morgoth has been experimenting."

"Again?" Adar had asked, feeling hollow at the thought. 

“It serves a dual purpose. He wants an army and a new weapon.” Mairon told him, “The army will come from the descendants of the stolen children. Forgive me Neidragh, I could not find them before Melkor returned.”

“What will he do to them?”  

“I mentioned that he also wants a weapon. He wishes for one powerful enough to not only kill his enemies but corrupt them. Or to be more precise, he wants me to make this new weapon.” 

“How will torturing the Moriondor help in making a weapon.”

“They aren’t quite Moriondor anymore but…do you remember when I told you how Aulë forged his strongest creations?” Mairon probed, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.

“He would sing as he cast the work,” Adar shrugged, uncomprehendingly. “You did the same when you crafted my sword, but I still don’t understand the connection.” 

“Morgoth believes that screams of torment may work as songs do and imbue it with greater power. It will be a crown for his gems.” Mairon had looked down at his hands, and for the first time since Adar had met him, the Maia had appeared uncertain, almost lost. “It will take a very long time and a great deal of torment to create an object with the kind of power that he desires.”

Without warning, Adar’s stomach heaved, and he vomited up the remnants of the last meal that he had eaten. He watched in revulsion as it crept on the floor by the bed. He thought that his life was like that vomit; splattered out and repulsive with foul, unrecognizable things. Mairon quietly held his hair back and said nothing. 

What could either of them say?      

True to his word, Marion was absent for untold years, which left Adar as empty as he had once been on that mountain peak. When he finally returned, he found the Maia sitting amongst his beloved wolves, sharing their form. Something that Adar had noticed (though out of kindness, had never vocalized), Mairon indulged in when he was feeling troubled. The only acknowledgment that Adar received was when a massive furred head came to rest in his lap. Wordlessly, he stroked at his muzzle until Mairon was ready to return to his usual visage. 

Afterwards, a strange malice haunted his words, and his form seemed barely able to contain the inferno of his rage. When Adar asked him about his time away, he coldly replied, “Question me not on this matter. Lest thou receive full knowledge of what thou wouldst ask.” 

Adar had blinked at the strange way that Mairon had spoken, and all the rest of his inquiries were met with stony silence. However, the increasing cruelties that his lover had demanded in their intimate moments spoke volumes.

"The mockery that Morgoth hurls against Eru is beginning to appear childish," Adar hissed, hating the changes he noted in Mairon. 

"Not mockery," Mairon corrected dimly. "Though, undoubtedly, he would have it thought so."

"What could it be, other than contempt? What would prompt him to visit such ruin on the life that Eru fashioned?"     

Mairon's face had borne a familiar look, one that said he had understood something about him that Adar hadn't yet understood about himself. He had leaned in so close that their breaths mingled, "Jealousy." 

"I don't understand," Adar recoiled. He had known his words were false even as they had spilled from his throat. 

"Nor do I," Mairon admitted. "I have never understood the longing that some have to make life in their own image."

Those words had stung Adar. "Never?"

A slight shrug, "My creations in the forge are more satisfying and far more precise ."  

"Have you never desired that which you didn't arrange for?" Adar had pressed, "A bloom grown from a stray seed on the wind is no less beautiful than its cultivated brethren."  

"What a poet!" Mairon mocked, "You are asking me, with that lovely prose, if I enjoy surprises? Not the ones that I haven't planned. There is no pleasure in it."

"I didn't plan on you," Adar reminded him, unsure why it had been so important for him to make Mairon understand. 

"Thy plans did not countenance Morgoth," Marion snapped with sudden fury, his eyes flaring red and gold. "Tell me, how much joy has he brought thee?" 

The hand wrapped around Adar's wrist had burned like the heat of a forge, making him gasp in pain. Mairon had paused for a long moment, had pulled back his rage like the swift intake of the tide, and then had been calm again. 

"You shouldn't provoke me so," the Maia whispered, stroking the burn, anger seemingly forgotten. "I want to give you a gift, Neidragh."

"The sword that you crafted for me is a gift enough," Adar replied warily, "I want no other."

"This gift comes not of the forge but of the flesh." 

It had been Mairon who had first taken him among the Uruk and had shown him how they, like any other child of Aman, cried out in fear of the dark.

“They feel, and they fear, and they need your guidance to be strong.” 

Adar had been tending to an Uruk who had strayed out of doors too close to the dawn, when he had rubbed salve into the burn, the boy had sighed in relief, “Thank you, Adar.”

He blinks and his hands tremble. The boy looks at him in askance and shyly comments, “That's the word that the prisoners use for father. You look a little bit like an elf. Am I wrong to call you that?”

Mairon who had been watching from a short distance away had stepped forward, “You’re not wrong, child. Now run along.”  

Dismissing the boy into the safety of the shadows, Sauron had calmed his lover’s shaking with soft words. 

“They have their father,” he had said. 

‘And I have you .’ 

Mairon had acknowledged that the Uruks were beings who could feel, but he had not believed that they were capable of anything higher, such as reason or loyalty; maybe he had needed to think such things to stay sane during the bitter years that he spent forging Morgoth’s crown. A natural propensity for order and aesthetics would make such misshapen beings distasteful to Mairon, and Adar wondered if some of his distaste came from a sense of shame. 

Regardless, Morgoth had found utility in having such an ill-gotten but hardy race at his disposal. The Uruks became another weapon that he could hurl against Eru and the hated First Born.

He never got to spend as much time among them as he wanted. Mairon had said that it was important to retain a certain amount of distance, for he was not just their father but also their commander. It seemed as if every time he walked alone among them, Mairon was there, pulling him away with some task or another that needed tending. This did not mean that he did not love them fiercely, or that each of their deaths had not been another bleeding wound on the remains of Adar's heart.

In his pain, he had gone to Mairon, who had tried to soothe him, "What can we do? Neither you nor I can hope to challenge him. Only another Vala can strike him down, and if he falls now, then we will fall as well, for we are bound to him. What will happen to the Uruks then?

Adar had met his gaze hotly, "It is  you  whom I am bound to. You and the children you gave me."  

His words had seemed to please Mairon who brushed his face tenderly, "Of course. They were my gift to you and so you cherish them. Fear not, Morgoth may not always be as indomitable as he is now. Until then, we must be patient." 

"You will always have me," Adar swore. 

“Only I can understand the pain you carry, for it is a pain we have shared. You sustain me, my Neidragh.” Mairon had been secure in the knowledge that he had permanently wrested the being in his arms away from Morgoth. 

Morgoth fell, banished to the dark abyss, and it seemed as if the whole of Middle Earth had released a long-held breath in the silence that followed his absence.

Naturally, it could not last. The free peoples of Middle Earth came for them. Indeed, some of the First Children pursued them with such vehemence that Adar wondered at the complacency of the Elves in counting such blood-thirsty beings amongst their number. 

It was after their retreat back to the Southlands that rumors began to spread of an elven commander as beautiful and cruel as the sun.

"Finrod's kin," Mairon mused, tracing his throat with his fingers. Though his skin bears no mark, it had been where Lúthien and Huan had dealt him the blow that had nearly discorporated him. "This Galadriel is tenacious."

"Did you know her?" Adar asked cautiously, he had learned from painful experience that Mairon had hated speaking of the time before he defected to Morgoth almost as much as he had hated being called Sauron. 

"No," Mairon admits, "but I remember that Aulë had praised her beauty once. I have heard it said that the very light of the two trees is enmeshed in her hair and that she needs no other adornment than what naturally graces her."

Adar had felt painfully conscious of his dark hair and ruined features. " I've  heard it said that she decapitated twenty Uruks the last time that she engaged us in battle."

Mairon had smiled pointedly, "have I upset you? Do you wish for the death of the Golden Princess of the Noldor?" 

"I long for her to know a fraction of the pain she has given me," Adar had retorted hotly, disliking the self-satisfied preening that Mairon had been indulging in, made worse by the knowledge that the Maia's veiled accusations of jealousy were not wholly unfounded. 

"Sadly, the lady has no children for you to visit your wrath upon." 

"Will you take this seriously?" Adar had snapped, determinedly not asking why Mairon had known such a thing about the commander, "The Southlands are no longer a refuge for us. The elves have taken another fifty leagues of territory and have even started negotiations for peace with the men in those areas."

"We'll need to retreat further north, to Forodwaith," Mairon had replied soberly. "Gather a host of Uruks and send them out in small parties at staggered intervals." 

"What are their orders?"

"They will have none," Mairon said with a regretful expression, "ensure that they are lightly armed." 

"What?" Adar had demanded in shock, the lack of direction and weapons meant that the Uruks in the host would have been facing nothing less than a suicide march. 

"The elven leaders need to be convinced that our armies have scattered." Mairon spoke carefully, "The disorganized nature of the groups that they meet will convince them that our forces have been broken and that there is no need to pursue us further." 

"But they will die..."

Mairon cut him off, "So that the others might live. We can bring the women and children with us to the north, and many others besides, but if our enemies continue to hunt us, then we will lose all, and any chance of healing the wounds caused by Morgoth will be extinguished." 

"There must be another way," Adar argued in desperation. 

"I would welcome any alternative suggestions that you may have," Mairon said complacently, knowing full well that there were none; he had always been good at being gracious in the face of his superiority. 

 "You know that I don't," Adar whispered. 

 "Neidragh," Mairon said consolingly, "know also that I truly am sorry for your pain."

The journey north had been slow, and the deaths of those they had left behind weighed heavily on his thoughts on the long days that he spent hiding from the sun with his children. 

He knew that he had not been alone in his troubled mind, for their travels had left the Uruk host bitter and weary. Upon reaching Forodwaith, they had begun to question Mairon, "Can we rule after the damage that Morgoth has wrought?" 

Mairon had told them that the only way to bring stability to the chaos that Middle Earth had been thrown into was through order. 

"Our numbers are so few," the more vocal among the Uruks had argued. "How can we hope to rule by conquest?" 

"Through control," Mairon corrected. "There are powers, powers of the unseen world, that can offer one being such control over another. 

"You know how to wield such power?" Adar later asked him in surprise, wondering why the Maia had never used such gifts to aid Morgoth.

"Not yet," Mairon had said, "but I believe—no, I know—that such power exists. There will be a period of...experimentation while I gain mastery over it, and I will need help. I propose to take a select few of the strongest Uruks to aid me in this progress. It would give them something to focus on besides their resentment." 

"I would join their ranks to help," Adar added softly after a brief pause, "to help them and you."

Adar felt Mairon gently stroke his scarred hand, and Adar closed his eyes against the memories associated with the injury.

"Not yet," Mairon repeated. "When the process has been perfected, I will share it. You deserve nothing less. Until then, I will use the Uruks that you can spare me". 

Mairon had spent days at a time, locked in the lowest reaches of Forodwaith, summoning Uruks as he saw fit. Then he would stumble out of the dungeons, nearly vibrating out of his skin. Sometimes objects in the room vibrated with him. 

In those moments, he had needed Adar to hold him down and force him to focus on remembering the feel of his assumed flesh. On one such night, Adar whispered to Mairon, "Where are they?" 

Almost imperceptibly, Mairon's muscles had tensed. "The Uruks that I have been working with?"

"I haven't seen them about the fortress."

"Surely you don't wish for the Uruks to experiment on each other with such untested powers," Mairon had used his fingers to smooth Adar's hair into some semblance of order. "I knew it would grieve you if they were harmed in such a way." 

Adar blinked, "I had never considered that you might."

"I know," Mairon had said gently. "However, these powers must be tested somehow."

"You've sent them south?" Adar guessed. "To test these new gifts against men?" 

"I sent them away," Mairon stared into the distance as he spoke. 

"It's months to the nearest settlement of men," Adar frowned. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You have many cares, I thought to spare you this one. But come," Mairon had whispered, slipping beneath him, "let me distract you from your burdens." 

‘As I distract you from yours ,’ Adar thinks as he holds Mairon down. He knows how desperate Mairon is for control over all that surrounds him and wonders if it's a relief to make himself vulnerable under Adar's hands. Even in the blaze of color that had always followed such moments with the Maia, an understanding had crept in upon Adar's awareness, though he hadn't let himself see. For it harkened the path to an unbearably lonely future. 

To his shame, it had been the Uruks who had come to him begging him for information on their missing family members. They had been gone too long, even with the journey to and from the southern reaches factored in. 

With a promise given to his children, Adar and a small group of Uruks had travelled down to the bowels of Forodwaith. He had pushed away all thoughts and feelings, concentrating instead on forcing his body to take one step after another.

The door had given way without a protest, and for one absurd moment, Adar had questioned whether Mairon ever used locks or if he had simply forgotten this time. Could Maiar forget things? Why had his mind refused to focus on anything more substantial than an inane line of inquiry?

He hadn't been surprised to see the chambers littered with corpses. The bodies had been contorted, faces frozen in their final moments of agony. The silence stretched out. ’ As quiet as a tomb ,’ his mind had unhelpfully supplied. Mairon stood with his back straight and face utterly still. 

Adar had stared, not really seeing the being before him, feeling nothing but cold as he had looked through him. Mairon had flayed the fetid remains of Adar’s heart, had used his gifts to reforge Adar into a useful tool, and then peeled Adar open again with his deceptions. He should have felt something, anger or pain, but there had only been a terrifying hollowness.

“Leave,” Mairon ordered the Uruks standing uncertainly behind their father. A few had moved as if they had intended to refuse the command and rush forward.

There was no build up to warn them of the strength that the Maia would unleash. One moment they had been standing upright in the chamber, the next a swell of power had hit them like the blow of a hammer to leave them crumpled against the walls behind them. The Uruks had wisely chosen to retreat but Adar had remained behind, unharmed and still numb.

He had struggled to think of what to say. "Why…" he had begun, but his voice refused to carry him any further.

The sight of those bodies had been all that he could focus on since he had walked into the room. Steeling himself, Adar had moved his gaze to Mairon. After a moment, he had realized with shock that the Maia's eyes had tears in them.

"Because I wanted to keep you," Mairon— no, Sauron , Adar could not think of him as Mairon again— had been so clever. He had used none of the denials someone less cunning would have used. Instead, he had admitted it with grace and then turned the reason for the lie into something endearing. Falsehood turned into virtue. 

It dawned on Adar that he had spent most of his life loving this being, one whom he now doubted knew what love was after all. He had poured the entire contents of his heart out at Sauron's feet, and it had gone trickling neglected over the ground. A painful notion flashed like fire through his thoughts: ‘Nothing will fill me up again .’  

Every emotion that his mind had kept at bay struck him all at once with the force of a dam breaking. He had truly thought that he might die under the weight of it. Before Adar had the chance to move or speak, much less think, Sauron was on his knees before him, and not even on the night that they had met, had the Maia looked more beautiful.

"Listen to me," he pleaded. "There was no other way. Your children will never be accepted. Wherever they go, they will be despised and killed. Who else can they look to for protection but me? The Valar do not intercede for Eru’s children. What mercy do you think they will offer the Uruks?"

"I can save them," Sauron reached up to pull Adar down, gathering his face between warm hands. With the power that I craft here, I will make the peoples of Middle Earth submit, and the Uruks will never be threatened again." 

Adar felt weary and frail, as if all the years that he lived had weighed upon his body. How did the race of men live with such pain? His eyes burned with tears that he had refused to shed; he had not the right to weep, not for himself, not now. He released a tense breath. "Do you include yourself in that list of threats?"

"All creation requires sacrifice," the Maiar's expression was full of sorrow— a calculated sorrow— "do not think that I acted without regret. How can I make this up to you?" 

"How can you make up for the death of my children?" Adar repeated blankly. 

"Yes," Sauron said quietly, "to both you and them. Now that the Uruks know they will need to be assuaged." 

The images of the mangled Uruks before him burned, and Adar had tried to shut his eyes against them—even then, he had not been able to shut them out. Even blind, he would see this forever. His head rang with a silent scream.  

It was suddenly clear to him that Sauron had no need to find the first generation of Uruks. Morgoth had never hidden them from his lieutenant. The only being who had been kept from them was Adar himself. 

His breath released, ragged, and somehow deafening in the deadly silence of these chambers. With quiet determination, he said, "Morgoth once spoke of a plan. To create a base for his armies." 

Fingers brushed against the mottled scarring on his face —so faint, so imperceptibly soft, that he might have imagined it if the Maia were not sitting before him.  How? How can I still want him after all that I have just seen?  He sat, transfixed, as Mai—Sauron's hands had still cradled his face. 

"A plan to change the face of Arda itself," the Maia mused. "Morgoth left it incomplete, but it would not be impossible to implement the final measures," curiously, he tilted Adar's chin to meet his gaze. "Many Southlanders will die. Are you sure that you want me to create this base for the Uruks?" 

"I want you to create a home for my children," Adar had countered steadily. “Since the Valar have not seen fit to provide one, we must do so in their stead." 

"The Uruks have a fierce defender in you," Sauron replied wistfully. "And I?” He asked. "Do I still have you?".

Adar hadn't replied right away. He had been quiet for a painfully long moment, and when he had spoken, his words were laced with pain: “You have had my heart."

The answer hadn't satisfied Sauron. “Had?” he questioned softly. Adar flinched and tried to avoid his eyes. 

"Look at me, Neidragh," their gazes locked, and Mairon stared at him with such tenderness. 

With quiet resignation, Adar had told him, “You own my heart.” 

Sauron sighed in satisfaction as Adar had known he would— ownership had been something the Maia was intimately familiar with. No being had two masters, and if he possessed Adar's heart, no one else could. How could a paltry, misplaced sense of duty to the broken race of the Uruks begin to compare with the beauty of his golden chains?  

It hadn't been difficult to coax the Uruks to react to Sauron’s betrayal in a manner that would work in their favor. A few whispers to the right groups, he had known that he would need to use words calculated to enrage Sauron, "Perhaps Sauron is not our only path? How can a mere Maia hope to take the place of a Vala?" 

Time had dragged on, and Adar told himself that he had needed to let the plans for the Southland finalize, that he needed to let the rumors among the Uruks ferment. But there were moments, only ruminated upon during terrible nights when he had curled into Sauron's heat, that he knew he had been stalling. An attempt to draw out the inevitable.  

Of course, Sauron had raged when he had heard the rumors, "They dare to compare me to that,” — he all but spat the word— “ aberration !"

Objects around the room rattled ominously as he paced, and his eyes had brightened to a sickly yellow, pupils split, "Who art they that wouldst question mine vision for guiding the whole of Arda out of the chaos Morgoth dragged it into?"

"Peace..." Adar had tried to speak, but before he could continue, the power that thrummed around Sauron had contracted sharply with the tinkle of falling metal. Burning fingers darted out to latch onto his throat. Adar forced back the instinctive panic and placed his chilled hands over the ones wrapped around his neck. 

It had been a light touch, but it had been enough. The Maia released him, and Adar sank to the ground, gasping for air. He had tried to ignore the painful rasp when he spoke, "They feel betrayed and confused. You keep the last key to their future home in your possession, and they do not trust you with it. I think you should speak to them and make them see that you are Morgoth's successor in name, if not in ideology." 

"Yes," Sauron had stood and begun to reorder items that had been displaced in his fury—a sure sign that he had begun to think clearly again. "I need a symbol of power, something that can stand as a remembrancer and a promise." 

"I need..." as he had reached out to straighten a crafting blade, Sauron had paused, and tilted his head. "Morgoth's crown." 

Adar had nearly stumbled at the unexpected answer. "If there is some secret way in and out of the Void, then we have more trouble on our hands than the discontent of a few Uruks." 

"No," the Maia turned to comfort him, "the Void is as inaccessible as Ilúvatar himself, Morgoth cannot leave it." 

"But the crown was taken?" Adar questioned cautiously. Morgoth was a sore subject for them both. "The Valar seized it to make the collar that bound him before they cast him through the Doors of Night." 

"A convenient fiction that I let those blind fools believe," Sauron's face had twisted into the cold smile that always donned his face when one of his cunning deceptions had played out favorably. He had moved deftly, and in a few moments the crown that once encircled the Dark Lord's brow had been placed on the table before him, and a shudder had crawled down Adar's back at the sight. 

Could the Valar do nothing right? Not even the disposal of such a blighted object as Morgoth's thrice-cursed crown? The method of its creation alone had been enough to make it tainted beyond redemption. Added to that were millennia that Morgoth spent pouring his poisonous essence into it. Even worse, it had once held the Silmarils. Coveted to the point of madness, those jewels were drenched in blood long before they fell into Morgoth's greedy hands, and combining them with the crown had been an obscenity. It was obscene, and Sauron was obscene, and Adar's inordinate desire for him had been likewise obscene. 

Unable to keep his eyes off the crown, Adar had whispered, "You will crown yourself before the Uruks."

"No," he corrected, " you will crown me before them."

Sauron handed it to him; the Maia's face had held a mixture of curiosity and caution. A test, to see what Adar would do with such a lethal object in his grasp.   

Something akin to despair had washed through him as his hands gingerly clasped its sharp and jagged frame. ’ This is the moment,’ he had wanted to say, ’ the moment where you have asked me to choose between you and my children, for I now know that you do not care for their lives. You never could have if you kept this wretched thing and we both know it.’  Sauron had tensed, seeming to sense his turmoil. 

"Very well," slowly, Adar offered the crown back, "I will crown you." 

Luminous in his triumph, Sauron smiled and shook his head, "Keep it in trust. I will hold the key to the Southlands, and you will hold this. When I am crowned, it will become mine, and the key will become yours. The Uruks can hold faith in that balance."

Adar had carefully placed the crown down as he felt tears threaten again, though sheer power of will he ruthlessly suppressed them. 

"Neidragh,” Sauron's voice caressed the word like a prayer as Adar had tried to remember how to breathe. 

“Yes?”

“Come to me," it had been a request, not a demand, but Adar had complied all the same, had wrapped his arms about the Maia and wished that they could stay that way. One moment of weakness. He had known what he would have to do; surely, he could have these few hours?

They had been pressed together close enough that he had been able to see the streaks of gold in Sauron's hair, “My right hand, heart-keep, my precious."

‘It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.’

“This will be the last thing I ask of you,” Sauron promised, head angled to speak in his ear. "I swear it.”

'Liar .’

But Adar had nodded as if he believed it anyway, his heart in his throat. Sauron had drunk in the emotion, and had almost seemed to gain sustenance from it.

"This is the greatest offering of my love that I can make," Adar told him softly. 

Days later, when he had watched Sauron be brutalized by his children upon an altar of black blood, he had known that he had spoken true. 

As the Uruks drive their blades into his body, Adar takes a moment to think on Sauron. He wonders at their years of separation and at the fact that his feelings have not dulled in their passing. For so long, he had been convinced that everything that the Maia had told him, that he had professed to feel, had been a lie.  

When Sauron had surrendered himself to him in the camp, even wrapped in the trappings of an exiled Southlander king, Adar had known him the second that their eyes had locked. As Halbrand wept, everything came rushing back to the surface. Adar had questioned himself, questioned if he had been wrong, and had betrayed his children in his single-minded drive to prove that he hadn't been wrong. How easy it had been for Sauron to pull him back into his orbit.   

Another deep stab reminds Adar that he doesn’t have time to reminisce or grieve for what he did or didn't have with Sauron. His children are in danger, and none can help them. He cries out to the Valar, to Nienna, "My children—".

‘Help them .’

For one wild moment, he thinks he hears a reply as beautifully heart-wrenching as a song of mourning. 

‘Endure, my son.’

Footsteps, a whisper of grey robes, and then a sword flashes out to catch what would have surely been a killing blow. Galadriel, as beautiful as the dawn, defends him with all the strength at her command. She blocks and parries with the supple grace of water, and though he is distracted by the pain, he cannot help but notice that she doesn’t seem to be trying to kill the Uruks, merely to drive them away.

Her defensive tactics succeed, and his children flee. Adar wonders if part of their flight had been driven by the shock of seeing an elf—this elf—defend a fallen being such as himself. He feels her hands upon him and hears the familiar whisper of Nenya as she works to heal his wounds. The agony decreases, and his body sags in relief as he stares up into her blue eyes.

"You asked me to help you create a lasting peace," Galadriel pauses to half-carry, half drag him to the nearby log that he had perched Morgoth's crown upon, the jostling made him bleed anew, even with the help of her ring, it will take him years to recover, if he recovers at all. 

Anxiously, Galadriel draws on her newly restored power to aid him as she repeats, "You asked me to help mend the rift between our peoples," her voice is solemn as she finishes, "I accept."

The words echo strangely with a power that he can't decipher. He can feel Nenya resonate between them in satisfaction. Startled, he looks to Galadriel, but she seems equally bewildered. There is something more happening here than is immediately evident. 

‘Turn sorrow to wisdom. Turn wisdom towards peace.’ 

Before either of them can speak, before Nenya can continue her work, a hand wrenches Galadriel from him, and she is flung some distance away. 

"I'm disappointed in you, Galadriel," Sauron says coldly. He has a new form, not the Mairon who blazed with the heat of Aulë's forge, nor the ruggedly handsome Southlander, but something new. He appears deceptively delicate, shining with the luster of a cut and polished gem, but Adar recognizes him—will probably always be able to recognize him. 

"To use Celebrimbor's creation for such low work is to profane its beauty," he turns a hard look towards Adar, lips twitching in suppressed rage.

Galadriel's face is a mask of dread. Not an apprehension for her life, though that is no doubt in jeopardy, he has hurled many curses at the legendary Commander of the Northern Armies over the years but he's never believed her craven. No, this is far more insidious and very familiar. It's temptation, the fear of knowing better, and yet still choosing wrongly. 

"I thought it fitting that you die at the hands of your children, since they are so beloved to you,” Sauron winds one hand into his hair, tilting Adar's head to expose his throat, while the other reaches down to relieve him of his sword. “It seems that even such a simple task is beyond them, and I must do it myself. Though, they are not your children anymore, and I suppose there is symmetry in killing what belongs to me." 

Releasing his grip on Adar's hair to grasp Morgoth's crown, he holds it and the weapon that he had once forged for him out as if weighing his options, "Which do you think?"

Adar lets the silence hang heavy between them; his body is in so much pain and his emotions are utterly spent. Sauron is dissatisfied with his lack of response, his anger is building but also—disappointment? Before Adar can muster up the will to decipher what that means, there is a sword pointed against the Maia's neck. 

"Your fight is with me," Galadriel says, breathtaking even in the midst of her fear.

"Are you so eager to be with me, Galadriel? I would readily indulge you” — Sauron turns to her with a spark of pleasure, elven robes trailing elegantly around him as he drags his gaze over her figure hungrily —" Again."

"I would be more eager to bed a troll," Galadriel spits, face flushing hot as she swung her sword at him. The attack is swiftly countered, and she is forced to jump back to avoid a blow. Adar almost laughs when Sauron baulks in genuine insult. The Maia's vanity runs deep, and more than once in their time together, he had wondered what Sauron had seen in him. Now, of course, he knows that it was likely that he had seen nothing more than a useful pawn.  

"Such petty insults are beneath you, Meleth nîn," Sauron replies, his tone is no longer laced with irritation, instead, it is soft and beguiling. It should hurt—it does hurt—to hear him speak such endearments to another, but Adar is surprised to find that there is no jealousy within the hurt. Instead, he feels a cord of sympathy linking itself between his heart and hers. He wants to call out to her, ’ It’s not your fault . ’ But he doesn’t, there is no time for comfort.

"You have no right to call me that," she clearly meant this to be a rejection, but it ends up sounding like a plea. Adar staggers to his feet, he feels driven to do something in the face of her distress, though he knows that he is worse than useless in the situation. The pain of keeping himself upright is enough to drive the breath from him. 

The movement draws Sauron's attention toward Adar, though he continues to address Galadriel, "I know that things appear dire for your people right now, but surely you haven't resorted to allying yourself with Orcs to oppose me?"

"Do not call him that!" Galadriel snaps as she places herself between Sauron and Adar, her sword at the ready. 

Sauron's grin freezes, then melts away. His face ripples into a suspicious mask as he slowly looks between the two figures before him and he searches for something in their faces. Blue eyes widen and then bleed gold as the Maia screams in rage. A festering sense of betrayal burns the very air around them, twisting the landscape, "I offered you a place, a place by my side—"

"My place is here, between you and those you would harm," she lungs forward with her weapon, but Sauron neatly catches the blade between the spokes of the crown.

“Leave,” her tone is brisk, with all the authority of one who was used to giving commands and having them followed, but her expression is surprisingly soft when she risks a glance back at Adar. He knows from the grim look on her face that she doesn’t hope to survive this encounter.

He protests through ragged breaths, “I cannot abandon you.”

“Neither of you is going to leave,” Sauron hisses and lunges at him with a blow so powerful that Galadriel’s body staggers as she intercepts it.

“I want you to survive,” she begs Adar softly and they fall silent. Neither of them is paying heed to Sauron, each too absorbed in the other. Galadriel’s determination is clear and Adar knows that he has to go.

“Look at me!” the Maia shrieks, jolting them both back into the moment, beneath the anger and frightful churning power, he seems almost petulant. Like a child desperate to gain the attention of a distracted parent.   

Adar runs as Galadriel goes on the offensive, the last he sees of her is a whisper of gray and the flashing of her ring, as it gleams at him from its place on her finger, he hears the voice again.

‘Endure, my son .’

Air burns as he forces it in and out of his lungs, wounds throbbing apace with his breathing. Once, long ago, when he had still been accounted as one of the First Children, he had stumbled upon Morgoth on a lonely road. Then, he had run faster than he ever had in his life, and it still had not been fast enough to outpace the monster that chased him. Now, his body shakes, and he stumbles with every other step.

But this time he escapes.

It takes weeks for him to drag himself to a place of relative safety. It’s nothing more than a cave, but after so much time spent freezing beneath the open sky, he is grateful for the shelter of stone that now stands between himself and the elements.

For months, he lives on foraged roots or the occasional small animal that has the misfortune to cross his path. His wounds heal at a sluggish rate that the effort of hauling himself down and back to the nearest river— the Celebrant River, he later realizes— leaves him spent for days afterward.

The injuries that he has suffered make him a hostage to his body as it recovers, and he loses the normal rhythm of the days. Even when he had been leading the Uruks, who were forced to hide from the sun, there had still been an orderly arrangement of the hours and the daily passage of light and dark. Now, the most ordinary of tasks force him into unconsciousness at random hours. When he wakes, his mind wanders in an eerie suspended fog.

He thinks of his children, and at first, all that he can think of is the depths of his betrayal of them. The grief of it is paralyzing, but as the worst of his hurts mend, his mind clears. He failed them because he clung to the past, to the harms that Sauron had inflicted on his heart. If he’s going to save the Uruks he needs to look forward, not back. To do this he needs information.

There aren’t any settlements around the area that he has taken shelter in, but there are occasional caravans of men and dwarves that trade through the Misty Mountains. He cannot openly speak to them. All of the knowledge that he gains must be done surreptitiously. Adar walks away with fragmented rumors and a few spare necessities that he claims when the caravans bed down during the nights. During his convalescence, he tries to piece together what happened from disjointed intelligence that he gains. 

What he hears about his children is consistent with what he already knows: the Uruks have come under the command of a new leader, though the name of this leader varies, the majority of the army is based in Mordor. The survivors of the siege of Eregion have taken refuge in an unknown location and the elven leaders have gone on the offensive. 

Even as it pains him, Sauron's control over his offspring doesn't surprise him. However, the dissonant rumors about Galadriel are startling: the commander has been murdered by her newly resurrected foe, the commander has gone into hiding, she's pursuing vengeance against Sauron alone, or she has changed sides and joined the enemy. 

That Galadriel has made herself a point of speculation is hardly shocking, but the variety of the whispers about her is unexpected. 

After careful thought, he dismisses the idea that she has joined forces with Sauron, if only because the Dark Lord would have paraded such a coup throughout the whole of Middle Earth and if he had the power of a ring under his command, the elven resistance would not be so fervent.

Could she be chasing him alone? Galadriel has certainly hunted Sauron without aid before, but facing him (whether she knew it or not at the time) had brought ruin down upon the Southlands. Adar doubts that she would be willing to battle him on her own again, not if she had allies who were willing to fight alongside her.  

Is she dead? The notion left him feeling unmoored. There had been times when he had viewed her as the most implacable of enemies, but when they had first met, he had recognized something in her eyes. Beneath the rage and bluster— a deep-set grief that spurned her actions. Later, when he had taken her as a captive, there had been moments when they had silently understood one another. Finally, in those last moments when she had defended him, there had been something like kinship.  

That night under the stars, even though he isn't wholly sure the Valar would listen, he offers a prayer to Nienna on her behalf. 

In ages past, the Valar remained deaf to his prayers, but maybe they would listen if he was asking on behalf of one of the Eldar instead. Thus, Adar is astonishingly relieved when Galadriel appears at the entrance to his hidden refuge.

That they have both managed to survive a second confrontation with Sauron above the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil seems nothing short of a miracle. 

Finding him had clearly been no small feat. The lady appears wearied and pained after what had undoubtedly been a long journey. Even covered in dirt and grime, the heroines of song still come to life for him as he stares at her. He is so caught in the happenstance of their meeting that he overlooks the infant slung across her chest until it makes a plaintive noise.

"Hush, my love," Galadriel soothes, reaching down into the sling to soothe the baby, who swiftly quiets with the caress. Although the child's form is concealed by the cloth, he can see a small hand curled around her finger, the same finger on which Nenya glitters. 

Once she is satisfied that the baby is settled, Galadriel raises her eyes to him, "I need your help." 

"A child," it's the only thing that he can think to say after he hears Galadriel's tale. "Sauron has a child ." 

"It was right after I threatened to slaughter all of your children. Eru heard and judged me then," she whispers haltingly, "as I judge myself for it now. There was a moment before Míriel declared him king of the Southlands," she continues. "I felt such a connection to him, one that I hadn't felt since—" 

Galadriel's voice trails off as she cradles her daughter in her arms. A daughter who defied all odds in her existence. Pairings between elves and Maiar are exceedingly rare; in the whole of Arda's history, there had only been one, and even then, Thingol and Melian had been married before they produced the fabled Lúthien. The Eldar are supposed to mate for life, and Adar well knows that Galadriel's husband died in the War of Wrath. Elves are not usually able to conceive during times of crisis, much less with a Maia to whom they are not wed. 

Somehow, this little one had clung stubbornly to life while her mother fended off Barrow-wights, participated in a battle, dueled the Dark Lord, received a wound from Morgoth's crown, and then threw herself off a cliff. 

He thinks back to that moment above Ost-in-Edhil when Galadriel had sworn to help him make peace between their peoples. There had been that strange prescience.  

‘Turn sorrow to wisdom. Turn wisdom towards peace.’ 

"How?" Adar isn't sure what he's asking or to whom he is speaking, but Galadriel answers anyway. 

"I don't know," she admits, eyes drifting over her daughter's face in a mix of consternation and tenderness. "I awoke at the bottom of the cliffside with a poisoned body and Nenya clutched in my hand. I don't think the others could find me in all the chaos. I tried to assess my injuries, and I felt her fëa reach out to mine." 

"Your wound?" Adar asks, with a twinge of guilt, he had been the one to keep Morgoth's crown instead of tossing it into Ulmo's depths where it belonged. At the time, he had told himself that he had kept it as a surety for the future, but now sees the folly in it, he doubts that he could ever bring himself to slay Sauron a second time.

Shifting the baby to one arm, Galadriel uses her newly freed hand to draw her tunic to the side, exposing her shoulder. The pale skin above her heart is marred with a festering lesion, spindly black fissures reach out from its center to claim hold of her flesh.

"Can your people do nothing to aid in your healing?"  

"Maybe they could," she replies, as she shrugs her tunic back into place. "I have not asked."

"You don't mean," Adar says incredulously, "that you didn't return to the elves after the fall of Eregion?"

"No, I did not." 

"Of all the... with a poisoned wound?" His voice rises in alarm, "You gave birth alone ?" 

The agitation in his tone causes the baby to stir with distress. Hastily, he softens his timbre, "Your people would not let you die." 

"It is not myself that I am concerned about," Galadriel rocks her daughter until the fretfulness passes. "There is a chance that I may have been healed if I had been treated directly, but too much time has passed, and the poison has taken root in me."   

Bitterness twists in his gut, "He wants to change you, to turn you into something that will be subject to his will. It was ever his way."

"I have no intention of letting him turn me into one of his slaves," she says resolutely. "I will follow my cousin to the Shores of Morning."

"Of all the ways that I once imagined your death," he replies with grim humor, "I must admit, I never thought you would simply fade." 

"Nor I," she admits with a sardonic smile. "In truth, I would rather go to Mordor and make a glorious end of it, but I have no heart for killing more of your children."

"This is not a permanent parting," she continues fiercely, it's clear from her manner that Galadriel is speaking more to the child than to himself, "I swear that I will return to you. Even if I must take an axe to the doors of Mandos and swim the entire breadth of the Sundering Seas to do it."  

"I believe you," Adar assures her, and he does believe it; no descendant of Finwë makes an oath lightly. "But what will happen to—," he trails off, realizing that he doesn't know the infant's name. 

"Celebrían," Galadriel supplies. Adar feels his brows raise, wondering if Galadriel named her daughter after her deceased husband. Seeming to sense the direction his thoughts have taken, the elf shakes her head. "In honor of my cousin, Celebrimbor."

"A fitting name," Adar says as he gazes down at the infant, the soft down that covers her head is pale, like she had stolen the light of the moon to crown herself. "However, the question stands. What will happen to Celebrían? Surely, you must send her to the elves."

"They cannot be trusted with her!"

"Galadriel, they would not cast her out," he tries to reason, "she is one of them."

"So were you," she hisses, "and they— we  turned our backs on you for no better reason than being tortured by Morgoth. Even if my people admitted her among them, what kind of life could she expect to live? To be reviled by all around her at worst, or as an object of pity at best? She would be held in perpetual contempt for her parentage. I will not allow my child to become another Maeglin." 

Adar stares down at the infant in her arms. By all rights, he should hate her, this child of two of his greatest foes, who together had ripped apart his heart and his family piece by bloody piece. Daughter of Sauron the Deceiver and Galadriel, the Greatest Slayer of the Uruks. 

‘I should want her dead, ’ he thinks as he looks at her, and he is surprised at how much he means it when he concludes, ’ but I don't.’  

Shaking his head, he slowly says, "My children received nothing but scorn and hatred from the world. They did not deserve it, nor does Celebrían." 

Some of the tension that Galadriel had been holding seems to ease at his words, she breathes a quiet sigh and draws closer to him, "Thank you." 

He nods once, "If not the elves, who can you entrust her to?”

Galadriel says nothing, he lifts his gaze from Celebrían's face to hers, expecting to see uncertainty written across her features, instead he finds her looking at him with a resolute expression.

There is a long beat of silence between them which he breaks by laughing out loud, it’s a sound that is rusty from disuse, “You cannot be serious.” 

Galadriel says nothing, and Adar feels his amusement slip. He had expected her to ask for his aid in killing Sauron; he doubts they would survive such an endeavor. Still, he would be willing to try if it means even a chance of freedom for his children, but that’s not what she wants from him.

The laughter in Adar’s throat dies and is replaced by sudden dismay. She couldn’t expect him to care for her daughter? It is absurd. He is an Uruk, who until his recent encounter with Nenya, had forgotten what he even  looked like as an elf. How can she think him able to foster one? He may consider himself the father of his race and loves his offspring, but he has never actually reared a child.

“I think,” Galadriel pauses thoughtfully, “the Valar meant for you to raise her.”

“They do not!” Adar shouts, moderating himself again when he hears Celebrían grunt in irritation.

“You heard Nenya the same as I,” Galadriel speaks calmly, and Adar wonders if the few weeks of motherhood she has experienced have taught the commander famous for her impetuosity some patience. “We want peace between our races, and the Valar wish for Celebrían to be the one who brings it.”

He cannot help the disgust that tinges his tone when he replies, “Do you want me to abandon my own children in favor of yours?”

“No, I would never ask you to do that. You said all Uruks had a name and a heart, that each was worthy of the breath of life. If Celebrían comes to know them, then she, in turn, will teach my people that same lesson. All that I ask,” Galadriel takes a long breath, “is that you care for her—as devotedly as I know that you care for your children.”

Fear twists its way through Adar. It writhes in his mind like a living thing, and sets his heart racing in a panicked frenzy. His jumbled thoughts desperately search for a base of refusal, one that isn't the truth that he still can't bring himself to admit, "Elven children need their parents, far more than the children of the Edain. Celebrían will fade without a parent's fëa to draw upon." 

It happened over and over again in Angband. Adar still feels sick thinking about it. He had tried to help, but no matter how much food he managed to squirrel away for the little ones, they withered when their parents died.

"There is proof that children of the Eldar can thrive, even if they are bonded with those not of their blood," she counters smoothly. "Elrond was raised in such a manner, and he turned out to be the very best of us." 

Sauron had told him that only a blood relative could succor an elven child. Another lie.  

"It does not matter who raised Elrond. I can guess that they were not Uruks," he argues, almost hysterical. "Morgoth ruined my soul beyond repair."

"We both know that isn't true," Galadriel states, holding up her hand, as if to remind him that her ring had judged him worthy. 

Nenya glitters on her finger, calling to him, but he is resolute, "I will not take it from you. We have been through this before. I have chosen to be Adar." 

"Then use it only when necessary. You need not wear it all the time," Galadriel presses, "when Celebrían is ready, you can pass it to her." 

Adar feels like he can't breathe, "you don't know what you are asking." 

"What is it that you won't say?" 

"I failed them!" Adar's body shakes and curls into itself as tears burn in his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall; he doesn't deserve to grieve for himself. "Over and over again, I failed them. First Morgoth and then Sauron. They tortured and killed my children, and I looked the other way for so long.  Even when I finally struck him down, it felt like I had ripped my heart from my chest. I betrayed my family because of my pathetic desire to be loved by Sauron.” 

"Only he could twist the wish to be loved into something so cruel," Galadriel whispered, reaching out with her free hand to raise his face to hers. 

"During the fall of Eregion, Celebrimbor told me that it is not strength that overcomes darkness, but light. Your children are your heart, you chose them over him, and that light is mighty."

Before Adar has the chance to refuse, Galadriel shifts to place Celebrían in his arms, which automatically adjust to support her tiny form. The baby's bright gray eyes open to peer at him, and there is no repulsion in them, only quiet interest. Then her lids flutter closed, she curls into his chest seeking the warmth that she finds there, and drifts back to sleep. 

Silently, Adar weeps. 

He weeps for Galadriel, who will not see her daughter grow, for his children who have been made into slaves, for Celebrían, who will have to carry the burdens of two races, and finally, for the first time in thousands of years, Adar weeps for himself. 

Chapter Text

Once she slips Nenya off her finger, Galadriel's fading occurs rapidly, and Adar realizes that she has probably been using the ring to stave off death for months. Clutching Celebrían close for as long as her weakening body will let her, she whispers in the baby's ear, wanting to look upon her until her last breath. It's a gentle departure for such a fierce warrior, but he does not begrudge it to her. 

"If you find that you cannot keep her safe, send her to Elrond," Galadriel tells him, never shifting her gaze from her daughter. "I do not know if he would ever fully trust her, but neither would he allow her to be harmed."

"He knows what it is to be half-elven and is the only other being who has the blood of the Maiar running through his veins," Adar replies, as he tries to help make Galadriel more comfortable. "You should not underestimate his compassion for their shared circumstances."

"An Uruk lecturing one of the Eldar on compassion?" The question is full of mirth, and she utters an indelicate snort before her face twists in a grimace as she tries to shift her back against the rock. 

"Don't you dare raise my daughter in a cave," Galadriel threatens, but her teasing tone takes the sting out of the demand. 

"No," Adar agrees, "imagine what Finarfin would say." 

"In retrospect, he would have far more to complain of than her accommodations," huffing a self-deprecating laugh, Galadriel groans. "No doubt, my father will have much to criticize when I exit Mandos." 

Before they can continue their banter, her eyes go unfocused, and her body sags. She hitches in a breath with difficulty to continue, "I will return as swiftly as I can." 

Hadn’t the Noldor been placed under a Doom? He wants to ask if she can return, but there isn’t time, and it would be cruel if she didn’t know the answer. Instead, he settles for a gentle farewell, "Namárië.” 

"Tell her that—remind her as often as you can— that I love her—that she is loved," she begs, seeming to struggle as she waits for his reply. 

"I swear it," he promises. Galadriel gives him one glance upward and holds out her arm. Feeling surprised at the invitation to engage in such closeness, he quickly maneuvers Galadriel against one of his shoulders, shifting the baby against the other so that she can press close to her child. It's a strange sensation to hold them both like this, and it's made stranger when she reaches down to grasp his hand, gripping it so hard that it almost hurts.

"It's enough," she murmurs, and then in an imperceptible, subliminal way, Adar feels a change in Galadriel. Soon she grows cold and falls into the stillness of death.   

Silence reigns, and Adar finds that he cannot speak or move for some time; it is not tears that silence him, though a few do fall. It is simply that he has nothing to give. He cannot offer the baby anything at all adequate to her situation; doubt gnaws at his mind. How unnecessarily and cruelly complicated it all seems—is it not enough to know that he has failed his own children, without being compelled to fail this little one as well? 

Still clasped in his arms, Celebrían shifts and utters a disconsolate wail to draw him out of his morbid dwellings. Adar has little experience with babies, other than the ones that the Uruks had occasionally brought to him to speak a blessing over, but some instinctive part of him knows that her cries are not of hunger, but of loneliness. 

On one side of him, the ring of water beckons him with a glimmering flash of light. Gently, and with the greatest of care, he removes Galadriel from his side and uses his freed arm to reach out for it. Once slipped upon his smallest finger, Nenya hums with contentment as it works upon him.      

Terrified that he will corrupt the child, Adar is hesitant as he reaches out to brush against Celebrían's thoughts. She gives a startled wiggle and cries again, and it suddenly dawns on him that she has never experienced the touch of a mind that wasn't her mothers. It makes him retreat guiltily from the contact. 

A moment passes, and then he feels it, a feather-light tap against his fëa that convinces him to try the connection again. Her mind is so strange; there are no developed thoughts, she's too small, but the sensations are nearly overwhelming. 

"It's alright, you're safe," he tells her, but the fear at the empty space that her mother had occupied does not abate. She has no idea what he is saying. Instead of speaking aloud, he tries to project a sense of safety and warmth to her, and it seems to distract Celebrían because she stops crying to stare at him. Tentatively, she sends him an image, a tiny hand wrapped around his finger. ‘ Yes, you're safe, ’ he whispers into her mind, though he knows the words are useless; he hopes his feelings are extended with them. 

Gradually, her overwhelming terror subsides and she drifts off to sleep, completely trusting this stranger who has her life in his hands. Why wouldn't she trust him? She has never had a reason to distrust any being before—the realization leaves him both awed and shaken.

Once he is convinced that Celebrían is settled, Adar sets about the grim work of burying Galadriel. When he places her into the grave he had dug, he is surprised at how peaceful she looks, nestled into the earth as into a warm bed on a cold night. In it, she seems separated from the griefs that have fallen upon Middle Earth. After building a small cairn, he packs up his few belongings. 

Hopefully, the baby will remain tranquil as they journey to a new refuge. 

Of course, Celebrían isn’t one of those peaceful children. Within a day, his new charge is bellowing with the strength and fury that a Balrog would envy. At the moment, Adar is infinitely grateful for Nenya's change upon his form because they are going to attract the attention of every living being from the Iron Hills to Belfalas at this rate. A travelling elf will raise questions or avoidance from the other races in Arda, but an Uruk would likely evoke a violent response. 

How can someone so tiny be so ceaseless in her noise? Her small fists are clenched, one waving in helpless outrage and the other wrapped firmly around a lock of his hair, as she does her level best to tear it from the roots. When she first started up, he brushed his mind against hers and seen that her upset was not without cause; she is hungry and damp. Unfortunately, there is little he can do about it; he has no means to feed her, and the only spare tunic he has is currently swaddling her, gathering moisture. 

Just when he is debating the merits of raiding some settlement for what he needs, a small cluster of wagons appear in the distance ahead. It's a group of Edain. Though a part of him instinctively wants to hide from them, he knows that with Celebrían screaming like this, the effort would be worse than useless. As the figures grow closer, Adar notes that there are women, children, and livestock among their number. It's likely not a trade caravan, then; they must be relocating. 

When they meet, the men stare furtively, but seem content to let him walk without trouble. He breathes a sigh of relief, inaudible over the infant's wailing, and prepares to pass them, when a woman breaks away from the group and approaches him. 

"Pardon me, sir," she says with the confidence of one who is used to the burden of many responsibilities, "I can't help but notice that your little one seems to be hungry." 

A man behind her calls in exasperation, "Leave it be, Morwen!"

"I'll not leave a child to starve," she retorts, and the man, whom he supposes to be her husband, grumbles but calls the wagons to a halt. Warily, he joins her and relaxes when he notes that Adar is unarmed.  

Giving an 'all-clear' signal to the rest of the group, he turns to speak, "I'm Bergil and this is my wife Morwen." 

Uncertain if these people have heard rumors about an Uruk called Adar wreaking havoc in the Southlands, he quickly thinks of a lie. Undoubtedly, the true bearer of the name he is about to give them would be furious at the usurpation, but it's unlikely that the woodland archer will ever hear of it, "I am Arondir."

Bergil and Morwen nod, though the greeting is hampered by the racket Celebrían is making. He returns the nod and admits, "You are right, she is hungry." 

"May I?" the woman holds out her arms expectantly. Adar hesitates, but eventually passes her to the woman who expertly cradles the baby as she gives directions to a pair of children who had crept up when the adults had been making introductions. "Aldor, get a few squares of the old linen we have stored, and Aerin, bring me some of this morning's milking in a waterskin."    

In a handful of moments, blessed silence reigns, and Celebrían, now dry and full, tumbles into an exhausted slumber. This time, Adar makes an audible noise of relief, and Morwen grins with understanding. 

"Thank you," he tells the woman gratefully, "I admit that I was not sure what I would have done if she had continued."

"We do what we can," Morwen waves away the praise and eyes him shrewdly. "If I may ask, where is her mother?" 

For a time he hesitates to give an answer, his thoughts are on Galadriel, it feels wrong to sunder her from her daughter even in a lie. After some time, he decides to use as much of the truth as he can,  "She suffered a wound in Eregion that did not heal and passed yesterday."

Morwen gasps in sympathy, "I am sorry, to be made a father and lose a spouse in so short a time is no small burden to bear alone." 

Adar is so stunned by the dual implication that Galadriel was his wife and that Celebrían is his daughter that he almost stammers out a protest. Luckily, he's prevented by Morwen's son blurting out, "Was it Orcs that killed her?"

The boy's father gives him a swift cuff on the head for the rude question. Wincing, Adar shrugs off the woman's apologies; it's not an undeserved assumption; his children have claimed many lives, and in turn, he has killed ruthlessly for them. Drawing in a breath, he wishes he could explain that the Uruks had been given no choice in becoming Morgoth's soldiers, and later they had been forced to kill or risk extermination.

Without warning, the face of the Southlander child from Tirharad appears in his mind. Vividly, he recalls how the boy had begged as Adar held him for slaughter under Waldrig's blade. It had been necessary to ensure that the Southlanders who betrayed their people would not be accepted back, but it troubles him that he hadn't known the boy's name. While he doesn't regret safeguarding his children, he acknowledges that the child's family, who must have loved him as dearly as Adar loves his children, have every right to desire vengeance.

"She has pointed ears!" Aldor exclaims, interrupting Adar’s thoughts. The boy sounds more curious than insulting as he stands on his toes to see the baby held in his mother's arms.

"Of course she does, half-wit," his sister rolls her eyes, speaking with the imperious authority of an elder sibling, "she's an elf."

"I knew that," the boy lies, embarrassment coloring his features.

"Did you think that their ears suddenly got pointed when they got taller?" Aerin sounds amused at the idea, and Morwen is biting back a laugh. 

"I don't know," he admits before giving Adar an appraising look. "Were your ears pointed when you were born?" 

"I believe so," he says, almost wanting to smile. Though, to be fair to the boy, he’s not sure if he could call his awakening a birth. 

"Oh," Adar's response has given the child much to ponder.  

Before they continue on their journey, Morwen insists that he take the extra linen and a nanny goat, silencing her husband's attempts at protest with a look. She's still giving him helpful advice on feeding schedules and how to properly clean an infant as the carts begin moving. The children call back cheerful farewells as they walk away.

Watching them fade into the distance, he thinks about Morwen's assumption. He had promised to care for Celebrían, and he means to keep his word, but that does not make him her father. Sauron has that title; undeserved as it is. He can’t imagine how much this fact will come to hurt her in the coming years and can’t comprehend what challenges being the daughter of one who has caused so much suffering will present; all he can do is try and give her the benefit of an unbiased upbringing. 

He will be a protector and a guardian, he decides as he continues forward, not a father.

Once the issue of food and changing has been sorted out, Celebrían becomes a placid baby, which, considering her parentage on both sides, is a surprise to him. She spends the majority of her time sleeping and quietly accepts the haphazard tumult that is always associated with travel. Likely, Galadriel had spent the majority of her daughter's short life in similar circumstances, so it's probably familiar. 

Her needs are usually easy ones: when she doesn't sleep, she eats, or latches onto his fëa. The nervousness that he had originally felt in the meeting of their souls diminishes. Adar had been afraid that he would expose the child to the dark aspects of his nature, but complicated emotions like shame, guilt, and self-loathing are beyond her comprehension. All she wants is the comforting reassurance that she is not alone, and thankfully, he can provide that without trouble. He learns little things about her in these brief touches of mental contact. 

The revelations are not of consequence, but he finds genuine pleasure in learning them: she likes to be warm, the sound of his heartbeat, the tickle of his hair against her fingers, and the distant song of birds. She dislikes the random bleats of the goat, the feel of damp cloth against her skin, and being put down. The last is a point of contention between them, and Adar is grateful that in the wilderness, no one can see him try and argue with an uncomprehending infant about needing both hands to wash the linen she wears, which prevents her from being damp.   

Nenya makes him apprehensive, he cannot help but remember the greedy and covetous expression that Morgoth wore whenever he gazed at the Silmarils, nor the way that he would act whenever he had to remove the crown—the occasions when he could bear to do so became few as the years had passed. If Adar hadn't known that he was a Vala, he almost would have described Morgoth as wasting when he had been forced to part with them. Nenya doesn't feel like the jewels had felt, but he would rather not risk becoming dependent on it. He's made an oath to protect Celebrían, but he will not lose himself to it. He cannot be a father to his children if he is not one of them.  

However, he does hear the ring whisper to him, it desires to guide him, and because Nenya isn't urging him to take revenge against the Valar or enact a kinslaying, Adar is cautiously willing to let it lead his increasingly wearied footsteps to a safe refuge for Celebrían. The path keeps him in the central region of Middle Earth, towards the lower end of the Misty Mountains, and along the eastern side of the Anduin River. The ring gives a hum of contentment, which he interprets as a signal to stop. He is relieved, foraging with a baby in tow is exhausting.  

Nenya has led him to a forest, of course it's a forest—the Eldar and trees are close to synonymous terms, and the ring was very much crafted by the Eldar— not exactly appropriate for Uruks, who have no inherent love of nature. At least the trees blot out most of the direct sunlight, and until Adar can find them a more suitable home, he can teach his children to respect the trees and thus prevent the wrath of the Yavanna (not to mention the elves) from falling upon them. 

He would like to continue until he reaches the denser southern forest that borders this one, but that would be far too near the territory of Oropher. Dealing with the Noldor is enough work, he has no desire to add the Silvans into the bargain, much less their capricious king. 

Shifting Celebrían away from his chest, he holds her up so that she can get a good look at her surroundings and asks, "What do you think?" 

A leaf falls from one of the branches high above them, making a lazy and twirling descent down until it lands in his hair. Celebrían coos and one of her arms leaves its swaddling to reach for it, she grasps the leaf and a large section of his hair at the same time and promptly attempts to cram both into her mouth. 

"I will take that as approval," he comments tiredly as he tries to pry them out, sighing as his hair pulls away, covered in moisture. He's been coated in all manner of substances before, including blood and viscera, not to mention the milk that Celebrían has been unable to keep down in the past few weeks, a little spittle barely registers. 

Tapping on the baby's mind reveals her to be satisfied, but he doubts that things will stay that way when she comes to understand that he will need both hands to build them a shelter. 

Within hours, he discerns that he is going to have to interact with the Silvans after all. While Nenya can do much to aid them, encouraging trees to grow in certain ways and stone to ease into particular shapes, at least some of the construction will require tools. They'll need another goat if Celebrían is to have a continuing food source, and both of their linen are growing perilously thin. Groaning, he realizes that he will also need to bring the baby with him; she can hardly be left behind alone. 

By the time they finally reach a village on the edges of Eryn Galen, his strength— which has waned significantly after Eregion— is close to collapse. Adar had planned on approaching the elves with caution and a plan, but the long journey has stripped him of the ability to do anything but sit when he arrives. Celebrían is once again crying with discomfort, and he very seriously considers joining her. The first of the elves to approach swiftly appraises his bedraggled appearance, the weeping baby in his arms, and the disgruntled goat kept tied by a rope and holds out her arms expectantly.  This time, there is no hesitation in him when he hands over the child. He's grateful that the woman asks him no questions at first; she simply unwraps her charge and cleans her efficiently before removing her shawl and swaddling Celebrían with it again. 

"You appear to have come a long way, stranger," she comments as she offers him a hunk of bread, "and it was a difficult journey if your looks speak true." 

"True enough," he admits, downing the food ravenously. As before, he knows that he needs to exercise caution, to tell what truth he can and let omission do the rest of the work. It takes a considerable amount of effort to force away the emotion that wells up when he remembers who had taught him to deceive in this manner.  

"We fled from Eregion and have had no shortage of troubles since we began the journey." 

Other elves who have gathered around collectively wince at the mention of the fallen region, it may have been ruled by the Noldor, but Celebrimbor had a reputation for being welcoming to any who wished to learn or perfect a craft. Adar takes a moment to wonder if the last scion of Fëanor came to rue such willful naivety. It's only a brief thought before he goes on to reiterate the same story about the baby's mother receiving a mortal wound, forcing her to leave her child behind while her fëa journeyed to the Halls of Mandos. He is careful to leave Galadriel's name out of the narrative.

Giving vague responses to questions, he inelegantly shoves the additional food that is offered to him into his mouth and barely keeps from falling asleep where he sits on the ground. An elf who has listened to his account gives him a subtle shake and speaks, “Our king is not usually welcoming to outsiders, but I doubt he would have us cast out a refugee of Ost-in-Edhil with a baby, not that he ever journeys out here to the borders of his domain.” 

Still rocking Celebrían in a gentle embrace, the dark-skinned elf who had first helped him adds, “You are welcome to stay.” 

“Indeed, it would be a blessing to have a child among us again,” her companion agrees, “the last one born in this village was your son, Arradiel. How long has it been since he left to pursue the life of a soldier?” 

“At least a hundred years,” Arradiel replies, her tone both proud and melancholy, but she smiles down at the bundle in her arms. “You are right, Medhion. It has been far too long since we have had children around to brighten our days.”

“A generous offer, but I have no wish to live among others.” Adar says. 

Arradiel’s eyebrows raised in alarm, “You cannot mean to live in the wilderness on your own while caring for this little one?”

“I do,” he assures her steadfastly. It is tempting to take the offer of a new home and community, but he forces himself to remember that he was no longer an elf and he had a responsibility towards his children that he must fulfill. Though it might take thousands of years to earn back the trust of the Uruks, he would never stop trying, and if he succeeds, he knows that he will need to bring them to the temporary home which Nenya had guided him towards. 

Reaching out to grasp his shoulder, Medhion gently tells him, “I can not begin to imagine the horrors that you have seen nor comprehend the losses that you have endured, but you should not cleave yourself from those who would support you, nor condemn your daughter to live apart from the Eldar.” 

This is the second time that someone has assumed that Celebrían is his child, though it is no longer surprising to him that Medhion comes to this conclusion, it still makes Adar flinch. Thankfully, the elf assumes that his reaction stems from painful remembrances of the past. As much as he may wish to contradict Medhion’s words, he knows that rejecting the presumption will only lead to questions which he may not want to answer. It’s safer to let them believe that he is the child’s father, but just because they accept it does not make it true. 

What does surprise him is how much it means to him that there are people who want to help. He has spent so long trying to wring compassion out of the elves for his children that it’s nice to be reminded of the decency of which they are capable. It makes him question whether he does have the right to deny Celebrían this half of her heritage.

After a long moment of silent deliberation Adar slowly says, “I truly hope that there will be a day when me and mine can live in your company without grief, but for now, I think it best for us. That being said, there is wisdom in your words, it is not just that Celebrían be sundered from her people, with your permission, I would like to bring her to visit.” 

Medhion looks ready to argue the point when Arradiel holds out a hand to silence him, looking intently at him, she asks, “Are you certain?”

Holding her gaze steadily, Adar replies, “I am.” 

“You will need provender if you are to survive,” she states as she places the sleeping infant back into his arms. Before he quite knows what is happening, she is commandeering a wagon and the supplies that he will need to construct a shelter. Medhion gathers a few baskets of food and gives him a horse and an extra goat. Adar is prepared to barter work for the supplies and equipment, but both elves refuse the offer, and no one in the village seems to begrudge them to him.

Arradiel is placing a large collection of linens and other items meant to help care for and entertain a baby when he stops her, “May I bring Celebrían to see you? I have never reared a child before, and I think we would both benefit from your advice.” 

“She will be welcome here,” she assures him, “and so will you.” 

“I am grateful.” 

“Rest while you can,” she says knowingly, “for once she is teething, you will have no peace.”

“How long will that last? A few days?” Adar asks curiously, trying to gain a rough understanding of how the baby's development will progress and estimate how long he may have to live on little sleep. 

Arradiel, once she realizes that he is being serious, gives him a shake of her head, and quietly says, “Oh, you poor, poor thing.” 

She grasps him by the shoulder, steering him towards her home, and offers him a drink. As the tea boils, the elf drags an old cradle (presumably her son’s) near the hearth and places Celebrían in it. Then she spends the next several hours preparing him for the upcoming months. When she notices his panic-stricken face, she offers him a sympathetic smile. 

“How can it be so complicated?” Adar asks her in worried disbelief. From her place in the cradle, Celebrían sniffles and hiccups in a manner that now strikes him as ominous. Unsurprisingly, she bursts into tears. Adar, exhausted and head ringing with an overwhelming amount of information, can’t understand the fond grin on Arradiel’s face. Is that what happens after years of raising elven children? You begin to find the copious crying endearing rather than alarming? 

Reaching out, Arradiel gathers the tiny bundle of wailing elfling to herself, but it only seems to make the baby cry harder. After a pause, she crosses the room to place Celebrían in his arms. Within moments, her sobs die down to sniffles, but her small limbs still flail in distress. 

Then Arradiel says, “Right now she can hear your heartbeat, but you are not connecting to her with your fëa, it’s confusing her. Think of it like being in a dark room with someone you cannot see but know is there.”

Using the same combination of images and emotions, Adar softly engages in mental contact, and the distress swiftly disappears. The baby wraps her fingers around his hair to express her contentment and gives a hard pull for good measure.  

“At least this time she’s not trying to eat it,” he mutters.  

Together, they walk towards his newly acquired wagon. Arradiel insists that he take the cradle as well, and helpfully assists him in holding Celebrían while he loads it and then hitches up. 

“Just wait until she starts crawling,” she tells him brightly, “then she will attempt to place any and everything she can get her hands on into her mouth.”

His dismayed expression must be quite comical because he rides off to the sound of Arradiel’s laughter. 

Adar braces himself. The first time that he had done this, it had not just been the weight of forgiving Galadriel that had driven the breath from his lungs. 

Ever since his capture at Cuiviénen, when Morgoth and his servants had carved into his body over and over again, pulling him apart and sewing him back together to try and unlock the secrets of life, he had lived with chronic pain. 

It had been so consistent that when he had donned Nenya for the first time, the sudden absence of it had sent him into a euphoric state. 

Like most things in his life that give him pleasure, Adar is extremely suspicious of the bearer of such gifts. 

Through experimentation, he has discovered that the pain will begin in his hands, particularly the maimed one, burning through his veins like fire and ice as nerves both damaged and dead were either awakened or silenced. His muscles suddenly cramp as blood flow decreases throughout his body. 

Most oddly, portions of his hair, those areas where the scalp had been frequently pulled away from his skull, begin to shed in thick showers of black strands.       

Taking a deep breath, he removes Nenya and waits. 

Thankfully, Adar has had countless years of experience in constructing shelters to protect his children from the scalding effects of the Arien’s rays. With the help of the supplies he has been gifted, he manages to construct a decent home for them. As he predicted, the baby is extremely unhappy to be left unattended, even if he remains less than a few yards of distance away. After walking back and forth from her to his work-site half a dozen times for an hour, he gives up caution and keeps an ongoing link while he builds. It doesn’t prevent Celebrían from expressing her displeasure, but it does keep his pauses to a more manageable level.   

There is about one blissful week between when he finishes building and when his charge begins to cut her first tooth. The lack of sleep leaves him on edge and less than tolerant; his head throbs dully as the baby cries in pain for days on end, on and on until his nerves are flayed. The cries remind him too much of Thangorodrim and all that he would rather forget. 

The screaming goes on for weeks without cessation. Reaching a fevered peak in the middle of the night. Adar peers down into the baby’s cradle, hearing her suffering and remembering. Then, for the first time since the day that Galadriel had placed her in his arms,  Celebrían engages in ósanwë before he does, and for just a moment she glimpses a memory of Morgoth’s fortress.

Maedhros Fëanorian begs to die, and Adar can only watch in helpless pity as the emaciated lord weeps. 

“Hold on,” Adar whispers in the dark as he coaxes him to drink a little water. 

Celebrían flinches, drawing Adar out of the remembrance, and he quickly smothers the recollection. 

After adjusting the blanket that Celebrían kicked off in her frustration, he trails a finger down her cheek, ‘ I’m sorry , I didn’t mean for you to see that ,’ he tells her, trying to convey his remorse through the bond. It seems to soothe her, and she begins gnawing on his finger to ease her pain. It is enough to distract her from the dull throbbing of her gums, and she falls into a huffing sleep. 

Cautiously, very cautiously, Adar backs away from the crib and spends the majority of the night trying to calm the tremor in his hands. 

Not all his experiences are so bleak. Nestled among the tidbits of advice which Arradiel had bestowed upon him, the elf had strongly counseled that he verbalize objects that Celebrían sees so that she can associate the sight of those objects with their names. 

The advice itself is sound, but the question of language hangs over him. The dialect used by most elves, most importantly their nearest neighbors, is Sindarin, but Galadriel, being a Noldor, may have chosen to teach her daughter Quenya as well. Despite its dubious association with her uncle Fëanor. On his more lucid days, Maedhros had explained the etiquette of sá-sí and the use of ‘þ’ that separated the Fëanorians from the rest of the Noldor. Adar had learned the language from him, partially as a method of distraction from the horrors of Morgoth’s fortress. Now he feels a little beholden to Maehdros to pass on the language to this newest branch of the House of Finwë. He also plans on introducing her to the Black Speech. If Celebrían is to be a bridge between the elves and the Uruks, then she must be comfortable with their language. Given Númenor’s interference in recent events, it’s likely prudent to teach her the mannish dialects as well. 

Perhaps he will be lucky and she’ll grow up and wed someone with an affinity for dwarves and their language, which will save him the trouble of trying to teach her Khuzdul. Of course, the dwarves have always been notoriously closed-mouthed about sharing their language with outsiders, so he supposes that the odds of Celebrían finding a mate with ties of brotherhood to the race are probably not high. 

Gathering her up, he begins, "That is a cradle," he says to Celebrían, pointing at her bed, " Cradle ." Then he repeats the word in the other languages that he has decided on teaching her. 

Predictably, Celebrían is silent; her head is turned toward him, though, and those grey eyes study his face intently.

"Maybe that is too hard a word," Adar muses. Soldiering on, he holds up Nenya before her eyes,  "This is a ring. They are very pretty, and sometimes cause no end of trouble. Grant me a boon, little one, and do not take up your sire’s hobby of smithing. Say ‘ ring’ , Celebrían."

Celebrían gives him a delighted gurgle and grabs at the collar of his linen instead, "Good," he says, "I hope that means you will be more interested in needleworks and leave the ringcraft to fools who think that they can control Arda with a few bits of metal. No one ever harmed another with a nicely embroidered shirt. Not that I mean to limit you to the needle; woodwork, stonemasonry, and the fine arts seem equally safe.”  

Adar sighs as he carries his charge outside, “Arradiel never said how long this would take. Now this—this is a tree. See how tall it is?"

Standing outside the house, and feeling slightly ridiculous, he continues to explain the world around them in various languages, and Celebrían makes cheerful, unintelligible noises in reply. 

Other than the babbling that seems to be universal among all babies, Celebrían doesn’t utter a word. Adar finds that it doesn’t bother him overmuch; his heart feels strangely light, and all without the aid of Nenya, which he left in the house.   

Several months later, he brings Celebrían on a visit to Arradiel’s home in the neighboring village. Along the way, they pass a few elves who don’t approach him but nod respectfully in passing. When they arrive, he finds her tending to the garden behind her house, singing the flowers into strength. The baby observes this with solemn, wide eyes. She has never heard singing before, or if Galadriel had sung to her, Celebrían may have forgotten. He can see that she is fascinated by the music and drawn to the bright colors of the blooms. 

Ending her song, Arradiel rises and smiles in greeting. Adar smiles back, adjusting the baby on his hip. Thankfully, she is able to hold herself up unaided now, which frees one of his hands. 

"I thought that I would take you up on your offer," he says. 

The elf’s smile grows wider. “Greetings, Hecil! I am pleased that you came. How fares the little one?” 

Adar had hesitated to use the archer’s name again, after all, they are in the Woodland Realm, and ultimately he chose a Quenya one instead, deeming ‘Hecil’ a common enough name to pass unnoticed.  

“You were right,” he admits, shaking off his thoughts, “teething is quite an ordeal. It’s a wonder that children and their caretakers survive it.” 

“Come inside, I have something that may help.” 

Together, they walk into her kitchen, and he takes a moment to marvel at the ease with which an elf invited a Uruk into their home. He wonders how different things would be if Nenya didn’t grace his finger, providing him with the veneer of belonging. Arradiel disappears behind her pantry door, emerging again a few moments later with a plate that ends up containing a small pile of rolls. Arradiel explains that the bread is hard enough to hold up as the baby chews at it, but will leave her sensitive mouth unhurt. After being offered one, Celebrían immediately begins to vigorously gnaw. 

“The worst of the pains appear to have tapered off,” he notes. 

“Hmm…” the elf hums, “they will come and go throughout the year, but I think that you are right. I see that she can sit up on her own. Is she crawling yet?” 

“Not yet,” he does not bother to hide the relief in his tone. 

Upon hearing it, Arradiel gives a huff of laughter, “do not get too comfortable, she is near the age when babies become mobile.” 

“Please do not give her ideas,” he begs.       

“Very well,” she agrees, trying to hide her bemusement at his dread. “Has she spoken her first word?”

“No”—he pauses as he is forced to quickly dodge the roll that Celebrían lobs at his head, he gives the baby a stern look— “though she is clearly as opinionated as her mother.”  

“What was she like?” Arradiel asks, curious but unwilling to push if it will cause him pain, which is useful because he cannot give anyone too much information about Celebrían’s mother. 

“Imperious and fierce.” 

“A union of opposites, then,” the elf smiles as the baby reaches for another roll. She places one in Celebrían’s hands and receives a gap-toothed grin for her trouble. Adar smirks as he imagines what Galadriel would have to say about their supposed union. 

“Did that ring belong to her?” Arradiel peers down at his hand with interest.

“It did,” Adar confirms carefully, he firmly believes that Nenya is not tainted with Sauron’s corruption but benign power is still power that can be put to ill use. “She meant it for Celebrían but she is too young to wear it. So, I keep it in trust for our daughter.”

Before she can continue that perilous line of questioning, there is a knock on her door, and Medhion’s voice drifts inside. “Arradiel? I heard that you had visitors and I wanted to greet them.” 

“Come in, my friend,” she calls out cheerily, “we’re in the kitchen!” 

After greetings are exchanged, Medhion chucks the baby under the chin and exclaims, “Stars, how this little one has grown! If you’ll permit it, I have a small gift, though the making of it was my wife’s suggestion. She would have come along herself, but she did not want to overwhelm the child with too many people if she wasn’t accustomed to company. ”

Reaching into a pouch at his side, Medhion pulls out a small silver rattle. Celebrían's eyes widen when the elf shakes it before her eyes. Adar can already feel the bruises he will undoubtedly receive when the baby chooses to introduce him to her new toy by way of a hard smack to his body. Still, it is a kind gesture, “You have my thanks, it must have taken some time to fashion.” 

Medhion waves a hand as if to dispel the thanks, “Usually, I am called upon to make and repair household items around the village. It was a pleasant change of pace to make a toy instead of a frying pan.” 

Shaking the rattle, Celebrían makes a happy squeal and promptly places it in her mouth. Medhion gives a quiet snort of laughter but does not appear offended at her treatment of his hard work. She surprises them all when she holds her arms up in a silent request to be held. The elf looks askance at him, and Adar gives a nod of assent, plucking the rattle out of her grip before handing her over. 

Once she is in Medhion’s arms, Celebrían makes a determined study of his face, grabbing and tracing every feature. When she gets to his mouth, the elf blows a small raspberry against her hand, after a moment of surprise she giggles and holds her fingers against his lips again so that he can repeat it. This evolves into a game between the two where Celebrían tries (and fails) to make the same noise. 

It dawns on Adar that he has never taken the time to play with Celebrían, nor had he done as much with the Uruk children. In the mad rush to provide for their needs and safety, it had never occurred to him. The guilt threatens to swamp him.

Celebrían distracts him when she squirms in Medhion’s arms, who speaks to her obligingly, “It looks as if it is time to go back to your adar.” 

Appearing to think hard about his words, the baby tilts her head and questions, “Ada?”

"Yes, he is at the table—wait?" Medhion turns toward the source of her query with an astonished look. "Has she done this before?"

"Ada?" She repeats, seeming to test the name upon her tongue.

Both elves are delighted, Medhion hugs her, as Arradiel says,  "Your father is right here, little one," she rises and places a kiss on her round cheek. "He is so proud of you!"

In truth, Adar can feel nothing but blinding panic. Celebrían studies him intently, as she perches in the elf’s arms and then says happily, as if she has made a momentous decision, "Ada!" 

For the foreseeable future, Adar knows that most will assume that he is her father, but until this moment, he hadn’t considered that Celebrían herself would believe it too. In a daze, he manages to wrap up the visit, though he has no idea what he says or what is said in turn. 

Because he makes sure to keep his roiling uncertainty from her, the girl is thrilled to use his name quite often on the journey home, he spends the time deliberating how to explain the difference between a name and a title. 

"Ada?"

‘I am not going to give in.’

"Ada."

Maybe he should teach her his old elvish name? He has rejected it in favor of the name the Uruks bestowed on him, but…

“Ada.”

‘I shouldn’t give in.’   

“Ada!”

"What is it, Celebrían?"

"Ada!" She points at one of the animals behind the small fence that he is building.  

"No, that's the goat. You ought to learn to call her by the right name, since she feeds you every day," he can’t keep the crack of irritation out of his voice.

"Ada!"

"That is also a goat. Medhion gave him to us, remember?"

"Ada?"

“A moth,” he clarifies, making sure to repeat the word in Quenya and Black Speech, he points at the small insect that has landed on her shoulder with the hammer he is holding. He recognizes the look on her face, but with occupied hands, can only call out, “Not for eating!” 

Sensing danger, the insect flutters to a nearby post before the baby can shove it into her mouth and she pouts as she tries to reach it by getting on hands and knees, kicking out with her feet and rocking back and forth in frustration when she doesn’t move. For the child of an elf and a Maia, she certainly has the appetite of a Uruk.     

The child still hadn't spoken any words except for his name, and it is starting to wear on the patience that he had once thought to possess in abundance. It still troubles him that she may come to think of him as her father, instead of using Adar as a name, but she is so young that he supposes the distinction will not make sense yet.    

Limited as her spoken vocabulary may be, Celebrían seems to understand at least some of what he speaks. She looks up at him when he says her name and smiles when he says ‘milk’. Her comprehension of the word ‘no’ seems to be shaky, though that may be selective hearing. Valar knows her mother never enjoyed hearing the word. 

"Ada."

Is there sound in the void? If not, he is beginning to envy Morgoth his accommodations. 

"Ada."

Placing the hammer down, Adar sighs and leans forward to accuse, “You are enjoying this.” 

"Ada?" he swears that her little voice is teasing. Celebrían reaches for the hammer, which he belatedly realizes has been placed too close to her. 

“Absolutely not!” Adar moves the tool an additional three feet away as he scolds her, which makes her pout, rocking forward with such strength that she lands on her face with a soft whump.   

"Ada!" Celebrían whines. At this rate, the goats are never going to get a fence, he pauses yet again to sit her upright and check her for bruises.

Once he has dusted off the dirt and confirmed that she is more frustrated than hurt, he turns to the time-consuming task of measuring out the length between posts. Not realizing just how long it takes until he is done, he feels shocked that Celebrían hasn’t interrupted him. Meaning to praise her for it, Adar looks back and receives an icy stab of panic.  

She’s gone. 

“Ada?” Nearly jumping out of his skin, Adar looks down and sees Celebrían tugging on his leg.

Sinking to the ground in relief, he clutches her to him tightly and stays like that until his heart stops racing, "How did you—"

Trailing off, he notices that her hands, knees, and shins are smudged with mud, “Oh. Oh no…”

Crawling. 

She can crawl now .

Not knowing if he should laugh or cry, he ends up doing both. Celebrían consoles him with a sympathetic pat and sagely comments, “Ada.” 

Once she is mobile, Celebrían perpetually moves from place to place with the air of someone who has a great deal to do and little time in which to do it. Never before had he realized just how many objects occupied the ground beneath his feet, nor how many of them could potentially wind up in a baby’s mouth — the answer, he discovers, is nearly all of them. 

For months, when he isn’t sleeping or eating, he is actively trying to keep Celebrían out of trouble. ‘ Not that I sleep much,’ he thinks as he longingly remembers when his charge would spend huge swathes of the day asleep. 

Slowly, Celebrían has begun to incorporate more words into her daily use, which is how the animals gained the names Nyēni, Roq, and Roch. While not inventive, he does praise her choices lavishly, if only for breaking the monotony of hearing everything from pine trees to a very ornery billy-goat, being referred to as ‘Adar’.

Arradiel had told him that once their children began to speak words, elven parents would often tell their little ones stories and tales to help put the words they were acquiring into context beyond just associating objects and people with names. As he goes through the mental catalog of the stories of the elves that he knows, he realizes just how rife they are with morbidity. Some of the most popular tales, the Ainulindalë, the Noldolantë, and the Fall of Gondolin, are so full of the cruelties of Morgoth that it’s surprising that the Eldar don’t inflict permanent damage in the telling of them on such impressionable minds. Eager as he is for Celebrían to understand the Uruks, their stories are far worse. At a loss, Adar settles on rhetoric and poetry. 

“My children,” he tells her, “never developed much of a taste for it, understandable given the circumstances. I am unsure if you will enjoy it all that much either, but if not, you can consider this restitution for all the sleepless nights you have given me lately.”

In the time that it takes for Celebrían to graduate from crawling to standing, he manages to get through Rumil, ending with, “It is useless to meet revenge with revenge, for it will heal nothing.”

Celebrían stares at him. Given her age, she is probably not contemplating Rumil’s wisdom, but he still feels the urge to avoid her gaze as he remembers his single-minded pursuit of Sauron, “Some proverbs are harder to follow than others.”   

A part of him thinks that he should sing to her. It is the birthright of all of the Eldar. Adar has not sung since before his capture by Morgoth, and he cannot bring himself to try. However he is able to speak the lyrics. Daeron’s songs and poetry seem to please her, but there are only so many odes to the beauty of Lúthien that one can stand to hear before boredom sets in.  

"Shall we go through the works of Maglor?" Adar muses, going over to where the child sits on the floor after another failed attempt to walk. "You have to use your arms to balance yourself," he leans down and holds out his hands across from her to demonstrate. 

Rather than imitate the posture, Celebrían immediately grasps his arms and pulls herself upright; then, after a moment of wobbling, takes an unsteady step. "Ah…you needed help," he says, feeling embarrassed that he hadn’t realized that fact.

Try as he might, he cannot keep his eyes on the toddler indefinitely. When he is occupied with cleaning up the mashed berries that she had dropped on the floor during breakfast, Celebrían tries to walk without assistance and ends up taking a hard fall. Adar feels surprise well up in their ósanwë link right before she lets out a piercing wail. 

Pushing down his panic, he rushes over expecting the worst, and feels relieved when he discovers that all she has is a skinned and bleeding knee. It is probably the shock of bleeding rather than actual pain; he doesn’t think she’s ever seen blood before, but she still wants him to hold her.  

Mentally soothing her, he quickly cleans the scrape and tries to rise so that he can bind it in some clean linen, but Celebrían stops him by holding on to him tightly, then she uses the hand that isn’t gripping him to point to her knee and says in Black Speech, “hurt.”  

“Yes, you were hurt,” Adar responds in kind, “but you will be alright now, it was just a little hurt.” 

The girl seems to consider that, and then reaches out to his hand and very gently traces his old injuries.“Hurt?” Celebrían asks anxiously. 

“I— ", he pauses, unsure of how to tell her about his scarring, “I was hurt, very badly, but I’m not anymore,”  in spite of his claim, his voice is husky with pain. Celebrían burrows into his side and wraps her arms, as far as she can reach, around his frame, imitating the way that he had just been holding her. 

“Thank you, little one,” he whispers in her ear. They stay like that, silently giving comfort to one another. For a moment, Adar wishes that Celebrían truly was his child.

In certain aspects, Celebrían is very much one of the Eldar. She loves music, and ever since watching Arradiel singing to her garden, she has imitated the practice. She often begs him to sing to her; he has remained reluctant, preferring to speak the verses rather than stir up the complicated feelings that he has on the subject. Of course, with such a haphazard foundation in song, Celebrían’s knowledge is limited, and she ends up making up tunes that are liberally interspersed with a mixed variety of languages. 

Elves have always had a special communion with nature, and their songs can be extremely powerful. Even an ordinary elf can ensure that plants are made more hardy and enduring with well-chosen music sung at regular intervals over several days or weeks, depending on the strength and skill of the singer. Others are blessed with more power. There were precedents: Maedhros had sung in defiance and survived thirty-four years of torture and Galadriel’s brother Finrod had a voice powerful enough to challenge, if not conquer, the might of Sauron. 

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Celebrían isn’t just another one of the Eldar, until something happens to unequivocally remind him that she is more . Celebrían stumbles upon a seedling near their home; it is choked by weeds and less than a handspan in growth, but the girl insists that she can save it. Adar shows her how to clear the excesses that are strangling the life out of it and helps her safely transplant it beneath the window of the room he had recently constructed for her. 

After tapping on his mind, she shows him an image of the plant growing up the walls and peeking through her window. 

“That will take weeks,” Adar warns her. Still, he willingly speaks the words of a growing song he overheard in the village, thinking that if she were lucky, she might be able to make it gain a few inches of height over the next few days. The girl joyfully spends the whole of an afternoon singing to the plant in her broken toddler’s speech.    

Everyone knows the power of Lúthien’s voice had strength enough to subdue Morgoth, so it shouldn’t surprise him when he enters Celebrían's room the next morning to find the floor littered with Niphredil petals from a vine grown so large that it touches the ceiling. 

It shouldn’t surprise him.

But it does. 

"Please?" Celebrían asks, eagerly reaching for the doll that Medhion’s wife is presenting her. "Thank you?"

Sitting at Arradiel’s kitchen table, the elfling is basking in the attention of four adults and is careful to comport herself well. Adar suspects that she is on her best behavior because she (correctly) anticipated receiving a gift from the couple. They seem intent on spoiling her every time that they see her. 

The effect is hindered by the girl speaking in Quenya rather than Sindarin. Adar gives a hasty translation and raises an eyebrow at Celebrían to let her know that he is aware that she is playing cute on purpose.

"What good manners!" Oreth coos as she hands over the poppet. Thankfully, the few words of Black Speech that the toddler has uttered have been dismissed as children’s babble by the elves. Though not everything that she says is ignored.

Arradiel sharply observant as ever, asks, “I think I heard her slipping in a ‘þ’, though I admit that it could just be an ordinary child’s lisp and not the Fëanorian dialect. When my husband and I lived in Gondolin there weren’t many Lispers and I never fully grasped the distinction.” 

“No, you are correct,” Adar says with a shrug. “I have been trying to help Celebrían understand about sá-sí and have thus far have only ended up confusing her.”

“I think I understand your wish to live apart a little better now,” Arradiel muses. “You know, in spite of what some may think, using the thorn is just a facet of the Quenya language.”

“We never would have cast you out for that,” Medhion tells him pityingly. “No matter what Thingol thought, being one of the Fëanorian host is not a sure sign of corruption. Celebrimbor was directly descended from that bloodline, instead of just a follower or retainer, and I heard that he was nothing but decent.” 

Inwardly, Adar is surprised. He hadn’t thought that the villagers would assume his hesitance in living among them would be because of Fëanorian ties. Seeing how it can only help to further disguise himself, he does not bother to contradict them. Outwardly, he agrees with their assessment of Celebrimbor and thanks them for their kindness. Given that Maedhros is distant kin to Celebrían, and how important the concept of family had always been to him, he thinks that the former High King would understand Adar appropriating a position among his father’s host to better protect her. 

Oreth breaks his reverie with a skeptical question directed towards her husband. “After the disaster at Eregion, you can still say that?”     

Medhion shrugs, “He had no way of knowing that his guest would end up being the Deceiver, and he made a very brave end. I heard from the dwarves that I traded with last month that Sauron tortured the poor lord trying to get information out of him and that Celebrimbor refused to divulge that which he knew.” 

Reaching over, Medhion covers Celebrían’s ears and whispers, “The dwarves told me that Sauron mutilated Celebrimbor’s hands before he finally killed him,” the elf shudders, “I cannot imagine a worse fate for a smith.”

“I’m not saying that he deserved such treatment, no one does,” she sighs and leans her head on her husband’s shoulder fondly. “You always strive to see the best in all.”

“It does no good to prejudge others. If we did, then we would never have gotten to know Hecil,” Medhion says and then taps Celebrían on the nose, “or the little queen.”

Feeling a stab of guilt, Adar tries to remind himself that he has no wish to hurt these people the way that Sauron had done to Celebrimbor. Though a part of him notes that he is abusing their trust as he conceals his identity.

Seeking to change the subject, he turns to Arradiel and says, “I must admit that my visit had an ulterior motive.”

“Besides getting Celebrían more toys?” she replies teasingly.

“No,” he laughs, “though, truly, I very much appreciate the diversion that Medhion’s work provides. Sometimes they are the only thing that distracts her from getting into mischief.”

“Effort well spent, then!” Medhion says and enthusiastically ruffles Celebrían’s silver curls, making her giggle, “We will aim for giving your adar some well earned peace and quiet.”

“So,” the elf prompts, “if not just for your daughter’s entertainment, what prompted this visit?” 

“Your advice,” he confesses, “I find that I am going short on it as Celebrían grows taller.” 

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” Arradiel tells him wryly. 

“A fact that, in hindsight, I appreciate.” 

“But it’s true, she’s getting bigger, and the challenges that you face are going to be both easier and harder.” 

“In what ways will it be harder?” Adar asks, wanting to cover the difficulties first. 

Eyeing Celebrían appraisingly, Arradiel says, “She looks to be at about the age when parents start teaching their children to control their need for swaddling and use a chamber pot instead.” 

Arradiel grins at the dismayed expression on his face and tells him all that he needs to know. To her credit, Medhion’s wife keeps her features schooled, which is more than can be said for her husband, who is trying to hold back a laugh by the time Arradiel is done speaking. Adar views the mirth as being particularly ungenerous to himself, and when he tells him so, the smith loses his battle and guffaws but promises to make a small pot for someone of Celebrían’s tiny stature. 

Still glaring at their retreating backs, Adar waspishly wonders why the couple bothered to stay for so long. 

“They were preparing to have a child, before it was revealed that Sauron had returned” Arradiel tells him, “obviously, they had to change their plans, it would not be safe to bring forth life in the midst of such peril, but I imagine that they view you as a kind of demonstration.”

“Charming,” Adar grouses, “I am so pleased that I could be of assistance.” 

“Be of good cheer,” Arradiel says brightly, as she playfully swats him on the shoulder. “Elflings pass this stage far easier than Edain children do.” 

“I suppose it could be worse,” Adar sighs. 

Too tired and perplexed to even be angry, Adar can only stare down at Celebrían in appalled wonder.          

“How in the name of Varda,” he asks in consternation as she beams up at him with pride, “did you manage to relieve yourself inside my boot?” 

One thing that becoming Celebrían’s guardian has made Adar grateful for is that he rarely has the time or energy to think about Sauron, much less to grieve what he thought they had once shared. This strikes him as odd, because the girl is of Sauron’s getting, but it still proves to be true. 

Aside from the impossibility of possessing a physical likeness to her sire, Celebrían’s burgeoning personality holds little resemblance to her father; she is a happy little elleth who hates to see pain in others and is ready to embrace every being that she meets.  

Literally. At least a quarter of their last trip to Arradiel’s village was taken up by Celebrían’s insistence on hugging all who stumbled their way. Thankfully, most of the residents have grown used to having their shins tackled by a sprite-sized elf and don’t complain when she tries to climb up (another skill she has acquired) to greet them at eye level. Celebrían’s more concerning traits, her stubbornness and the impulsive way she sometimes acts, stem from her mother and do not force him to make painful associations.

Recently, the girl has taken to picking up everything that she can get her hands on and placing them in the many pouches on the belt that Medhion’s wife recently made for her. Bemusedly, Adar notices that the pocket knife that Medhion had gifted to him was sticking out of one of her side pouches. Since the knife is closed, he is not unduly worried about her skewering herself, but the knowledge that he placed the folding blade on one of the higher shelves in their home does give him pause. 

“You,” he scolds as he draws the blade out, “have been climbing again.”

“Mine?” Celebrían asks, holding out her hand pleadingly. 

“This is not yours,” he tells her firmly, “this belongs to me and I know that I have told you before how dangerous it is to climb so high.” 

Blinking in confusion, Celebrían ignores the admonishment to concentrate on what she does not understand, pointing at the knife, she says again, “Mine?”

“No, this is mine.” 

Confusion increasing, Celebrían repeats, “Mine?” 

Adar rubs at his temples, trying to stave off the upcoming headache, and thinks about how to explain possession to a child. He walks over to the box that holds Celebrían’s toys and picks out the rattle Medhion made for her. As the months have passed, she has outgrown playing with it, but Adar knows that she still values it greatly, if only because it was the first gift that the smith ever gave her. As he holds up the rattle, Celebrían’s eyes widen territorially. 

Walking back to crouch before her, he says, “This is yours ,” he shakes it for emphasis before placing it in her hands. “This,” he holds up the blade, “is mine.” Repeating the words and actions several times, he makes sure to say the words in all the languages that he has been teaching her. 

After a long moment, understanding dawns in Celebrían’s eyes, and she prods at Medhion’s knife before slowly saying, “Yours.” 

“That’s right.” 

Clutching the rattle to her chest, she tilts her head and questioningly asks, “Mine?”

“Yes.” 

Taking his hand, she gestures to the room that he has finally gotten around to constructing for himself, “yours.” 

“I sleep there,” he confirms, “so yes, that is mine.” 

Running over to the toy chest, she touches it with her hand and confidently says, “mine.”

Adar nods, and she smiles happily before pointing at his extra pair of boots sitting by the hearth. “Yours.” 

“Despite your best efforts. Those are also mine,” he tells her, still feeling some lingering exasperation over the incident, but pleased that she is picking up this concept with ease. “Some things belong to you, but not everything, and you have to make sure that you ask before you take something that belongs to another.” 

They end up making a game of it, walking around the house and determining what belongs to each of them. Together, they decide that Nyēni belongs to Celebrían and Roq is Adar’s. Since he is the only one tall enough to feed him (much less ride him), the horse also belongs to Adar.   

Hurrying back into the house, Celebrían insists that they divide the dishes. Not for the first time, he wonders if all children are so strange or if it is just Celebrían, because for some reason it is very important to her that they divide the dishes, but she is completely indifferent to parsing out the dining utensils.

Curiously, the girl points to the small box where Nenya is stored. He only tends to use the ring when they visit the village and doesn’t even bother to use it when engaging in ósanwë anymore, since Celebrían seems to suffer no harm when they bond without its aid. Her wordless query sends a prickle of worry down his spine; the last thing that he desires is for Sauron’s child to develop an obsession with rings, or any object of power, for that matter. 

Removing it from the box, he kneels to her eye-level to emphasize the gravity of what he is about to say and places the ring in her hands, “That does belong to you, but you are not mature enough to bear it yet.” Adar looks her in the eye and asks, “Can you wait and let me hold on to it for you until you are a little older?” 

Sensing the import of the situation, if not the full context, Celebrían spends a few moments looking down at Nenya cupped between her palms before she places it back in his hands and replies, “wait.” 

Suddenly releasing a breath, Adar quickly places the ring back and smiles at her proudly but before he can speak, the girl startles him by reaching out to grasp both sides of his face. 

Celebrían has touched him like this before, when she was an infant she would grab at him in the same manner that she grabbed at everything else that came within her sight. Later it was in the careless, accidental way that happens when people occupy each other’s space, but this is not the same. The intentionality of the gesture makes it different. The last time someone had touched his face with such deliberate gentleness had been…he pushes the memory away before it can fully form and whispers, “What is it, little one?”       

“My Ada.”

My Neidragh. 

A spark that sets his screaming mind alight with memories; his torture, his love, his failure. (The word: Ada Neidragh.) Hands on his face, black blood on an altar, unbearable betrayal.

Dead children. 

Murdered by his lover’s hands. The same hands that had— 

Nenya’s box clatters on the ground. His heart hammers a rapid and painful beat against his ribcage, all his muscles lock up and squeeze the air from his lungs, and he can’t stop his body from scrambling back in a futile attempt to hide from his pain. 

In his mindless frenzy, he forgets the shelf behind him. His head slams into the corner of it, the force of the blow pitches him forward towards the hard floor, and his nose crumples against it. Light streaks across his vision, the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth, and runs down the back of his throat.

Chapter Text

Adar wakes in slow increments. His body is crumpled in a disjointed heap, and given how sore his limbs are, he assumes that he has been in this position for several hours. Unwilling to risk standing just yet, he gingerly rolls to his side and spends long moments sorting through hazy bits of recollection.  

Suddenly, the memories snap into place with dizzying clarity. Celebrían had touched his face in the same way that he had once done, with the same tenderness that had always left Adar feeling so achingly vulnerable. But Celebrían had not been attempting to manipulate him, she had reached out instinctively. Adar meant to explain things to her gently, for he had no wish to hurt her. Instead, his mind chose the worst possible moment to— his thoughts veer away from self-recrimination to focus on the absence that should have been his first concern— Celebrían. 

Frantically, he hauls his body from the ground, ignoring the way that his head throbs painfully and his vision tilts precariously. Their home is small, it takes him a handful of heartbeats to make sure she isn’t hiding from him under the beds or behind their few articles of furniture. 

Dewy mist greets him as he runs outside. Roch is standing alone in his make-shift stable, but the way that he tosses his head and paws at the ground indicates his agitation. From their pen, Nyēni bleats at him in an almost accusatory fashion, while Roq placidly tears up a patch of wet grass to eat. 

Panicked questions fly through his mind, they overwhelm him as each fights for primacy in his disordered thoughts:  How long was he unconscious? When did she leave? Where would she have run? There’s a river not too far from here, Ulmo’s mercy, what if she drowned? 

Without pausing to think, he sprints in the direction of the river, and although he is running fast, it seems to take ages to reach the bank. Panting, he makes a terrified assessment of the location; he doesn’t see Celebrían, but if she had fallen in, he would have no way of knowing it, nor where the water could have dragged her. Should he follow the water downstream? The sun is beginning to set, and although it is spring, the air is generating a chill. As he shivers, it dawns on him that he hasn’t tried to find her over their bond. 

‘Please, not again. I cannot bear to lose another child. Not like this. Not because of my failings.’

Terrified at what he will find, he stretches out his mind. The link between them is as thin as a thread, but it is there, and he breathes a heavy sigh of relief. Celebrían may be hiding from him, or lost, but she isn’t dead. Now that it is a matter of finding a missing child instead of a corpse, he can focus with a little more clarity. Using ósanwë doesn’t do much more than let him know that she is alive. Adar isn’t sure if that is because of Celebrían’s youth or the physical distance. Maybe it is a combination of both factors? There is also the injury that Morgoth did to his fëa to consider, the damage may simply render him unable to connect so far without Nenya to aid him. The ring... 

Nenya can aid him. Cursing himself for not thinking of it sooner, he heads back to the house and hurriedly slips it on, barely noting the shivery sensation of his pain receding. Perhaps it is the fact that the ring belonged to Galadriel, and Celebrían is her child, or that Galadriel intended the ring for her daughter, but it is drawn to the girl. 

Tramping through the damp forests, Adar follows where Nenya beckons, feeling increasing trepidation the longer it takes to reach her. It shouldn’t be possible for Celebrían to have traveled such a distance, even with the hours of head-start she undoubtedly received, and although he has traveled this path many times, for some reason he cannot fathom, he keeps taking wrong turns. By now, he is closer to Arradiel’s village than their secluded home. The dark has settled in heavily, and the chill is enough to make him tremble. He should have thought to bring some supplies with him. Celebrían must be hungry and cold. 

The sound of a wounded creature startles him, but does nothing to lessen his worries, he hadn’t considered the danger the predators that dwell in the forest could pose to a lost child. Adar proceeds cautiously; he has no weapons to defend himself with, but cannot risk leaving a potential threat unassessed.

When he finds the source of the noise, he discovers not an animal, but Celebrían, emitting low, mournful whines. The sound of it makes his gut twist. She is sitting curled into herself so tightly that she does not see him approach. Nor does she hear him cry out and stagger back when he tries to approach her. When he was within reach of her, it felt as if his entire being was suddenly overcome with a disorientation so strong that it left him nauseated. What could have caused this effect? Barrow-wights? 

If the servants of Sauron are present, then Celebrían is in a great deal of danger. Adar whirls around, looking for the source of the effect, but finds none; a quick check with Nenya confirms that there are no others present. Celebrían makes another pitiful noise, burrowing against the log of a fallen tree, and his daze increases. 

This is why it took so long to find her, why he kept getting lost in forest paths that he knew well. He had experienced this before, when Melian the Maia had once produced a protective barrier so strong that it had kept intruders out of the whole of Doriath. However, Celebrían is only a child, and a half-Maia at that; her range must have a limited distance.

“Oh, little one,” Adar breathes, “it’s alright. You’re safe.” 

He tries to reach out to her through their bond, but she is too panicked to engage. Gingerly, he sits down as close to her as the enchantment will allow, pondering how to reach her. He tries simply talking to her, but it’s not enough. What has soothed her in the past? Usually an embrace, but he cannot get close enough for that. 

An idea dawns on him. Tentatively, in a voice that has not been put to the purpose in over an age, Adar begins to sing. The sound eventually tempts her into looking up; her face is a mix of wonder and fear, but he doesn’t falter. After some time, it seems to calm her a little, and she adds her voice to his. It’s one of the most poignant moments of his life. After he had been changed, he thought that the closest he would ever feel to the music again was hearing Sauron sing at the forge in the early days at Angband. Even that had been lost to him after Morgoth had forced him to make that damnable crown. 

“Do you think that you could let me in?” Adar asks her, fervently hoping that she can lower the boundary. Celebrían muses for a moment, and then Adar finds himself holding a shivering little girl. The fear, travel, and enchantment have exhausted her beyond her limits and she quickly loses consciousness. 

Adar runs the rest of the way to the village, pausing for only a moment to remove his cloak to cover the child. It’s night, or the early hours of the morning, which thankfully means there are no onlookers when he dashes up the path to Arradiel’s home. The elf’s eyes widen when she opens her door to reveal her dew-dampened and bedraggled visitors. 

Arradiel doesn’t bother with pleasantries or questions, she just runs towards a cupboard and flings some cloth at him, “Get her out of those wet clothes and wrap her in this blanket while I run the bath, make sure you chafe her hands and feet.” 

After what seems an excruciatingly long time, Arradiel deems it a safe temperature and has Adar ease the girl into the water. Though she remains unconscious, some of the color returns to Celebrían’s face. Before the bath can cool, they remove her from it and quickly dress her in a nightshirt, which Arradiel tells him her son had grown out of in his youth. 

It is only once Celebrían has been bundled into another blanket and is safely ensconced in Adar’s arms that Arradiel seems to take a moment to breathe, she studies his face for a long time, her features are troubled when asks him, “What happened?” 

“I scared her and she ran,” he says shamefacedly, waiting for her condemnation. The elf appears angry, almost furious, but after a moment, she wrestles the emotion down with a sigh and silently waits for him to continue. 

“She did something that reminded me of—not that it’s her fault—but I reacted poorly—then she ran into the woods and I couldn’t find her.” 

“Explain what you mean by ‘reacted poorly.’” Arradiel’s tone is icy.

Tears are leaking from his eyes by the time that he can reply, “She reached out to touch my face, the way that I suppose children just do sometimes, and I froze . No, more than that, my body seemed to react without the consent of my mind. I recoiled away from her as if….”

‘As if she were Sauron.’      

Though a certain amount of tension remains, much of the anger that the elf had been holding seems to drain away at his explanation.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Arradiel gestures at his face, which he suddenly realizes is swollen and crusted in dried blood. Scrubbing furtively at his nose and chin, he nods. 

“She saw you hurt yourself?” she guesses. 

“Yes,” he admits.  

“Have you thought much on your losses recently?” Arradiel asks, seemingly out of nowhere. 

Feeling his brows raise, Adar replies, “What does that have to do with Celebrían?”

“Everything,” she tells him flatly, “because you are this child’s whole world. So I ask again, have you taken the time to contemplate all that you have suffered?” 

With horrible clarity, Adar remembers the torture, the mountain top, and the taste of wine on his tongue. He remembers the savage grief of seeing his children butchered for an experiment, the slide of black blood under his feet, the breath being driven from his lungs when Glûg drove his sword into his side, and the way Galadriel had sagged in his arms when she died. He refuses to let himself remember Sauron. 

“There wasn’t time,” he protests, “there was always something that needed my attention, and others who needed me and had suffered far worse than I.” 

Giving him a hard look, Arradiel shakes her head, “Look where such thoughts, or lack thereof, have brought you. If you do not care for your own needs, how can you hope to care for the needs of your child? Do you want to hurt her?”

“No,” Adar flinches, “I would die before I let that happen.” 

“It’s much harder to live, but I do not say these things to wound you,” Arradiel tells him. “When Belariand fell, my husband thought he could forget all that had happened to him in the fighting, and I never thought to push the matter.” 

“You moved to the woodland realm?” Adar asks gently, for he can tell that she still carries the pain of her past, and the fact that her husband is not present indicates that something had gone wrong. 

“We moved back , Eryn Galen was our home long before we travelled to Belariand. I hoped that it would help,” she smiles sadly. “It turns out that coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving. Though our people do not often go west, ultimately, he realized that he needed to sail.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, grimacing at the inadequacy of the phrase.

“There is no shame in it,” Arradiel replies, “and someday, I will see him again. But you do not have the luxury of going to Valinor. Celebrían needs you.” 

“I don’t know where to begin healing,” Adar lowers his voice, “or if I even can.” 

“Before he sailed, my husband consulted with artificers and Edain healers,” she tells him, “I will share with you what they told us. What they stressed most was honesty, particularly with your feelings and thoughts. So let us have honesty between us.” 

“What do you mean?” Adar asks warily. 

“You are more than what you say,” Arradiel accuses archly. “No elf that I know of bleeds black, but according to my son’s letters, there is one being; neither elf nor orc, who does.”

“Your son?” 

“Arondir,” she replies tartly, “who you came so close to killing at Eregion.”  

How could he have been so careless? He had been so worried about Celebrían that he had forgotten that which Nenya could not conceal. He hadn’t even noticed when Arradiel first pointed out that he was bleeding. Of all the villages to lead him to, the ring brought him straight to the one Arondir had grown up in. The first elf he met here was the archer’s mother. Clutching the child tightly, Adar wonders if he should try and make a run for it. Is it fair to drag her away from all that she knows to live a life as a hunted being? 

“Kill me if you must,” Adar begs, “though I would ask you to let me flee, not for my own sake, but for the sake of others who will die in wretched slavery unless I can free them. But Celebrían is innocent, she does not deserve to suffer because of me.”

“I would never hold anyone accountable for the wrongs of their parents, and I would not have listened to you, not after I figured out who you were, if I thought you were an unfeeling monster,” she soothes. “Nor do I think such a monster would care for a child as devotedly as you have.” 

Releasing a shaky exhale, he warns, “If I speak the truth, it could put you in danger. I would not knowingly do so, but some things may put you in peril, simply because you know them.” 

“Tell me.” 

So he does. He tells her everything, from being captured by Morgoth through the events of the past few hours. By the time he is done speaking, the sun has risen, and there are sounds of life around the village. As painful as his tale is, he feels lighter for the telling of it. 

For a long period, silence pervades throughout Arradiel’s home as the elf processes everything that she has just been told: “I do not have the right to excuse the sins that you have committed, and I cannot forgive you for the pain that you have given my son.” 

Adar nods and prepares to leave, trying very hard not to think about how lonely he will be without Celebrían. “Please send her to Elrond. It was her mother’s wish that she should go to him if I failed in my duty. I would take her myself, but I fear that I would never get close enough to speak to him.” 

“However,” Arradiel interrupts, placing a hand on his shoulder, firmly pushing Adar back down into his seat, “I think that there is more at work here than is seen. If there is to be peace between our peoples, it must start somewhere.” 

“Do you truly wish for peace between us?” Adar asks hesitantly. 

“I wish for my son to never have to fight again,” she replies, “if what you say is true then it would seem that you were meant to raise Celebrían and bring about this peace.”

“Am I fit to raise her?” Adar wonders, “I failed her badly yesterday.” 

“You can remedy that now,” Arradiel insists, and before he can stop her, she reaches over to give the girl a gentle shake. Celebrían wakes slowly, her lids flutter against her cheeks before remaining open. Arradiel gathers her shawl around her shoulders and heads for the door. 

“I need a long walk to think,” she says, “and you two need some time alone together.”

“But— “ 

“Try to be honest.” Arradiel reminds him before she closes the door. When he turns back, he finds that Celebrían is looking up at him with wide eyes.   

“Honesty,” he repeats to himself quietly as he makes a gentle tap against her mind. Silently imploring, but not demanding, to be let in. It stings a bit when she hesitates, but he reminds himself that Celebrían has good reason. 

She is absolutely drowning in fear, and it tears Adar’s heart to witness, for he knows that he is its cause. He doesn’t know how to fix it, or how to make her believe that he never meant to wound her. Feeling uncertain, he opens his mind to hers, to help her see his remorse, but it makes Celebrían’s whole being flutter in terror. He chases down her anxieties, trying to trace them to their source, and hoping to soothe her fears. She shies away and attempts to hide, but she’s young, and though her mind is strong, she is relatively unpracticed in ósanwë. Without her meaning to do so, a memory trickles forward, and Adar is plunged into its depths. 

Celebrían suppresses a giggle as Ada kneels; he seems so tall in comparison to her that it’s funny to see him make himself small. She only manages to repress her mirth because Ada is making that face, the one that says without words that he wants to talk about something important. She doesn’t like it when Ada talks about important things because they usually make him wear that face. It hurts to see him like that, she much prefers when she can make him happy.   

Opening the box, he holds out the pretty ring that he wears when they go to visit Arradiel and Medhion. Ada explains that the ring is hers, and that sends a small pleased ripple through her, not just because of the way that it sparkles (though that is nice) but because of the way it sings to her, in a soft way that almost reminds her of something she thinks she may have forgotten.

“Can you wait and let me hold on to it for you until you are a little older?” Ada asks her gently, and Celebrían finds that she doesn’t mind all that much. As curious as she is about the ring, she senses that it is ‘important’, in the same way that things are for Ada. For him ‘important’ things are usually sad. 

Since she dislikes being unhappy almost as much as she dislikes seeing Ada be that way, she happily agrees to wait and is rewarded with one of Ada’s smiles. The sight is rare, and it always makes her heart burst. The feeling is better than petting Nyēni’s fur, or when she learns another of Maglor’s songs, it’s even better than when Medhion makes her new toys. She wants to tell him why it feels so good, how his smiles are so much better when she has caused them, because he is her adar.  

When he scrambles away from her, she thinks at first that somehow he must have gotten hurt and worriedly inspects him for an injury. In a quick succession of movements, he pitches back and then suddenly falls forward, hitting the ground with a wet crunch. 

Weeping in earnest now, Celebrían shakes his still form and calls out his name, but he doesn’t move, and her hand pulls away, covered in something sticky. It’s blood, not red like hers, but black. 

He is motionless in the way that dead things are…still and limp. ‘Dead’ isn’t a word that Ada taught her, but somehow she knows it all the same, and she is so very, very frightened of herself. She runs until she is sick, but how can burning lungs, bleeding feet, and the smarting sting of dozens of various twigs and branches on her body make up for killing her father?  

Celebrían touched him, and it hurt him. What could stop her from hurting another? What could keep them safe from her?

As he wrenches himself free of the memory, Adar looks down at his little one in horror. The barrier that she had created had not been to force him out but to keep herself inside. Delving deeper into their connection, he searches for fear of him and finds only genuine puzzlement in response; she truly hadn’t seen a reason why she should be scared of him. The trembling that racks her body and the tears that are leaking out behind her palms are because she is afraid of hurting him . 

Never before has he been loved without the bearer fearing him. The Uruks, his treasured children, did love him, but their memories run deep, and they could not forget that he had once been Sauron’s most devoted servant. Indeed, after the cruelties inflicted upon them, many could not bring themselves to love any being with lordship over them. Adar did not blame them for their trepidation, even as it broke his heart. 

Once, when he had still thought of Sauron as—no, not even in the privacy of his thoughts can he refer to him by that name—suffice it to say that he had believed himself loved in such a way, and had been painfully mistaken. Sauron never cared for him at all, how strange that the first being who loved him without fear would be his child.

“Little one,” Adar breathes, “you didn’t hurt me.” He places his hands over hers, gently tugging them away from her face. Celebrían is still crying in small hiccuping gulps. He tries to convince her of this, but the girl is doubtful; she remembers the sight of his limp body in a pool of blood and shudders. 

‘Truly ,’ he mentally tells her, ‘ I was hurt, but it was not you who hurt me .’ She looks at him tentatively, wanting so badly to believe him that it overcomes her distress. 

‘How ?’ Celebrían questions, feeling dubious, she clearly recalls the way his body fell after she touched him. Adar hesitates for a moment as he debates on how to explain the complicated hold his memories have on his mind and body. 

‘Do you remember when you asked about the scars on my hand and I told you that I had been hurt before?’  

The girl nods, curling into him with sympathy. Adar spends a few silent moments showering her with gratitude, hoping that it will prove to Celebrían that her touch isn’t harmful. It seems to soothe her as much as it does him, and makes her more open to hearing his explanation. 

‘Sometimes, when we are hurt, the pain can come back to visit us, not because of anything that someone does or says, but because we are remembering and it’s hard to control how we will react in those times.’ 

Celebrían ponders that as she sends uncertain looks at him. Then she reaches out a tentative hand towards his face, her fingers pause before they reach his scars, and with deliberately exaggerated movements, Adar presses them against his skin.  

‘No pain ,’ he assures her firmly . ‘It was just an unfortunate coincidence—bad luck— that I was remembering when you happened to be touching me.’

Were the moment not so serious, Adar would have laughed at the look on Celebrían’s face. As if she has been condemned to death, only to be suddenly pardoned at the last moment. She raises to hug him fiercely, her arms and legs cling to him like small burrs as she turns into his shoulder and bawls. This time, the tears seem healthy, so Adar lets her cry, rubbing small circles into her back until she is spent. 

“I don’t think that I will always be able to predict when I recall the things that hurt me,” he tells the girl when she has calmed, “but I promise that when I am aware of it, I will tell you.”

“My Ada,” Celebrían states with fierce possessiveness. 

“Yes, I am,” he admits, and there is a strange sensation that accompanies the admission.

It feels like hope.

Ever since his capture by Morgoth, Adar has tended to awaken all at once, even at small disturbances. It’s a useful talent to possess when you’re living as a hunted being, or when you’re trying to wake yourself from nightmares. 

There had been a period during Celebrían’s infancy when he thought that the skill had finally deserted him. As long as she hadn’t been crying, he found himself able to sleep through anything. However, with the passage of years, ingrained habits have begun to resurface. 

Which is why he can immediately detect when his little one begins to hover outside his room. Crossing the floor in a few quick strides, he opens his door to look down at Celebrían, who appears ashamed at having been caught. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks. 

She shakes her head and peers longingly behind him. Besides his bed, the only item of significance in his room is a comfortably cushioned chair set on rockers, which Arradiel had gifted him. Ever since receiving it, it had become a ritual for Celebrían to curl up with him on it while he told her highly edited tales of the First Age.  

“It’s too late for a story,” he reminds her gently.

“There’s something in my room,” she replies in a frightened whisper, “under the bed.” 

Adar fights back a stab of trepidation and reminds himself that these are common fears. His Uruks used to speak of their children making similar claims all the time. If Sauron had really found them, Adar knows that he wouldn’t do something as undignified as crawl under a mattress to scare an elfling . 

The idea of the Dark Lord scrabbling out, covered in dust mites and the socks that Celebrían always seems to be losing beneath her pallet, is enough to chase away the last lingering prickles of his uncertainty. 

Making sure to keep his features schooled—he doesn’t want her to feel that her fears are being belittled—he lights a candle and takes her hand. Together, they walk into her room, and Adar makes a very thorough inspection of the dark space beneath her mattress. Once he has assured her that there is no danger, he tucks her back into bed and walks back to his own quarters. 

His mind is just settling down to the rhythms of sleep when he hears the patter of small feet again. 

Releasing a sigh, he consigns himself to a sleepless night and heads for his door. 

____________________

Medhion and Adar are leaning on chairs outside of the smith’s house while his wife plays some kind of game with Celebrían. It involves running and chasing with the intent of touching (tagging, Oreth called it) each other’s knees. 

Given her obvious advantage in height, the child is pulling victory after victory, which leaves Celebrían appearing very satisfied. When they run out of breath, the two sit down and Oreth combs out the girl’s hair with her fingers and teaches her some basic braids. As a rule, Silvans do not indulge in the complicated hairstyles of the Noldor, but even they can acknowledge the need to have your vision unimpeded in certain situations. 

There is something incredibly soothing about watching Oreth’s larger hands guide Celebrían’s small pudgy ones. 

“I swear she has gotten twice as big since the last time that I saw her,” Medhion notes. “Before you know it, you’ll have grandchildren.”

Adar nods, remembering how quickly the Uruk grew. His children had become adults and parents and eventually, if they were lucky, elderly beings whom he would say farewell to on their deathbeds, all-the-while he remained the same. It was a far preferable end compared to a battlefield death, but losses were still keenly felt, and burned upon his mind. 

His distress must be apparent because Medhion leans forward and gives him a consoling pat on the shoulder, “I was only speaking in jest. You have many years before that occurs and even then, I have been informed that being a grandparent is all the pleasure of having children and none of the responsibility. You can spoil them to your heart’s content and then send them home for your daughter to deal with the consequences. By the time you have achieved the title of great-grandfather, you and Celebrían can bond over the pleasure.” 

For obvious reasons, it is impossible to explain to Medhion that while he is technically already a grandfather (and great-grandfather), he is always a father to his Uruks. That their children become his own in perpetuum. 

While he is contemplating this, his mind grinds to a halt. His girl is an elf . Of course, Adar had known that, he could hardly miss it, but he had not considered what that actually meant. Unable to help himself, he whispers, “Celebrían will remain. She will not die.” 

Tears well in his eyes. She could have children and grandchildren and beyond and she would remain as ageless as Adar. He loves all of his Uruks and will continue to mourn them when they pass, but knowing that at least one of his offspring will remain outside the grasp of mortality is a comfort that he never thought to possess.

In concern, Medhion clasps at his forearm, “Forgive me, I did not mean to make you think of the passing of your wife, but you mustn't let your memories of Eregion’s fall make you think that you will lose everyone.” 

“You’re right,” Adar replies, “thank you for reminding me that there are things that I can keep.”

______________________ 

Later, when he had the time to reflect on the situation, Adar would look back on the moment and tell himself that the sound he released when he first saw the creature was not a shriek. However, it had been loud enough to draw Celebrían to him. 

Her small face is etched with concern when she sees him pressed against the far wall of her room. The laundry that he brought in—he had recently begun teaching her how to fold clothes—was dumped on the ground in a heap. “Ada, are you hurt?” 

Instead of answering, he points at the thing curled on her clothes chest and asks, “What is that doing here?” 

Celebrían looks at where he is indicating and raises her brows. The lizard, perhaps a handspan in length, raises its head in the direction of all the commotion, but otherwise seems content to remain in the patch of sun it had curled up in. 

“That’s my friend Leuco,” she says simply, “I found him eating moths in the flowers beneath my window.” 

Friend? He stares at the beast in revulsion. 

At least it’s smaller than Glaurung. Adar takes a moment to thank the Valar that the monster was slain long ago. Morgoth had never hesitated to feed Adar’s children to it when the wyrm’s appetite was not sated with elven prisoners.

The dragon had not possessed wings and had dragged itself along the ground just like this creature must. Adar can still remember the dry rasping of the dragon’s scales as they brushed against the hard stones of Angband to devour his prey. Just looking at the way that Glaurung’s body bent from side to side as he walked, creating a wave-like motion with his trunk, had been enough to make Adar’s skin crawl. 

Leuco skitters along the top of the trunk, and Adar shudders at the clicking and scraping. 

“Out,” he says hoarsely, “take it outside.” 

Confused, Celebrían eventually shrugs and fearlessly picks up the creature. She heads towards the window, probably intending to release it next to the house. 

“Not there,” he orders, thinking of how easy it would be for the lizard to get back inside, “in the forest.” 

“Are you scared of Leuco?”

“Of course not.” 

Just as Celebrían is passing him on her way out, the beast wriggles in her hands and nearly leaps onto his arm. 

Adar doesn’t shriek that second time either.

He doesn’t.  

_______________________

Now that he is deliberately thinking about his past, he has his bad days, and as he promised, when he can detect them, he tells Celebrían about them. Through trial and error they slowly uncover what touches he can and cannot handle when he is in the grip of a memory.

More concerningly, she’s starting to ask questions. At first it was ‘How did you get hurt?’, more recently it’s become ‘Who hurt you?’. As much as it frightens him, because he has no idea how to answer her questions, it is touching to watch her fret over him. There’s something sweet about the stubborn way that she insists on finding a safe way of holding him to help him feel better, as if she could cuddle his pain away.

Time passes, he doesn’t realize just how quickly until he discovers that Nyēni is going to have babies. In his defense, it is hard at first to tell the difference between a goat who enjoys eating too much grass and a goat who is expecting.  

On one of his good days, Nyēni goes into labor. Adar has no experience in animal husbandry, and honestly has no idea what he would have done if things had gone wrong. However, everything seems well; the delivery had been swift and seemed almost effortless, though it is probable that Nyēni would disagree . Now, two tiny goats are making small bleats as they nuzzle at their mother. 

Celebrían had stroked the nanny goat’s head in concern as she grunted and strained, until the first baby dropped, then the expression on her face shifted into shock. She keeps looking between the newly born goats to their mother and then to him in disbelief. Finally she asks, “What happened?”

The question evokes a surprising tingle of embarrassment—it’s ridiculous, of course, Adar has done unspeakable things with Sauron—but somehow her innocent inquiry, asked for a perfectly understandable reason, is enough to make him falter like an untried adolescent. Perhaps it is because he hasn’t actually been an adolescent, or because he hasn’t talked about such things and never had to explain them to another. 

Taking a deep breath, he gives his explanation in a calm and matter-of-fact tone, starting off by describing how people and animals grow inside their parents before being birthed.

“Did she want to have her babies?”

“Well, I cannot ask her, but she seems very happy with them,” Adar says with a quiet laugh. “See how she’s cleaning them and helping to keep them warm?”

“Having those babies looked like it hurt.”   

“I imagine that it did,” he replies dryly, “but it’s a pain that most parents are willing to endure because of the love that they bear for their children.”

“Did it hurt when you gave birth to me?” Celebrían asks. 

“What? ” Adar just narrowly avoids choking on his spit, “…I can see that I’ve forgotten to mention a few crucial things.” 

Something tells him that this is the time to speak of Galadriel. It’s not the way that he had planned to spend his day, but as he is finding out so often, when it comes to raising children, very little seems to go as planned. Taking the girl's hand, he leads her into the house, and there he explains to Celebrían that babies usually grow in their mothers and how Galadriel is her mother.  

Afterwards, it’s so quiet that he can hear the girl’s faint breathing as she ponders what he has just told her. The stillness is unbearable, he feels cleaved in two, vulnerable and relieved all at once. It would have been wrong to deny Celebrían the memory of her mother; every child deserves to know when a parent truly loves them, but paired with that knowledge is fear. All that he can think of is how now that Celebrían knows, she will find him wanting in comparison. He squeezes his eyes shut, the silence threatening to break him. 

Eventually, Celebrían asks, “Does she not want to see me?”   

Without thinking, Adar settles an arm around her form and reminds himself that whatever worries tear at his mind, this moment is not about him. “I am sure that she would give anything to see you. One of the last things that she said to me was how very much she loved you.”  

Though her mouth is still in a downward arc and her eyes are a little damp, his words seem to ease her. “Then where is she?”

“Your mother was a warrior.”

“Like the minstrel-prince in your story?” 

“Yes,” he says cautiously, though unlike Fingon, Galadriel had at least a few instincts of self-preservation. “In her last battle, she received a poisoned wound that claimed her life. Remember when I told you about the Halls of the Dead?” He pauses until Celebrían nods her head. “Your mother is there, and is fighting tooth and nail to return to you. I do not know if the Doom of Mandos was ever lifted, but I almost pity Námo, for Galadriel will be an unceasing source of irritation to him until she has her way.” 

“Doom of Mandos?” Celebrían repeats in confusion. 

Trying to explain the Flight of the Noldor outside the confines of the allegory-laden bedtime stories he’s told her only prompts more confusion in the girl. Adar ends up promising to lay out more of her family history later, when he has had the opportunity to organize what he knows into something more understandable. 

Agreeing to leave the question aside, she moves on to a topic that is clearly of greater import to her, “Who hurt my mother?” 

Scant words for such a loaded question. Adar should have expected it. Celebrían is fiercely protective of those she loves, and she gives her love so freely that it scares him. He should put her on her guard. A selfish part of him wants her to hate Sauron (and he sees that it would be frighteningly easy to foster her hate for him), but another part tells him that it is wrong to manipulate her feelings in such a manner. For if Celebrían cannot find it in her heart to forgive her sire, what hope does he have that his Uruk children will forgive him? He needs more time to think about how to answer.

Ultimately, he settles on keeping his answers to a child’s level, not a lie, just not with the nuance that is naturally granted with maturity, “Her greatest adversary.” 

It takes a great deal of self-discipline not to sag back in relief when Celebrían does not pursue the topic further. Instead, they spend the rest of the day coming up with names for the new goats.

Perhaps the difficult part of the day has passed. 

They watch the animals stumble on unsteady legs, and Celebrían tilts her head to the side, a sure sign that she has a question: “Ada, how did the babies get inside Nyēni?”

There is a short, confounded silence, and then—

“Ask me again in a hundred years.” 

_______________________

“Celebrían,” Adar begins, unable to keep the surprise from his voice as he is tucking her in for the night, “there's a goat in your bed.”

“No, there isn't,” his daughter states in a high pitched and unconvincing tone as she tries to block the animal from his sight by raising her knees.

“Yes, there is,” he says sternly, the goat in question gives a small bleat as if to agree with him. Deftly, Adar pulls back the sheet,  “How did Lalaith get there?”

“Ummm…” Celebrían prevaricates before lamely offering, “maybe she got cold?”

“I’m very disappointed that you would lie to me,” he says. Celebrían responds, but since her face is buried in his stomach it comes out muffled, he thinks she’s asking if he is angry with her.

“Not angry, but you will need to be punished for the lying,” he tells her as he pries her off him. “No music for the next three days.”

Gasping, as if he had just come up with the foulest tortures ever devised in Angband, she wails, “You said that you weren’t mad at me!” 

Picking up Lalaith, he inspects the bed and gratefully sees that the goat hasn’t made a mess. “I’m not angry. I would only ever punish you because I want to make sure you grow up to be a good person, or for your safety. Do you understand me?” 

Giving him the most hangdog look he’s ever seen, Celebrían nods dejectedly, “I know, Ada.” 

“Good,” he says, feeling silly about having this discussion while holding a goat. “Do you want to tell me why you put Lalaith in your bed?” 

Taking a deep breath, Celebrían wraps her arms around her bent legs, and squeezes her eyes shut, “Sometimes I dream about wolves, and I wanted Lalaith to be there when it’s over.” 

Adar suppresses a shiver that threatens to run down his spine. It’s just a coincidence: the combination of typical childish fears and too many times hearing the story of Lúthien. Is this why she has been consistently waking him up in the middle of the night?

“Would it make you feel better if you slept in my bed when you have a nightmare?”

“Are you sure?” she asks, as she reaches up to hug him again, which makes the goat cry in protest. He promises her that they can continue talking after he has put the animal back outside. 

Once he reaches the relative privacy of the pen, Adar releases a quiet laugh, wondering what Sauron would say if he knew that his only child was such a poor liar. 

Later, with his daughter’s limbs sprawled in all directions on his cramped mattress, Adar realizes what had unsettled him. He has always been very careful to redact all mentions of Sauron from the story of Lúthien. Only telling her that the maiden had battled against a fallen Maia. 

He hadn’t mentioned the details of Finrod’s fate. It had been too gruesome. Not that he had seen the elf and his companions die. Adar had stayed well clear of the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth until the screaming had stopped.

How could she have known about the wolves?

Drawing her closer, he allows the sound of her steady breathing to lull him to a troubled sleep.

_____________________________

Celebrían is very curious about her mother, there seems to be a never-ending list of questions about her, and Adar is only capable of answering a few of them. He can describe Galadriel, can answer questions about the names of her family, and note her skill with a blade easily enough. However, he can only reply with a completely honest ‘I don’t know’ when asked about what songs she preferred or even her favorite color. 

If word spread that Sauron the Deceiver, Gorthaur the Cruel, the Lord of Werewolves, had fathered Celebrían, there would be many from among all the races of Arda who would call for her death. It kills him to think that his little one could be put to death for no greater sin than a blood tie.  

It also wouldn’t be prudent to let knowledge of the girl’s mother become common. If Celebrían’s paternity were unaddressed and all the peoples of Middle Earth knew was that she was Galadriel’s child, Dwarves and Men would be unlikely to care much. The Uruks loathed the elven commander, but they would be unlikely to go out of their way to hunt down her child (Uruks usually practiced opportunistic cruelty over the premeditated variety), and while many an elven eyebrow would be raised at the breaking of Galadriel’s marriage bond, they would do no more than display a haughty contempt for the product of an illicit union. 

As ever, the problem was Sauron. His Eye was ever seeking to pry secrets from the minds of his enemies, and if even a whisper of Galadriel’s child were to reach him, it would not take him long to make the connection between his liaison with the elf and the birth of Celebrían. It sickens Adar to think of the ways that Sauron would twist his daughter's loving nature.

“This is very important,” Adar tells Celebrían one day, stopping her in the middle of another barrage of questions on the subject of her mother, “you can talk to Arradiel and I about Galadriel, but you must not mention her name around others.” 

“Why?” Asks Celebrían, seeming bewildered by the demand.

“To keep you safe,” he says firmly, “your mother had an enemy who would undoubtedly love to get his hands on you.”

“If we just asked them to keep it a secret,” she insists, “Medhion and Oreth would never tell, or Sadrion, or the ellon, I can’t remember his name right now, the one who always gives me apples, or— ”. 

“I’m sure that they wouldn’t mean to do so,” he tells Celebrían softly, “however, this enemy is very good at forcing people to divulge secrets. He would hurt them, and they would eventually tell him just to make the pain stop.”

The girl’s whole demeanor shifts, her expression is stricken, and for the moment, she is too shocked to even ask questions. It makes him think that he has sheltered her too much. For her own sake, he should teach her to harden her trusting heart, but the thought of exposing her to the evils of the world—to the evils of Sauron —is loathsome. Celebrían hides behind Adar’s leg, as if he can keep those evils at bay; her body is trembling, but she doesn’t cry. 

She’s been quiet for so long that it worries him. When she finally speaks, it is to make a statement rather than to ask a question: “He’s the one who killed my mother with his poison, and who hurt you. It’s the same person.” 

“How…?” Adar cuts himself off when he realizes that he is confirming her suspicions, but the damage has been done. Honest, she may be, but also clever, Celebrían linked those facts together with little aid. He sighs and repeats, “How did you know?” 

“There’s a look you have when you speak of the one that hurt you, it’s sad but”— she pauses as she struggles to think of the proper descriptor, ultimately she settles for Black Speech— “ fauth , like you are hidden from me, even when you’re in my sight.”

He doesn’t answer, instead he leans down to scoop her into his arms and she buries her face into his neck as he pats her back in a gesture of futile comfort, “I never meant for my pains to become your own.” 

“You’re my adar,” she replies, like there is no other explanation necessary. In her mind, there isn’t, it’s as basic as the warmth of the sun. The sun is warm, water is wet, and his pains are hers.  

“That does not mean that it is your responsibility to shoulder my burdens,” he says, “the duty of a parent is to carry them so that their children can live unfettered.” 

Making a sound that sounds suspiciously like a disbelieving huff, Celebrían keeps her face firmly buried in the crook of his neck, her words come out in a small cold hiss, “I hate him.” 

Adar pauses and shifts her back slightly, so that he can look into her eyes, “Don’t hate him, it isn’t worth it.”

“But…” she starts, hackles raised in righteous anger. 

“Let me finish,” he whispers, cradling her cheek with his free hand. “Believe me when I say that you will always carry what you hate with you.” 

“Do you carry him with you?” 

“I cannot stop,” he replies, “and so I am his prisoner. I would not have him make a captive of you as he has of me. I do not say to not be wary of him. I only ask that you not give him the power of hate over you.”

“ He hurt you and he killed my mother! I may never see her again if I am not dead myself.” Celebrían all but shouts, “How can I not hate him for that?”

For a time, Adar lets her cry, and if he does not draw attention to his own tears, neither does he try to hide them. 

Days are long but years are fast in their refuge. Before he knows it, Celebrían is tall enough to help with more household tasks, and is mastering the tengwar and Uruk scripts, in which she is a self-imposed stickler for precision. In the first few months that she learned to write, he’d needed no kindling for their hearth fires thanks to the amount of ‘messy’ drafts that she had insisted on burning. Ruefully, he wonders if the insistence on perfectionism is something she inherited from her sire. 

At least it’s limited to something as safe as handwriting. Celebrían appears to have no interest in controlling anyone or anything outside of herself. It’s so strange to see Sauron’s worst flaws repurposed and healthily refined in his child. Not that he can tell her such things

His worries about Celebrían’s hatred for Sauron aren’t alleviated by the passage of time, but there's not much he can do. Unfortunately, Sauron's actions speak for themselves. At her insistence, he has cautiously begun to tell her the history of the fallen Maia. In vain, he tried to assure her that the creation of the Moriondor had been Morgoth’s conception, but that had done little to excuse Sauron in Celebrían’s eyes. She evidenced little pity when Adar told her that her sire hadn’t been exempt from Morgoth’s torture. 

“So he was hurt,“ she had said with a dismissive shrug, “all that means is that he knew what you suffered and did not try to stop it.” 

Adar bites his tongue to keep from saying that he was as guilty as Sauron in that aspect, knowing that it’s something that he should bring to her attention, but unable to bear the disgust with which she might treat him. It shames him how little he has changed. Literal ages after the fact, and he is still so hungry to be loved that it makes him a coward.  

Keeping a wary eye on Celebrían’s anger, he listens closely when she voices her feelings about Sauron and does what he can to remind her that she doesn’t need to hate Sauron to despise what he has done. 

On their most recent iteration of this conversation (at this point he has lost count of the amount of times they’ve had it), Adar is cleaning their dishes, handing them down to Celebrían so that she can carefully dry them. He looks down at her, and is taken aback by the piteous look being directed at him. 

There’s something soft in her face that he’s only seen a few times over the years, a sad and tender expression that she usually wears when they speak of her mother: “You don’t have to worry, I can hate him for you.” 

Thousands of years of history are laden down upon his shoulders. His association with Sauron is rife with longing and pain, of which she only knows a fraction. That Celebrían has been dragged into the mire of their relationship is unspeakably heartbreaking, because he realizes that he’ll never be able to completely protect her from the fallout of it.    

Picking her up, so that they can be face-to-face for this conversation, he says, “I don’t want you to. You don’t have to do anything to make me love you. You don’t have to hate someone for me, you don’t have to be perfect or even good. You could be the worst child on the face of Arda, you could have terrible handwriting, and break everything we own, and I would still love you.” He pauses to work past the constriction in his throat, “You’re my daughter.”

After a moment of reflection, Celebrían squirms in his arms, until their faces are almost touching, and her smile is like the rising of the moon on the blackest of nights, “I love you too.”

Eventually, he places her back on her feet, and Celebrían takes his hand, giving it a small tug, “I still hate him,” she admits, “I can’t help it.” 

“I’m too close to this to see things clearly,” Adar pinches at the bridge of his nose. He knows nothing about raising emotionally healthy children. He’d been so busy trying to give the Uruks a future, any kind of future that didn’t end in their mass slaughter, that he had always told himself that he would focus on such things once they were safe. In retrospect, he can see the depth of that mistake. 

“Why don’t we go visit Arradiel?” Adar suggests. The elf has been a bastion of patience in dealing with his parenting mishaps.  

Immediately, the girl brightens, and she eagerly asks, “Can we make it in time for lunch?”

“It’s still quite early in the morning,” he remarks, “since someone insisted on waking with the sun.” 

“Roch wanted a carrot!”  

“And he can justify such kindness by transporting you to the village.”

“I can walk!” Celebrían squawks indignantly. 

“Really?” Adar asks, bemusedly, “I seem to remember a certain elfling who claimed the same the last time we went visiting. As I recall, I ended up carrying her more than half the way.” 

“That was a long time ago,” Celebrían declares imperiously. 

“It was last month.”

“Exactly,” she says earnestly, “I’m much older now.” 

“Did you never consider that I may not want to walk all that way?” 

“Oh,” she considers him thoughtfully, “I suppose we'd better bring him then.” 

“Thank you,” he replies, struggling to contain his mirth, together they cheerfully finish cleaning and drying the last of their dishes. 

After they gather a few necessities to take with them, Celebrían asks, “Can we visit Medhion and Oreth?”

“On one condition,” he says as he leans over to give her a small smile. “On the way over, we will not speak of Sauron, hate, death, or any other sadness.”

She agrees, and they head off in the direction of the village. As they walk, she peers at his hand, “Are you going to wear Nenya for the whole visit?”

“We talked about how we have to keep my true appearance a secret, remember?”

“It might put us in danger,” she replies in the rote tone of someone who has been forced to repeat a phrase very often, “I know Ada. I was only asking because it’s always so strange when you change.”  

Adar flinches, “I realize that my scarred flesh must be hard for you to look at.” 

“What?” Celebrían is baffled, “Why would that bother me? Your scars are beautiful. I don’t like it when you wear Nenya because I don’t think you should have to hide .”   

Her words strip his emotions raw. Adar halts the horse and gathers her in his arms.

Celebrían, whose expression he can’t see (he’s clutching her too tightly), asks, “Ada?”

“I love you very, very much,” Adar says, because she deserves to hear it every day of her life.

Giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder, she says, “I know, and I’m not complaining, but why are we hugging?” 

“Because you are yourself.” 

That seems to perplex her further, “I am myself every day?” 

“Then I must embrace you every day,” he tells her solemnly. “Now, what would you like to discuss on the way over?”

“Music!”

Within two hours, they get through all of Maglor’s pleasant songs. From the edges of his vision, he can see flowers blooming behind her like a bridal train. Eventually, they’re going to have to come up with some kind of etiquette so she doesn’t inadvertently startle the unsuspecting villagers, but with nothing around them but forest, it’s safe enough to let her sing to her heart’s content. 

Since it was decided that they would not be speaking of sorrowful things, it limits the range of Maglor’s songs that they can choose from. Adar offers to teach her one of Daeron’s songs, one that she hasn’t heard before, but the girl only makes a face and shakes her head. 

She used to love his music, but after he told her the full story of Lúthien, the famed princess of Doriath had become her favorite. Daeron’s betrayal of the elf-maiden had plummeted him down in her estimation. Interestingly, Celebrían doesn’t ask for the typical parts of the story that even young Uruks particularly liked (singing Morgoth into slumber and the story of the fight against Carcharoth); more often she wants to hear about Lúthien’s defeat of Morgoth’s Lieutenant. Which he had finally related to her in its entirety—minus the details of Finrod's end, for she already has nightmares aplenty about wolves.  

At the time, the injuries that the princess and her hound dealt had left Adar terrified for his lover, but now it gives him no end of amusement to think of how Sauron would react to his offspring idolizing one of his most hated enemies. Lúthien’s victory had been the source of his deepest embarrassment. 

When Adar had told Celebrían that she was distantly related to Maglor, she became insistent on preferring his works out of a sense of familial loyalty, even if the singer was only a cousin once removed. He had spent days telling her about her complicated family tree, and Celebrían drunk up the stories eagerly, equal parts repelled and enthralled by the acts of cruelty and bravery that characterized most of the line of Finwë. 

“Well,” Adar says, “if you can’t abide another song about Lúthien.”

“All Daeron ever wrote of is how pretty she was,” Celebrían complains, “but she fought Sauron and won. She skinned Thuringwethil and then wore her remains to sneak into Angband. It’s not as if he didn’t have more interesting inspirations to draw on. I would have run off with Beren as well if my only other suitor was a bland singer who couldn’t look past my face.” 

“I should never have mentioned that,” he rebukes himself. Adar hadn’t particularly liked Thuringwethil, and the feeling had been mutual, but the recollection of finding her flayed corpse can still make his stomach rebel. After that, he had done all he could to warn his children to stay well clear of Luthien and her line. He doesn't understand why the bat's death doesn't bother Celebrían, but the mere thought of Sauron's hounds is enough to keep her awake half the night. 

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t expect to be greeted with drawings of a skinless vampire once a week,” he comments flatly. 

“Why?” 

He had been used to Uruks having an unusual fascination with such matters, but he assumed that it was a tendency regulated to their kind. At first, Adar was terrified that he had done something horribly wrong in Celebrían’s upbringing when she presented him with a neatly written (and very well translated) version of the elf-maiden’s defeat of Sauron, complete with some imaginative drawings of a flayed Thuringwethil. However, Arradiel had told him that it was fairly normal for most children to fixate on morbid things. She explained that it was simply their way of understanding death, which was not an easy thing for a young mind to fathom. Not to mention the simple enjoyment children got from shocking their parents.

With that in mind, he tries to keep his answers even, “I suppose that I’m not used to it.” 

“Why?”

“I’m just not,” he tells her.

“Why?”

How does his child manage to switch from astute observations about Daeron’s character flaws to single-minded and deliberate obtuseness in the space of a breath? Adar thinks that his blossoming headache is a sign to change the subject, “We said we weren’t going to mention Sauron on this trip,” he reminds her. 

“I didn’t mean to,” she pleads, “it’s just that Lúthien interests me, and not only because she defeated him , it’s just…she knew my mother.” 

Adar blinks in surprise. He had told her that Galadriel had lived in the kingdom of Lúthien, but it had not occurred to him that the two would have known one another intimately. 

“You said that my mother was the only girl in her family, and that Lúthien was also an only girl,”  Celebrían points out, “I always wondered if that might have made them friends.”

“They may have been,” he admits, “but I truly do not know for certain.” 

“I’m sorry,” she sighs, “there are so many things that I wish I could ask her, or just talk to her about.” 

Pity swells in his chest, “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s probably little consolation, but I know that Galadriel would want to hear what you have to say.” 

Celebrían nods and aimlessly straightens a non-existent wrinkle on her dress with her fingers, something that Adar notices she does when trying to distract herself from distressing thoughts. He watches her for a while until an idea strikes him: “How would you like to write to your mother?” 

“Write a letter?” Celebrían asks curiously. “Are you allowed to send letters to Valinor? How would it get into the Halls of Mandos?”  

“At the last that I checked, Manwë didn’t permit his eagles to run letter deliveries, so you wouldn’t be able to send them,” he says. “But you could keep the letter that you will write and give it to your mother if she returns. You could write as many letters as you wish, every day if you desire. I think Galadriel would appreciate knowing how often you thought of her when you were parted.”

“Really?” Celebrían exclaims eagerly, “Could I start right away?”

“We will see if we can find a journal for you in the village,” Adar assures her, “that way all your letters will be kept in the same place and there will be less risk of one of them being misplaced. 

They spend the rest of the journey discussing what she will say in her first letter. 

Celebrían’s feet weary about halfway to the village, forcing her to ride Roch for the rest of the journey, but she’s too happy to notice, and Adar kindly does not mention it.  

Medhion and Oreth are delighted to see Celebrían, and they are very supportive when she tells them about her wish to write to her mother while she dwells with Námo. The child is always careful to redact her mother’s name, probably out of a desire to protect the couple from danger. The warnings he has given her have been bolstered by the stories that he told about Sauron. Even though Adar made sure to leave out some of the Maia’s more sadistic actions from his tales—besides Finrod's death, he had also refused to go into the details of how Maedhros was tortured, and had only told her about the elf being chained at the peak of Thangorodrim— it is clear that Celebrían has taken his cautions to heart.

“My naneth,” Oreth comments, drawing Adar out of his reflections, “loves to journal. Growing up, I heard more about nibs, feeds, and the dangers of ink feathering than any other elf that I knew. I have never been interested in practicing the hobby myself, but I do relish the joy that it gives her. I would be happy to give you one of her notebooks. She's always giving them to me.” 

“Are you sure?” Celebrían asks hesitantly. “I would not want to take your mother’s gift away from you.” 

Oreth rolls her eyes fondly, “she has more blank notebooks than she could ever possibly use in the entirety of her life. Every time we visit her, she is sure to have at least three more than the last time. I assure you that I can spare a few.”

Together, the two clamber up the stairs of the house so that Celebrían could take her pick of Oreth’s collection. 

“Hopefully, your wife is prepared to answer a great many questions about paper quality and pen utility,” Adar says to Medhion, “Celebrían has turned out to be very fastidious about her writing habits; she cried when she accidentally smeared a page of her transcription of Rumil’s Meditations .” 

Medhion snorts in amusement, “Are you telling me that the little queen is actually an ink-stained bookworm?” 

“Better to wield a pen than a sword,” Adar comments, as a vivid memory of Elrond sitting across from him in his command tent enters his mind. If the worst were to happen, and he were to fail in future attempts to persuade the Uruks to abandon Sauron, perhaps the Peredhil could learn to trust Celebrían over their mutual love for tomes and written prose? 

“From your lips to Eru’s ear,” Medhion vows. “I was too young to participate in the last war against Morgoth, and I count it as a blessing.” 

“You will receive no arguments from me,” he agrees. The two spend a few moments of companionable silence listening to the chatter that filters down from the floor above. 

“Would you be willing to watch Celebrían for a few moments while I step over to Arradiel’s home?” Adar asks. “There are questions that I would like to ask her, which I would prefer to remain private.”

“Of course,” Medhion readily agrees. “I know how devoted you are to caring for your daughter, but you are entitled to have a few hours to yourself on occasion.” 

Truthfully, the moments where Adar hasn’t been actively caring for his children are few enough to count on one hand. The last time had been before Galadriel had found him and entrusted Celebrían to his care. Before that had been…had it truly been before meeting the Uruks? No wonder he sometimes feels like a knotted string pulled once too often through a hole. Still, the idea of having Celebrían out of his sight for more than a short time leaves him feeling anxious. 

“Why don’t we start small?” Medhion suggests seeing the worry reflected on his face. “An hour or so and then I’ll escort her to Arradiel’s home.” 

“You will come and get me if anything goes wrong?” Adar asks nervously.

“What could go wrong in an hour?” 

After a hard glare from his wife, who has come downstairs with Celebrían, he hastens to add, “You have my word.” 

“Will you be alright with staying here while I visit Arradiel?” Adar asks his daughter.

“Can I spend some time with her after you’re done talking?” 

Once he gives her the affirmative, the girl gives him a cheery wave of farewell and then quickly races towards the back door of the house in the direction of Medhion’s smithy, where he has probably crafted another toy for her amusement. 

The walk between the two homes doesn’t take long, it is only delayed slightly by the few elves that he meets along the way, who greet him with friendliness and inquire fondly about Celebrían. More than one Silvan subtly hints that he ought to move himself and his daughter into the village. After politely shaking off such requests, he continues forward, and before he knows it, he is rapping on the door of his destination.  

Arradiel ushers him in with her customary grace and they settle down to cups of tea. They talk about mundane matters for a few moments and Adar makes it a point to ask her about herself, he doesn’t want her to think that he is only using her as a source of advice, he has a genuine admiration for her that goes beyond her expertise in raising children.

Eventually, Arradiel inquires about how he is getting along with recalling his past and making peace with it. He notes his small steps of progress and then tells her about the anger that Celebrían has expressed towards Sauron and the fears he harbors about influencing the girl to hate her father. 

As is often her way, Arradiel takes some time to silently think on the matter, “I can see why you would be concerned,” the elf says, “and if it were any being other than Sauron who sired her, it would likely be very different, but as it is, there is danger in both loving and hating him. From what you have told me, he is an expert at mental and emotional manipulation.”

“True,” he admits, “but I cannot convince her to set aside her anger.” 

“Imagine what a peaceful existence we would have if we could simply order our emotions to obey the sensible dictates of our minds,” she says dryly. “Are you aware that you are asking Celebrían to do what you cannot?” 

Groaning in frustration, Adar cries, “I want her to be better than I am.” 

“That is to your credit,” she soothes, “and if it helps, I do not think that you are trying to fan the flames of her anger. He is simply very good at inspiring such feelings, I doubt that even Gil-Galad himself could claim indifference when it comes to the Dark Lord.”

“There is a difference between healthy anger and the sort that devours the spirit and turns against the bearer. I recognize it in her,” he continues in a whisper, “I know because I have seen it in myself.”

“Have you tried telling her that?” Arradiel questions gently.  

“How could I ever tell her about this? About how my hate sprang from love? How, after all this time, and all the wrongs he has done to me…” Adar trails off miserably. “It would only end up confusing her, she has no reason to love Sauron—none that she is aware of, anyway. I think the situations are too dissimilar. She’s angry on behalf of others, not for herself.” 

‘Are you not angry at the pain he has given your children?’ He violently shoves the thought away. Of course, he is, but he cannot bear to think of telling Celebrían that he loves—once loved— the being that personally tortured several members of her family, including her namesake, and killed her mother. The expression on Arradiel’s face indicates that she can sense where his conflict lies.

“There is another story that you could tell her that would better suit the lesson you are trying to impart, a tale less personal to you,” she suggests, as she takes a thoughtful sip of her tea. “Have you told her about Morgoth and the origins of Fëanor’s Oath?” 

“A little,” Adar says, trying to recollect exactly what he had told the girl, “I explained about the theft of the Silmarils and the quest the Fëanorians undertook to reclaim them, but I didn’t tell her about the Oath. I was too worried that she might try to initiate one without fully understanding the consequences.”

“Though I am no expert in history, it appears to me that the Oath has its roots in more than just theft,” she remarks, “it also has to do with the death of Finwë. By all accounts, Fëanor dearly loved him.”

Adar takes a moment to consider. He had forgotten that the theft of the jewels had been precipitated by the murder of Fëanor’s father.

“It may go even further back than that,” Arradiel muses, “Fëanor seemed to deeply resent the Valar for allowing Finwë to set aside his marriage to his mother. Forcing her to live apart from him in Mandos, never to meet. I think the seeds of doubt between Fëanor and the Ainur were sown there. In both cases, you have an example of very justifiable anger on a parent’s behalf being turned into a hate that corrupted Fëanor beyond recognition.” 

“Then he died and forced Maedhros to fulfill the Oath,” he comments ruefully. Adar’s memories of Fëanor’s eldest son are a complicated web of guilt and shame, but he can also remember the quiet empathy that ran between them in the pits of Morgoth’s dungeons. 

“You were there,” Arradiel says, more to herself than to him, “Did you know him well?”

“Angband was not a good place to truly understand anyone, but I tried to help him where I could,” he replies. “I will say that I knew him well enough to resent Fëanor for the burden that he placed on Maedhros’s shoulders.”

Softly, Arradiel asks, “Then you know about his passing?”

He nods, “I tried to keep an ear out for news of him. I lost track after Sirion; the only thing I did hear of him after that was about his end. Though I knew that he had committed grave sins…I mourned on that day.” 

She sighs, “Fëanor visited a terrible blight upon his house with that oath.” 

“Do you think that relating the story of Fëanor and Morgoth will help Celebrían gain some clarity about Sauron?” says Adar, a little too desperately. 

“I do not think that it would hurt,” she stares down into her cup, as if she could divine answers from its depths. “It would depend on how you presented the—”. Before she can finish the sentence, they hear her front door open. Adar figures that it is Celebrían being dropped off. Had an hour passed so quickly? 

“Mother, I’ve come to visit,” a voice calls from the entrance way, there’s a creaking sound followed by the rustling of a cloak being removed and hung on a peg. Arradiel’s eyes widen and Adar only has the time for a moment of sharp panic before Arondir walks into the kitchen. “I saw Medhion playing with a child in front of his home. Did he and Oreth—?” 

Whatever he was about to say is cut off when he catches sight of Adar. Nenya’s spell is wrapped around him as tightly as the ring is bound around his finger, but he still retains enough of his likeness to be entirely recognizable to anyone who had seen his true scarred visage.  

Arondir is so motionless that his face could be carved from stone. All three of them are frozen in the moment. He listens as the elf gives a hitched inhalation of breath, and then he lunges forward, one hand reaching down to draw a small weapon to press against Adar’s throat, while the other latches into his hair to wrench his head back and further expose him to the blade. An inverted mirror of the last time they faced one another. Distantly, he thinks that Arradiel is asking her son to stop, but Adar can’t hear her over the screaming of the ghosts in his head. A chasm opens up to swallow him, and its darkness is deeper than the black pits of Angband. 

The stab of a spear into his hand and a whispered hiss. (“Do you remember me?” Yes. No. It cannot be him. Please don’t let it be him.) 

“You made slaves of my companions.” 

The screaming of elves and men accompanies the crack of whips.

“I did.” 

The frightened begging of a boy, hot blood on his hands, ashes stinging his eyes, and coating his throat.

“You murdered countless innocents in the Southlands.”

“I did.” 

Dead bodies in the mud of Tirharad and Ost-in-Edhil. 

“You made war on Eregion and slaughtered its people.” 

“I did.” 

A dark-eyed mortal woman, wounded and bleeding, but suffering more for those around her than herself, calmly waiting for a fatal blow. Far stronger than he could ever be, despite the frailty of her flesh.

A hoarse and strangled whisper, “You killed her .” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Has there ever been a more inadequate phrase? Far too deficient for what he’s taken. Wouldn’t it be better if he were to just let Arondir take his revenge? To end the pain permanently. 

“Do what you must,” Adar says, and the hand around his throat tightens as the blade bites into his flesh. Arradiel becomes more insistent in the background, and Arondir risks a glance. Whatever he sees makes him jerk violently away with a surprised gasp. Adar follows his gaze.

At first, he can’t make sense of what is before him, as if seeing and thought were two totally unrelated concepts, then without warning, his mind violently clicks the two into place. 

Celebrían, standing on the periphery of the room, listening with wide and horrified eyes.

Chapter Text

“No,” Celebrían whispers. Medhion’s hands on her shoulders prevented her from running away. The tears pour down her face as she twists to free herself, pleading over and over vainly. The others in the room were too transfixed with each other to listen.

It’s only when her pleading becomes a piercing shrill that Arradiel looks up and realizes what the girl has heard. Her voice takes on the unmistakable and authoritative tone of a parent, and Arondir jerks at her words. When his eyes fall upon Celebrían, his rage quits him. As thunderous as his feelings are, he is not so consumed by anger that it would make him coldly shed blood in front of a frightened child. 

Adar is still sitting in Arradiel’s kitchen chair, slowly coming out of the strange fit that had overcome him when he had first seen Arondir, his shocked eyes land on Celebrían as she sits huddled on her knees by the doorway, weeping and rocking herself back and forth. He tries to make his body move and go to her, but Arradiel keeps him in his seat. 

“Not now. I’m going to take the child to my room, but I’ll be back to talk to you, all of you,” she turns and says over her shoulder, “Medhion, you are going to keep them both in this house until I return. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” the smith seems hopelessly confused, “but I won’t let them leave if that’s what you desire.” 

Satisfied with his answer, the elf scoops up Celebrían and brings her into the bedroom. Adar follows from a distance, watching but staying out of sight. The walls of the room are a comforting pale blue that the girl looks at dully as Arradiel sits her down to take off her shoes, and then, despite the sun still shining in a late afternoon brightness, she tucks her into the covers. “Lie down and try to rest. I’ll be back in a little while to see you. Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone be hurt under this roof.” 

Then Arradiel straightens her shoulders and walks back towards the kitchen, his eyes meet hers as she closes the door behind her.

Both occupants of the room are sitting in silent contemplation. Medhion looks like he can’t decide what to ask, and Arondir is too exhausted by his emotions to do more than stare detachedly into space. 

When they reenter the room, Adar asks, “Will she be alright?” 

“I honestly don’t know,” sliding a chair out, the elf sits heavily upon it, looks at her son, and drily says, “Welcome home.”  

Whatever Arondir had meant to say in response was drowned out by Medhion, “Arradiel, I don’t mean to be rude, but what in the name of Nienna’s Mercy is going on?” 

Hands shaking in a series of rapid jerks, Adar wipes the tears from his face, “Please understand that I’m not saying this out of callousness, but it’s better if you don’t know.” 

“We need to tell him,” Arradiel argues, “he has overheard enough to start drawing conclusions, and some of them will be the wrong ones. That’s more dangerous than not knowing.” 

“I suppose that you’re right,” he says and tiredly turns to the smith, “I’m willing to answer your questions, but you should know that having this knowledge will probably put you in peril. If you would prefer not to be told, you can leave now, and I will not try to stop you.” 

“Even if I come to the wrong conclusions?” 

Fixing him with a steady gaze, Adar replies, “Even if you come to the wrong conclusions.” 

“Tell me.” 

Pulling Nenya off his finger, Adar places the ring on the table and sighs as he feels the familiar pain in his body. He’s oddly embarrassed by the way that his hair falls out, and does his best to brush the strands off his clothes.

There are twin gasps from the two elves: Medhion’s as he witnesses the transformation of Adar’s flesh and Arondir's as he recognizes a ring of power and realizes who he must have gotten it from. 

“Why do you have the commander’s ring? What did you do to her?” The elf exclaims, anger returning full force. Adar remembers Arradiel once remarking that, as a child, her son had idolized the heroism of Galadriel the way that most young elves admired Fingon the Valiant.

“Sit down,” Arradiel commands, “you have every right to your anger, my son. But please listen before you act upon it.” 

Reluctantly, Arondir settles, and Adar begins to speak. This is the second time that he related this story, and while it is no less exhausting, its telling is a little easier. That may have had something to do with his choice to omit the exact nature of his relationship with Sauron this time around, though. A glance at Arradiel shows that the elf understands why he he chose not to divulge the information, and her willingness to remain silent on the matter. 

At several points in the telling, he needed to stop and regain control of his emotions. Arradiel required everyone to retreat to a different corner of the room and remain there for several moments until Adar is ready to speak again. When he reached the part of his tale that involved the Southlands, it was Arondir who required time to recover his equilibrium. Knowing it was coming, Adar calmly accepted the right hook that the elf had thrown at him when he spoke of killing the villagers who had taken refuge inside their makeshift keep. 

“Her name was Bronwyn,” Arondir hisses. “She was strong, kind, and possessed a goodness beyond your comprehension. You took her from her people, who sorely needed her guidance. You took her from her son, who now has neither father nor mother to rely on as he becomes a man. You took her from a world that was better off with her in it. Your love for your children does not excuse what you did to her or any other person that you harmed.” 

“It will give you little comfort,” Adar says as he dabs at his bleeding lip with a damp cloth Arradiel had provided, “but I remember her face, even if I didn’t know her name, and I respected her bravery. I truly wish for my deeds in the Southlands and Eregion to be undone. I can see now that I was letting Sauron dictate my actions, particularly at Ost-in-Edhil, and I swear that I will do all that I can to never let him do so again.” 

They take a very long break after that point, and when Arondir returns to his seat, he looks Adar directly in the face with calm determination. Whether that determination is to hear the end of Adar’s tale (thus keeping his promise to his mother) so he can get to the business of killing him, or for some other reason, remains to be seen. 

Giving him a curt but respectful nod, Adar continues with his story going through the siege of Eregion. When Arondir hears of how Celebrían was left to his care, his face falls in dismay, “No one could have blamed her for being tricked by Sauron. Elrond would never have turned away Galadriel or her child, no matter who fathered the girl. He has spent years grieving for his friend and blaming himself for not mending ways with her before her passing.”

“Is it known that she is dead?” Adar asks cautiously, not wanting to set off Arondir’s anger again. He thinks that the archer may be overestimating the generosity of the elves in general, if not in particular. Elrond had seemed to genuinely care for Galadriel; he would not have halted his army’s advance if he hadn’t. 

“High King Gil-Galad said that he knew that she was dead,” the archer says. “He didn’t say how he knew, but he seemed very sure, and Elrond agreed, which was proof enough for me. If there was any chance that she was still living, he never would have stopped searching for her.”

“If it will give him some peace, I can tell you where I laid her to rest,” Adar offers. The fact that an Uruk had the decency to bury Galadriel seems to distress Arondir more than the confirmation that she had birthed a child fathered by Sauron. It’s a little insulting, but with their history, he supposes he can’t blame the elf for expecting the worst from him.

Given all that he has heard, Medhion has shown admirable restraint in not interrupting, but now that everything is laid out in the open, he hazards a question: “My little queen is the child of Sauron?” 

“Please keep your voice down,” Adar begs, glancing in the direction of Arradiel’s bedroom, “she doesn’t know.” 

Obligingly, Medhion drops down to a whisper, “Not that I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking on it, but I’d always imagined that one such as him would produce something like Thuringwethil or Draugluin. Not a—.”

“A small girl?” Adar supplies helpfully. 

“She really is just a girl,” Mehdion agrees in wonder, “I once watched her cry because she felt guilty about stepping on my forge mouser’s tail.” 

“Medhion, I do not mean to push you, but I need to know what you intend to do with this information now that you have it.”

“First tell me what your plan is for the Orcs—for your children,” Medhion corrects himself and Adar appreciates the effort he makes to use the appropriate terminology. 

Their conversation ends up being a very long one, during which time Arradiel steps away to have a private discussion with her son. Adar does his best to lay out his plan, and Medhion has many questions, but he does not dismiss any of his ideas out of hand. 

At first, he feels a rush of relief to have an elf at least be willing to try to understand the Uruk perspective and not automatically dismiss them as monsters. Then, he belatedly remembers that  Arradiel has thought this way for years, and is a little shaken to realize that he'd started thinking of her as a friend first and an Eldar as an afterthought.  

“We need to tell the village,” Medhion says firmly. 

“No!” Adar cries in alarm, “I know that you are very honest, but you have no concept of the danger that you would put Celebrían in if word were to get out.” 

“I agree that keeping her parentage a secret would be best,” the smith soothes, “to tell the others would only put everyone in needless danger. But Hecil—I mean, Adar—I think that eventually she will need to be told. Not now, obviously, she’s far too young, but when she’s mature enough to grasp it. What I meant to share with the village was your identity. If you truly mean to convince some of your Uruks to live with you, then the people here deserve to know of it.” 

“There is merit in the idea,” Adar replies, “though we would need to be careful. Sauron knows that I live; it is probably driving him mad that I managed to thwart the death that he had designed for me. He never could stand it when one of his plans was in the slightest bit disrupted, and I would not bring his destruction down on your home. But I never intend to make Celebrían carry the burden of her paternity.”

“Secrets like this have a way of making themselves known,” Medhion says, “and before you ask, this does not mean that I will tell her if you are so set against it, but just imagine how much worse it will be if she doesn’t hear it from you.”

“You can’t understand,” Adar whispered. 

“Then explain it to me,” the smith responds simply. 

“I don’t know if I am able,” Adar replies. “I have no idea how to put it into words.” 

Sometime during this conversation, Arondir and his mother had returned to the room. Adar realizes that he has no idea how much they have overheard, but the archer’s face is stony. 

“I’ve seen Celebrían,” Arradiel says, “she is overwrought and very confused by everything that she has heard.” 

“Will she speak to me?” Adar can barely get the words out past the tightening of his throat. He has always known that she would have to find out about the evils he had committed, but he never imagined telling her at this age, or that she would learn of them in such a manner. 

“She has agreed to it,” Arradiel tells him, “though what she will feel about you afterwards is her own counsel.”      

“That is only right,” he replies softly. When Galadriel had first placed Celebrían into his care, he had thought that explaining things to the girl would be a pragmatic affair. He had not expected her to love him, and the deeper that love grew, the more it terrified him to lose it. But he knows that he cannot lessen or excuse his actions, he owes the truth to both her and to his victims. 

“It would be best if you were to go to her now,” Arradiel says, “much of what we do will depend on how she responds.” 

Rising from his chair, Adar starts to make his way out of the kitchen, he has only trod a few steps when she asks him if he will allow her son to be present for the discussion.

Adar’s feelings about the request must show on his face because Arradiel places a firm hand on his shoulder to halt his progress. 

“You need to hear one another’s perspectives,” she tells him firmly, “ and more importantly, Celebrían needs to hear them to gain a full understanding of the situation. I know that neither of you particularly wants this, but peace is often heralded by a great many uncomfortable conversations.”

As the two of them grudgingly move in tandem, the only consolation Adar receives is that Arondir looks almost as miserable as he does at the prospect of the upcoming task. 

The bedroom is illuminated by a single candle and the moonlight filtering in through the window, he hadn’t realized just how long it had been since everything had come crashing down around his head. Has Celebrían just been sitting here the whole time? For it’s clear that she hasn’t slept or even rested. Instead, she is sitting on the edge of the bed, quietly looking down at her feet. This in itself is worrisome, Celebrían is rarely still. 

No one in the room speaks; sorrow keeps them silent, and it is far more unbearable than anger. What could he offer to comfort her when he is the source of her pain? Arondir stands at the threshold of the door, studying the child intently. Adar could not help but wonder if he is seeing the daughter of Galadriel or the spawn of Sauron; his face is unreadable. 

In an attempt to dispel the oppressive quiet, he gestures to the space on the floor near where her legs dangle and asks, “May I sit?”

Strange as it is, neither of them has posed such a basic question before. In the past, Celebrían has taken it as her due that he was her own personal tree to climb and sit upon whenever the compulsion came upon her, and in turn, Adar never hesitated to indulge in embracing his little one. 

Celebrían nods as she reaches out to pluck at a stray thread on the blanket and whirl it between her fingers in a nervous fashion. Adar settles down, bracing his back against the side of the bed, and Celebrían slides down next to him but does not touch him, which stings. Reaching behind him, Adar takes a quilt that had been folded at the foot of the bed and drapes it over her shoulders to keep the night’s chill at bay. Elves are a hardy people, meant to withstand elements that the Edain cannot endure, but he still worries.  

“There are things that I want to say,” he begins, “but you have the right to dictate how and when this discussion happens. If you have questions, I— we—” he shoots a glance at the elf, “will try and answer them, but if you don’t want to talk right now, you need not force yourself. 

Celebrían considers for a long time, then she looks up at Arondir searchingly. “You said that Ada killed people. Is it true?” 

“Many people,” Arondir replies stoically. When Celebrían flinches at the revelation, his features become graven. He has no satisfaction in conveying this information.

“Did you see him hurt them?” Celebrían implores, she starts to repeat herself when she realizes that she had spoken Quenya instead of Sindarin (a mistake she hasn’t made in at least a year), but the elf stops her before she can finish.

“Some of them,” he answers, “though not all. There were those in the Southlands whose names I did not know, and never met, but they suffered at his hands all the same.” 

“But some of them you did know?” 

“Yes,” his voice lowers huskily, “some were my friends, and there was one whom—”. Abruptly, he cuts himself off and lapses into silence. Adar wonders if he should call for a break for Arondir’s sake; the elf seems more tightly drawn than his bowstring. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“You were not yet born,” Arondir remarks, “and had no hand in the making of Mordor. Why should you sorrow?”  

“Rumil says that we endure sorrow for the privilege of loving others,” she observes, “but I don’t think that means we should have to endure it alone. I mourn my mother like that, and I would not wish it on another.”

These words have opposing effects upon their listeners. Adar tenses. As complicated as their acquaintance had been, he grieved for Galadriel sincerely, but kept his feelings to himself in a desire to lessen Celebrían’s wounds over the loss. He had not thought that it would leave her feeling as if she had to bear it without support. However, Arondir’s whole being seems to slacken, as if the acknowledgement and sharing of his grief has taken a great burden off his shoulders. 

“There are many who mourn your mother,” he corrects softly as he kneels before the girl, “myself among them. At another time, I would tell you of them, and her, if you wish it.”

Giving him a tremulous smile, she replies, “I would like that.” 

After returning the gesture, Arondir stands and settles back into his stance in the doorway. He sends a hard look at Adar, as if to warn him against upsetting the child further. Not for the first time, Adar wonders at Celebrían’s ability to win hearts. Her father possesses the same gift, but it has always been calculated, a strategic exploitation of the insecurities and desires of his victim. Celebrían is his inverse; she can recognize the pain in others, but she responds with such utter sincerity that it gains devotion. 

Feeling her gaze upon him, he looks down at the child of his heart. Those eyes of hers cut through him as thoroughly as Sauron’s ever had, but where his had been remote, ever tantalizing with something held just out of reach, Celebrían’s are filled with hurt and disappointment. 

“Why?” 

In his guilt, Adar makes no sound, he only stares at Celebrían in tears. “I do not know if there is a right way to do this,” he begins, “I can tell you my motivations. I think it will make it sound as if I were making excuses for myself, but I know of no other way to explain.”  

Tilting her head, Celebrían motions for him to continue.  

Having no idea where to begin, Adar struggles to find a starting point. Eventually, he simply states, “I have other children.” 

Eyes widening in shock, the girl pushes her back against the bed frame as if she needs a reminder of its solidity. She is visibly holding herself back from blurting out a flood of questions. 

Steeling himself with a breath, he continues, “Do you remember when I told you about the creation of the Uruks?”  

“I remember,” Celebrían says. 

“They are also my children. Light from the sun burns their skin and leaves them in tremendous pain; too much exposure can kill them. Because I was desperate, I plotted to destroy or enslave the people of the Southlands to transform it into a home for them. One in which they could live without pain or fear.” 

“And with no regard for the Southlanders who already had a home there,” Arondir interrupts sternly. “Did you even try other avenues before you resolved to change the very face of Middle Earth, poisoning the air, and blotting out the sun?”

“Would the High King of the Noldor or your Silvan Lord have heard what I had to say before they separated my head from my shoulders?” Adar hisses, barely keeping his anger in check. 

Undeterred, Arondir only repeats, “Did you try?”

“No,” he replies stiffly, “I could not risk your leaders bringing their armies down upon our heads after my suit was rejected.” 

“Now you are making excuses,” Arondir accuses, “you cannot know that they would have rejected you.” 

“Elves certainly had no problem rejecting the Moriondor when we begged to return to our people. Morgoth abducted and tortured us,” he snaps back, losing his struggle for control, “and Elu Thingol cast us out as if we had never been one of them.” 

“That was unconscionable.” 

A complete sentence and a condemnation of his forebears, infused with intense solemnity. It’s enough to lance the growing rage that has been growing in Adar’s breast and allow him to listen as Arondir continues, “The ones who renounced you then are not the ones who now rule. Was it truly fear that kept you from reaching out to them? Or did you not consider it at all?” 

“I considered it,” Adar admits, “but not seriously.” 

“You judged them, as you were once judged.”

“Poisoned the air and blotted out the sun?” Celebrían interrupts, before the argument can start anew, she had been silently listening to their exchange from her place on the floor and her expression is shocked. “You know how to do that?” 

“No,” he assures her, “I do not have the knowledge to do such things, nor do I particularly wish to have it.” 

“Then,” she blinks puzzledly, “how did you do it?” 

“It was a process that had been started by Morgoth and later perfected by Sauron.” 

Eyes narrowing, as they always seem to do when Sauron is mentioned, she asks, “How did you gain access to it?” 

“Long ago, I was Sauron’s—” lover, companion, victim? The terms are both correct and incorrect— “ally.” 

Celebrían gasps, sharp and short. Her hands fly over her ears, as if she could block the words out, and she buckles forward, like she has been punched in the gut. “That’s not possible! Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true, Celebrían. I am so, so sorry—”

His voice is thick with the kind of naked vulnerability that makes him feel humiliated to have Arondir witness it, but this discussion is not about Arondir, and it is not about himself. It’s about his child and her right to know the truth.

“You’re sorry?” her voice climbs in disbelief. “You—you were his ally—he hurt you—he killed my mother, my cousin, my uncle—he hurt so many people! And you—how could you!” Celebrían turns the corner from hysteria to anger. “How could you?”

Bowing his head under the onslaught of her emotions, Adar feels paralyzed by shame as she fumes at him, grabbing at his wrists, “You hid it from me—“ she seethes, her fingernails dig deep into his forearms, drawing blood. “All this time!”

In the past, he had endured Sauron's rages as due course, but now, though he deserves every second of her anger he cannot allow her to fall into it. “Celebrían,” he whispers, “you’re hurting me.” 

Looking as if she has been slapped, Celebrían wrenches her hands away from him and stares down at her appendages like they are not a part of her being. The scratches are no worse than what he feels when he ends up on the wrong side of a cat’s claws, but now is not the time to tell her. If she is going to be better than Sauron, then right now, she needs to understand what she is capable of doing. Eyes filling, she throws herself into his shoulder, subconsciously repeating his earlier words, “I am so, so sorry—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t mean it, Ada!”

Some time during her crying fit, Arondir slid out of the room and returned with a full cup and a soft washcloth. Adar croons nonsensical noises into the girl's hair until she has calmed enough to sip some of the water and clean her face. When she can speak, her voice is thick, “I hurt you—the way that he did—”.  

“Oh, Celebrían,” Adar breathes, “you are not like him, and you’re not like me.”

“But—” 

“Listen to me,” he stops her before she can protest, “when you’ve been hurt, it becomes easy to hurt others in turn, and far harder to control your anger, to keep from harming them. It’s a skill that Sauron never learned and one I still struggle to master.” 

Hiccuping, Celebrían asks, “Is that why you killed those people?” 

“It’s part of the reason, and you are so much better than I,” he says proudly, “because you stopped.” 

“But you’ve stopped too,” she reminds him, it’s meant to be a statement, but it comes out like a question, which pains him, even if her uncertainty is entirely valid. 

Taking her chin in his hand, he leans back to bring her gaze up to his, “I cannot promise that I will not fail, but I promise that I will do everything that I can, for you, and my other children.”

“I’ll help you,” she vows. Her response is immediate, but for all of its rapidity, the words are carefully and deliberately spoken. She is willing to accept the burden, without even knowing how great a burden it is, but Adar will not let her carry it for him. Once, he had grand plans for Celebrían to be the one who would heal the breach between their races. Now he sees just how unfair it is, how cruel to place that weight on her small shoulders. He has no right to expect her to help the Uruks, and even less right to ask the same for himself. 

“My successes and failures are not your responsibility,” he tells her firmly. 

“Alright,” she agrees, her tone does not sound particularly convinced by his claim, but it’s a concern that he tucks away to consider at a future point. Right now, Celebrían is too wrung out to speak more, her head is nodding against his chest and within a few moments, she is soundly asleep. 

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he stands and one-handedly draws back the sheets so that he can tuck her under them. Then he plucks the quilt off the floor and drapes it over her as well. He spends a long time watching her softly breathe, his heart is weeping blood at the thought of what he must do. 

Tearing himself away from his vigil, he motions for Arondir to follow him into the darkened hallway.

Once the door is closed behind him, Adar steels himself with a clench of his jaw and turns to Arondir, asking, “If Celebrían were to visit Lindon, would she be safe? Before you give me any assurances, I think that she would be physically safe, or as safe as any can be with Sauron openly roaming about with an army under his command. I am speaking of how she would be treated. Safely requires more than the preservation of the body. Galadriel refused to send her among your people for fear that she would be seen as a second Maeglin, and I have my own doubts on the subject.” 

Arondir takes the time to consider the question, “I cannot speak to the response of every elf in Lindon, but I do know that Gil-Galad and Elrond’s actions would guide the reactions of many others. They would have to be told about her paternity, and perhaps Lord Círdan as well. I think all would agree that the best course would be to conceal her parentage on both sides. That would go a great deal towards how the populace would treat her; in Lindon, she would be another orphan of Eregion, one to be viewed with sympathy.” 

Adar flinches at that; he had known what he was doing when he made war on Ost-in-Edhil and the consequences that would ensue from his choices, but that did not mean that he was indifferent to the suffering that he had caused. Or that he now enjoys the thought that he made children into orphans. “Then all depends on the High King and his herald.” 

“Lord Elrond has been given charge of his own realm for several years now, a realm that I will not be telling you the name or location of, it is a refuge for the survivors of Eregion,” Arondir snaps. With more calm, he adds, “I can say with confidence that he would welcome Celebrían with a full heart. Even if she were not Galadriel’s daughter, he is not the sort to cast the sins of a parent upon a child. Though, we will have to give the inhabitants of Elrond’s realm a different story of her origins. If we tell them that she is an orphan of Eregion, they are bound to ask awkward questions about her background.” 

“And Gil-Galad?” Adar asks. 

“That is harder to ascertain. He is remote and less inclined to speak his thoughts.” After a moment’s debat, Arondir continues, “Gil-Galad may not trust her, but he would try to do right by her. Elrond would see it done.”

“Even if it meant defying the High King?” 

Looking almost amused, Arondir nods, “Over the years, I have established friendships in both realms, and early on, I was told a story in the matter of the rings. Though he has since changed his mind, Elrond originally believed that the rings were not to be trusted; both Gil-Galad and Galadriel disagreed. The High King ordered his herald to hand over possession of them, and Elrond responded by taking the rings and jumping off a cliff.” 

Feeling his jaw drop, Adar stammers, “When you say—” 

“Believe me,” Arondir says, his fondness for the former Herald of Lindon breaking through his reserve, “I am not being facetious or metaphorical. Elrond literally jumped off a waterfall rather than compromise his beliefs. In doing so, he committed treason and nearly got himself killed. You can rest assured that Elrond would never permit anyone to treat Celebrían with the same kind of contempt which Maeglin endured.”

“It does fit with what I saw of him at Eregion,” Adar admits. Feeling his gut tighten painfully, he continues, “I suppose that just leaves one question. Will you take her to Elrond for me?” 

“You would give Celebrían up?” 

“Do not think that I do this easily,” he hisses, “I want her to have a better and safer future than she would with me.” 

Holding a hand up to ward off Adar’s anger, Arondir replies, “I do not doubt that you love her, not after what I have just seen, but love does not always equate to selflessness. I admit that I am—surprised—that you would be willing to part with her against the wishes of your heart. I will take her to Elrond, and what’s more, I will speak to the High King about your wish for a truce between your people and ours.”

Now it is Adar’s turn to be surprised, “You would do that?” 

“Not for you,” Arondir snaps. “I want Bronwyn’s death to have some meaning, and if a peace treaty with the Uruks would prevent her son from ever having to pick up a sword again, I think that she would have me try.” 

Hesitatingly, Adar says, “She must have been a beautiful soul.” 

Covering his mouth with his hand, Arondir walks away without replying. Adar, in a wish to respect his grief, does not follow. Instead, he wanders back into the kitchen, where Arradiel and Medhion are waiting with expectant faces. 

“How did it go?” the smith ventures. 

Slumping down in the chair across from them, he says with quiet wonder, “She forgave me.” 

Medhion smiles, “Celebrían is such a sweet little sprite, I can’t say that I’m surprised. Is she resting now?” 

“Yes,” Adar nods, “would you like to go over my ideas for integration?” 

“Are you certain?” Medion asks. “You have had a trying day, I would not blame you if you wanted some rest yourself.” 

Truthfully, Adar feels weary enough to sleep for a week without end, but his dread of the impending separation is enough to keep him from it. Better to keep going until his body collapses than lie awake in a bed for hours as he dwells on his upcoming loss. “I’m well enough.” 

With Arradiel’s input, they go over the logistics of having Uruks living so close to an elven settlement. Two early sticking points are Oropher and Sauron, but Adar thinks that Nenya will be able to shield them from both the Silvan King and the Dark Lord. The real problem will be getting the villagers to accept having Uruks living on their doorstep. Medhion will have his work cut out for him, but he doesn’t shirk, and Adar is unendingly grateful for it. 

Before he knows it, Celebrían is wandering into the room, hair mussed and voice thick with sleep, “Is it time for breakfast?” 

“More like lunch,” Arradiel says with a smile, “you slept the morning away, but I have some food for you.” After making sure to thank the woman, Celebrían sleepily perches herself on Adar’s lap and devours the biscuits and honey on her plate. Arondir comes back into the room mid-meal and sits down at the table to watch her with interest. 

Adar pours his daughter a cup with just a splash of tea (she can’t stand more than that small amount before complaining about the bitter taste), fills the rest with milk, and adds eight spoonfuls of honey. He still doesn’t understand how she can enjoy the cloying mixture, but it’s the only way she will drink it. Some distant part of himself wonders if he should make notes for Elrond. Who will keep her from overindulging her sweet tooth? Or help her check under her bed after she has a nightmare? Or force her to take a break when she's in the midst of a perfectionist binge while writing? 

Troubled by these thoughts, he distractedly helps Arradiel clear the dishes. As he lifts a plate from the table, the girl notices the scratches on Adar’s wrists and whispers in horror, “I did that.” 

“You apologized,” he reminds her, “and I forgave you.”

“But—” 

“Do you plan on doing it again?”

“No,” she gasps. 

“Then it is in the past,” Adar replies simply. Celebrían doesn’t seem content to think this way, but then, in a few days, it won’t matter. “There is something else that we need to talk about.” 

After placing the cups in his hands on the washing stand, Adar returns to kneel before Celebrían, “I have been talking with Arondir, and he has agreed to escort you to a friend of your mother.” 

Celebrían visibly perks, “Really? What is their name? Will they tell me about her?” 

Swallowing the growing obstruction in his throat, he replies, “His name is Elrond, and I don’t think that you could stop him, even if you wanted. He is Galadriel’s dearest friend, and I’m sure that he is longing to tell you all about her.” 

“Thank you!” Celebrían wraps her arms around Arondir’s knees. The archer accepts her gratitude with a pat on the shoulder. Before any of the adults can get a word in, she continues, “Who will take care of the animals?”

“I am staying behind, so I will take care of them,” Adar explains. “Many of the people that I hurt live with Elrond, so it would not be fair for me to go among them as a reminder of the pain that I caused.” 

“How long will I be gone?” Celebrían asks as she digests his words, “I’ve never been without you before, Ada.” 

“Little one,” he says gently, “Arondir is taking you to live with Elrond.”

Confusion colors the girl’s tone, “What?” 

“Everyone will be very kind to you,” he tells her, “and there will be other children for you to play with.” 

Celebrían abandons Arondir to reattach herself to her father, looking stricken, "Are you sending me away because I hurt you? I promise that I won’t do it again."

He hadn’t anticipated that Celebrían would view this as some sort of chastisement for her earlier actions, "I want to make sure that you are safe and the elves can provide that for you."

"I don’t want to leave," Celebrían begs. "I’ll stay here with you, Ada. Don’t send me away. I’ll be good!"

"You are good," he assures her. "This is not a punishment Celebrían, Elrond will take care of you and I’m sure that Arondir will visit you whenever he is able.” 

"I don't want them," Celebrían replies, her voice bubbles with terror. "I want you.” 

"There are plenty of books there," he cajoles. Elrond would undoubtedly have an impressive library. "You’ll be able to practice your languages and your writing. Doesn’t that sound nice?"

"No, don't make me go. I want to stay here with you!" She grabs hold of his wrists tightly, but this time there is no pain, it’s only the clutch of a frightened child. "Please, please—I don't want to leave!"

"This is what is best for you," he reassures her, "it does not mean that I do not love you."

"Please," she continues desperately. "Please, don't make me go, Ada. Let me stay — I'll be good, I won't hurt anyone— please let me stay!" She attaches herself to his torso and refuses to let go as she cries. 

“Of course you won’t hurt anyone,” he states as he takes her in his arms, “I promise that this has nothing to do with what happened last night.” 

“Let me stay!” she begs. On the verge of hysteria, her breaths are coming in worrying gasps as her lungs fight for air. She’s nearly choking on her sobs, but her grip on him is tighter than ever. Adar looks at Arradiel helplessly. Sending her to the elves seems like the right thing to do, but how could he force her to leave when the idea makes her so miserable?

Sighing, Arradiel sinks to the floor next to them and says, “You should have talked to me. How much have you thought this through?” 

“I’m trying to do right by her,” Adar explains, feeling overwrought. 

“Perhaps it would be safer for her to be in Lindon, but as it is, you have been raising her for years. If you were to send her away now, it would only hurt her.”

“Naneth,” Arondir protests, “you cannot mean for him to raise her among the Uruks that he plans to bring here.”

“Do you trust your children?” Arradiel asks Adar pointedly. 

An uncertain voice, “You said you loved us.” 

“With all that is left of my heart.” 

“I have hope.”

This is not a guarantee, but Arradiel is smart enough to know that life offers few guarantees and that an undertaking such as this is inherently going to present risks. With a firm nod, she replies, “Then we must trust in that.” 

Celebrían is still clinging to him when she whimpers, “I don’t want to leave you.” 

He holds her tightly, “I will never leave you.” 

Walking about the village becomes an exercise in self-control after its inhabitants learn of his true identity. The reactions have run the gambit from pity to disgust. 

Oftentimes, the disgust is the result of his actions as the former leader of the Uruks, and that is bearable, if not pleasant. Sometimes the repulsion seems to stem from nothing more than his appearance, and that is harder to ignore. Either way, it takes effort not to flinch at the stares. 

At least it is better now than it had been the first time he had traversed about without Nenya’s glamour. On that day, it had only been the knowledge that he was acting on behalf of his children and the squeeze of Celebrían’s hand in his that had kept him upright under the weight of those gazes. On their way home, Celebrían had stopped and hugged him as she repeatedly whispered, “You are beautiful, Ada.”

After the insufferably tense silence that made up their first visit, it was almost a relief when elves came to confront him on their second. More than one confrontation begins with angry accusations screamed at him in the street while he apologizes and offers to make what amends he can. 

Later, sometimes much later, a portion of these elves will be able to truly discuss the wrongs he has committed, and they become willing to meet him, if not with pleasure, then at least civilly. Others refuse to tolerate his presence, and it is only a combination of cajoling (Medhion) and lecturing (Arradiel) that prevents them from revealing his presence to Oropher. Together, the three of them had decided to reveal his presence and let the village get used to it before hazarding his plan to introduce more Uruks into the bargain. 

In all likelihood, it could take decades to convince this one village to consider making the change. This sometimes makes him angry and impatient, but recalling where his impatience got him the last time he tried to provide his children with a home is enough to prevent him from doing anything rash.

Still, it’s a relief to enter Arradiel’s house and close the door firmly against the eyes that follow him.  

“Why do they have to stare at you like that?” Celebrían hisses testily. 

“We’ve talked about this before,” Adar replies wearily, “those whom my children and I have hurt have a right to their anger and resentment.”

“I know, and I do understand that they need space,” she sighs, “but some of them have never laid eyes on an Uruk in their life yet are making more fuss than those who have genuine reasons to be upset with you!”

“These things take time, love,” he counsels as he brushes a strand of her luminous hair away from her face.   

“Why don’t you visit Medhion?” Arradiel suggests. “Your father tells me that you’ve used up most of your ink writing to your mother. I’m sure that Oreth will be happy to supply you with more.” 

Celebrían darts a worried glance at him, “Are you sure you don’t need me to stay?”

“Go on,” he urges, “take your mind off of things by practicing Tengwar calligraphy to your heart’s content.” 

“Oreth doesn’t enjoy writing,” Celebrían remarks. 

“No,” he replies, “but she does like spending time with you.” 

Celebrían flushes almost shyly, and despite the weariness pulling at him, he feels a rush of gratitude that she can look up to and form bonds with women. After planting a kiss on Arradiel’s cheek, she lopes off for the smith’s home with the slight awkwardness that usually accompanies a rapid increase in height. 

“I have good news,” the elf comments, once she is sure that Celebrían is out of earshot. “After over a year of delay in his journey, my son finally made his way to Lindon and has sent word.” 

“Is he well?” Adar asks, The journey to Lindon is a long one, but such a lengthy detainment was concerning. 

“Well enough,” she replies, “apparently he was slowed down by some Númenorians felling woods under the protection of the Ents. Arondir felt that he had to intervene, and it held him up for quite some time. I am very proud of him, but sometimes I am terrified by his dedication to what he believes are his responsibilities.”

“Are you surprised that your son,” he emphasizes, “has an overdeveloped sense of duty?”

Arradiel hums discontentedly, but does not reply.    

“How did the High King take the news about Celebrían?” Adar asks curiously. He has never met him in person, but Gil-Galad has a reputation for preferring to possess all the relevant facts of a situation before taking any action and Galadriel birthing a half-Maia child fathered by Sauron is a rather important fact to have been kept from him. 

“We have had to communicate through cipher and allusion to prevent information from falling into the wrong hands, so I am sure that there is much that I am missing,” Arradel tells him. “From what I have been able to glean, Gil-Galad is vacillating between relief that he does not have to deal with Sauron’s offspring being underfoot, and anxiety that he cannot keep a personal eye on her to nip any megalomaniacal tendencies in the bud.”

An image comes to him of the High-King of the Noldor putting a fractious Celebrían in time-out because she won't eat her lembas. He shares the thought, and they both indulge in undignified snorts of laughter.

“What did he have to say about a peace treaty with the Uruks?” 

“About what you expected,” Arradiel responds with a shrug, “he wants to see if you can get a sizable portion of the Uruks to change sides and peaceably co-exist with elves, then he will consider it. Though he did offer to deal with Oropher if our king were to discover your efforts.”

“Honestly, that is better than I had hoped for,” Adar says with a relieved sigh. “What about Elrond?”        

“Willing to trust in the high king’s judgement in the matter of the Uruks,” Arradiel reports brightly. Then she sobers, “He was more hurt that Galadriel didn't trust him enough to care for her child.”

Thinking back to his occupation of Ost-In-Edhil, he remembers how frantic Elrond had been to save her. Threatening her life hadn’t been enough to make the Commander abandon Eregion, but being forced to choose between Galadriel and the safety of the city had wounded him, and it had made him desperate enough to pull that subterfuge with the kiss. Given what Adar knows of Galadriel’s complicated entanglement with Sauron, he doubts that she fostered romantic feelings for her friend or Sauron wouldn’t have been such a temptation, but he wonders if there were feelings on his side.   

“They seemed close, the only time that I saw them together,” Adar muses. “Given the friendship that he shared with Galadriel, his hurt is understandable. What was his reaction to Celebrían’s paternity?” 

“According to Arondir, he was shocked and dismayed enough to imbibe an unhealthy amount of dwarven whiskey,” she comments. “However, that was more disappointment in Galadriel’s choices than anything else. He doesn’t place blame on Celebrían for existing, and he even begged for her to be sent to live with him until my son told him that Celebrían refuses to leave you.”

“He must have hated hearing that,” Adar remarks drily.   

“Actually, Arondir said that after Elrond heard how Celebrían loves you as a father, he argued with the High King in favor of her remaining in your custody,” she says. 

Blinking in surprise, Adar thinks that Galadriel had greatly underestimated her friend’s compassion and understanding.

“Since he was acting as messenger,” she continues, “Arondir was caught in what ended up being a very spirited quarrel between the two. Luckily, Círdan ended up being a calming influence, which is probably why they are allowing Celebrían to stay with you.”  

“I never meant for your son to be dragged into the middle of this,” Adar tells her earnestly. 

Tears well in her eyes, “It’s probably best that he has something to distract him from…”

Reaching out to grasp her hand, he whispers, “I have given him much pain.” 

Arradiel shakes her head, “He fell in love with a mortal, it is something that he would have gone through eventually.” 

“Still, he should have had more time with her,” Adar argues, “I do not forget that I am the reason for that, and I would not ask you to either.” 

They sit together in a pained silence. 

Days in their home have taken on a comforting ritual throughout the years. 

Usually, Celebrían wakes before he does. She will feed her goats and Roch and then spend the early hours of the morning writing to her mother. Then they will make their morning meal together and discuss their plans for the day while they eat. 

Celebrían must have had a lot to say to Galadriel, because she hasn’t left her room yet. This happens at least once a week, and Adar does what he always does; he opens her door to invite her to break her fast with him. 

Today, the ritual is broken. Instead of a smile and an agreement to join him, he gets a screech and a pen thrown at his head. 

“Ada, you have to knock!” she yells as she slams the door. 

Staring at the pen that fell at his feet, he stammers in confusion, “I’m sorry?” As far as he could see, Celebrían was doing nothing more than sitting at her desk as she wrote. It wasn’t as if she were doing anything wrong, but neither had she shut him out before. 

Making sure to knock, he calls through the door, “Do you want your pen back?” 

There is a huff and rustle, then the door opens, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that, I just wasn’t expecting you.”  

“Is everything alright?” Adar asks, trying to discreetly peer around her room. He’d expected to see some kind of mischief afoot from her reaction. 

“Yes,” she assures him, “I was thinking as I was writing.” 

“Thoughts that made it necessary to throw something at my head?” 

“They were private.” 

“About what?” Adar coaxes. 

“Somehow, I think that you have a misunderstanding of what the word ‘private’ means,” she says with an eye roll. “Oreth gifted me a dictionary. Would you like to read the definition?”

“I know what it means, Celebrían,” he replies in exasperation.

“Then why are you asking?” she counters. 

Utterly baffled at how the morning has gone sideways, all he can finally do is blink at her, “What is happening?”

“Right now,” she tells him, irritation draining, “you are going to go to the kitchen to start breakfast. I will be there in a few moments.” After giving him a shooing motion and a smile, she closes her door.

As he waits for her to join him, he attempts to put his thoughts into order, trying to think of what he has done wrong. His mind goes back to the image of Celebrían perched over her desk. When he had first made it for her, she had barely been able to get her elbows atop it, now she has to bend a little to write. ‘She’s grown so much’, he thinks fondly—and then it dawns on him. 

Wordlessly, Celebrían joins him, and he turns to her, “You’ve grown.” 

“Yes,” she agrees kindly, giving him a one-armed hug. 

Trying to choke back the sudden lump in his throat, he promises, “I’ll knock from now on.” 

When she notices his turbulent feelings, Celebrían reproaches herself, “I should have found a better way to discuss this with you. You did not raise me to act like that.”

“That isn’t it,” Adar assures her with a watery laugh, “though I would appreciate it if you refrained from throwing pens at me in the future. It’s just that—you’re not a child anymore.” 

“Oh, Ada,” she buries her head in his chest, “I may not be a child anymore, but I am still your child.” 

Spending time in Medhion’s forge is a strange experience because Adar can’t help but make comparisons between the smith and Sauron.

In some ways, the two are alike; both are dedicated to their craft and were exuberant about the process of creation. Or rather, Sauron had once found pleasure in smithing, but he seemed to lose it after Angband. In the early days, before Morgoth had carved too much out of the Maia’s soul, Adar had spent hours at a time listening to Sauron go into detail on one project or another. He hadn’t understood much of what he was told, but it had been breathtaking to see Sauron so passionate. More than once, Adar has thought about the months that Sauron spent in Eregion, wondering if Celebrimbor had reawakened his joy in forging or if the famed smith had been a painful reminder of what he had lost. 

However, for every similarity, there are at least two differences. Medhion seems to delight in mistakes, referring to them as his best teachers. Sometimes, he doesn’t bother to fix those mistakes; rather, he crafts his work around them, making beauty out of imperfection. Celebrían’s appalled face when she heard was a perfect mirror for how Sauron would have reacted to such a statement. Adar was so amused that he hadn’t realized until afterwards that he possessed memories of the Maia that weren’t infused with pain.  

On principle, Celebrían avoids Medhion when he is at work in his forge to stop herself from nitpicking at him. She may be exacting, but she is equally unwilling to dampen his enjoyment. That leaves Adar to watch the smith work in fascination while she wanders outside. 

He thinks it important that Celebrían spend time among the villagers without his company. Adar’s reasoning for this is twofold, partially because she needs to commune with people who aren’t him and partially so that the elves can come to know and love Celebrían for herself. If the people here were to decide that he was no longer welcome, he hopes that they will not count her in his shunning. So far, he hasn’t been banned from entering, but it is prudent to plan for the worst. 

Medhion is cleaning up—Adar helpfully keeps the cat out of the pile that he is sweeping— when a knock sounds.

“Is it safe to enter?” Celebrían asks from the doorway. Medhion has warned her since she was old enough to crawl about the dangers of wandering into an active forge without an invitation. 

“Come in,” the smith calls cheerfully, “the only risk you run now is getting soot on your clothes!”

Looking towards the open door, Adar gives a start when he realizes that Celebrían has brought a guest with her.

“Elwiel,” Medhion says, “this is a surprise.” 

“Not an unwelcome one, I hope?” Celebrían replies with a smile. 

“Never,” the smith declares. “How can I serve?” 

“Elwiel was hoping to speak to my father,” Celebrían corrects as she reaches over to rest her hand on the shoulder of the elf.

Adar suspects that Elwiel is another being whose life was disrupted by the Uruks. Letting the cat drop out of his arms, he takes a steadying breath before saying, “Can I help you?” 

It takes a long time for her to search for the right words, which, when voiced, are angry and grieved: “I lost my father at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.” 

“I am truly sorry,” he tells her, “is there anything that I can do to ease your pain?” 

Squaring her shoulders and gritting her teeth, she looks him in the eyes, “I want to know why he died.” 

“My lady,” he begins, “I did not fight in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, but I will tell you what I know of it, if you wish.”

She frowns, “I thought all of Morgoth’s hosts were emptied from Angband to fight on the fields of the east.” 

“True,” he says, “but I was attached to Sauron’s retinue, and he was not at Angband at that time; we were in Taur-in-Fuin.”

“Of course he wasn’t there,” Celebrían says and mutters something that sounds like ‘coward’.

Unwilling to further muddy the issue, especially in front of Elwiel, he doesn’t mention that the combined damage of Huan’s assault, and the grievous torture that Morgoth had inflicted upon him for losing the fortress of Taur-in-Gaurhoth to Lúthien, had left the Maia unable to move, much less fight. Adar remembers watching Sauron curse the death of Thuringwethil as he dashed off increasingly desperate messages to his Master that seemed to be a mixture of suggestions and pleading. It had been a strange time when Adar felt caught between warring emotions: guilt for not fighting alongside his children; gratitude that he wouldn’t have to face Maedhros on the field of battle; fear for Sauron, who had seemed so close to discorporating from his wounds, and a shameful relief that his lover had only desired gentleness from him again.    

Knowing that Adar did not have a direct hand in her father’s death had seemed to drain some of the ire out of the elf. The slight motion is enough to catch his eye and drag him out of his recollections. With her eyes closed tiredly, Elweil says, “I know enough about broken alliances and precipitate advances to have a general understanding of why the Union of Maedhros failed.”

“Then what would you have of me?”  

At Elwiel’s side, his daughter reaches down to squeeze her hand encouragingly, and the reassurance seems to work because the elf blurts out, “I would understand what Morgoth did to your children—I would know if peace is truly possible as Celebrían believes.”

Resisting the urge to throw a hard look at Celebrían, he asks Medhion for permission to use his sitting room for this conversation, which the smith gives willingly. He hadn’t thought that Celebrían would have her own reasons for wanting to wander the village unescorted.

They are going to have a very long discussion about her trying to fight his battles for him when this is over. But for the moment, he can admit to a certain satisfaction that there are a few more elves who are willing to listen. 

In the past, it had been easy to forget that Glûg was counted as an adult in his own right; easy to do, when Adar could remember the Uruk’s infancy and youth so clearly while his own body aged not at all. It is still easy to do when he is looking at him now. 

Something about the sight of him traps Adar in memory; he can feel the bite of the knife into his flesh, and it makes his hands tremble. For a moment, he forces them to stop by clenching his fists, but then he remembers that he doesn’t want his actions to be interpreted as angry, so he unfurls them again.

Adar had gone over a million iterations of what he would say over and over again, both in his head and with Celebrían. Now, with only a few yards of distance between them, he cannot voice them. Finally, he breathes, "I have missed you, my son."

Glûg stirs in discomfort, his hand on his sword, but Adar takes comfort in the fact that he hasn’t drawn it, and that he seems to have kept to their agreement to come alone. If Glûg had led him into a trap, Sauron would already be here to preen over leading Adar to his death. 

“The others,” Adar asks, knowing that he sounds desperate, “how are they?” 

Hand still resting on his hilt, Glûg pauses to consider his answer. "You have been missed by some," he finally says, and Adar has to bite back a twist of pain— if that is true, what is Sauron doing to them? How much are they suffering? Beneath that is another question that he pushes far into the back of his mind: ‘Why did you leave me?’  

There will be no good in posing it. He already knows the answer, and asking would only serve to wound them both.

"Why are you here?" Glûg questions sharply. "We’ve trod the path of our doom; there is no recourse for it."

Tears burn in his eyes as he hears these words, and Adar instinctively takes a step forward. Glûg jumps back, and Adar hates the fear that he sees on his son’s face. Quickly, he holds up in arms in a gesture of surrender.  "Sauron’s greatest strength lies in making others believe that they have no salvation but himself," he says, very gently, "there is another option." 

Above them, the moon is full and casts a soft glow upon them. Its silver sheen reminds him that somewhere near Eryn Galen, Celebrían is waiting anxiously for him to return. Before he had left, he had made Celebrían promise that she would not seek vengeance if he was led into a trap. It had led to a bitter quarrel between them, which had only been resolved when Adar explained to her how badly it would hurt him to have his children shed each other’s blood. This had been followed by several days where Celebrían had insisted on joining him at this meeting. Only the threat of sending her to Lindon, whether she willed it or not, had been enough to make her grudgingly stay behind.

“Say your piece,” Glûg says, pointedly not looking him in the face. Briefly, Adar lays out his plan and waits in trepidation. 

“They would never accept us,” Glûg finally exclaims. 

“Those are Sauron’s words,” Adar replies. “There are elves who are willing.” 

Shrugging, Glûg steps back, “I cannot stay away for long; my absence may be noted if I tarry.”

“Will you consider what I have said?” Adar questions softly, “I know that it is not a decision to be made lightly. All I ask is that you think about it.” 

“Very well,” Glûg huffs gruffly, “I cannot promise much else, but I will think on it, and if I deem it safe enough, I will mention it to a few who can be trusted.”

“Will you contact me through the same signal as before?” 

“If I choose to contact you,” Glûg corrects, “it will be through the same method.” 

It is not as much as Adar had hoped, but it is a start. 

“Of all the roles that I have undertaken in my long years,” Arradiel comments, “I never thought to be messenger between an Uruk and an elven lord.”

Before he can apologize, the elf continues, “It’s not a complaint, I find that I am rather enjoying all the stealth and secrecy, and it allows me to see more of my son.”

By unacknowledged agreement, Adar and Arondir spend as little time in one another’s company as possible when he visits. They are capable of interacting peaceably if the occasion calls for it, but he has no wish to cause him unnecessary pain. At the moment, he and Celebrían are walking outside. Celebrían is plying Arondir for information about her mother, which the elf is pleased to supply.  

“What dispatch do you have for me, o stealthy messenger?” Adar teases as he settles down into a chair. 

“Lord Elrond has made an offer for you and Celebrían to live in his realm. You could not live in the central areas, as it would upset the survivors of Eregion, but he says that a small private residence on the outskirts could be made available to you.” 

“Elrond would allow me inside his realm?” Adar asks. He knew that the Peredhil was good; Galadriel had been right when she had referred to him as ‘the best of us,’ but to show him such kindness was astonishing.

Arradiel nods and says, “Apparently, he was quite intent that you hear this verbatim: ‘Only my concern for the safety of a child would make me sunder them from a beloved parent, and I deem that you are not a danger to your daughter. Do not alter the faith that I have placed in you.” 

“There was a time when I would have given my life for such an offer,” Adar says, pausing to lean back against his chair. He thinks back to the bleak day millennia past when he and the Moriondor had begged the elves to accept them back, and they had been so cruelly refused. 

“You will decline,” Arradiel assumes. She knows how hard he has worked to gain this one chance for his children’s freedom. The village as a whole has not been pleased at his request for integration. Many were uneasy, a few elves were preparing to move away, but they had agreed to keep their silence about it with the understanding that those who stayed behind would deal with the consequences of their choice.

Nodding his agreement, he replies, “I have a responsibility towards my children. I suppose that a part of me will always long to live among the Eldar again, but the truth is that I no longer belong with them.”

“Is not the entire reason behind your plans to try to get others to accept their differences so that all can live peaceably?” she questions pointedly. 

“Yes,” he admits, then adds with shame, “my Uruk children have struggled in acknowledging their identities because I could not come to terms with my own.”

“Try to give yourself a little credit,” she chides, “you were placed in an impossible situation. Sometimes you made the wrong choices, but you tried, and you are still trying to help them. That may not seem like much to you, but it isn’t nothing either.”

“Speaking of trying,” Adar says, desperate to divert the conversation from the uncomfortable turn it has taken. “Will you tell Arondir that I will bring up Elrond’s offer with Celebrían before he leaves? I can guess her answer, but I will ask— and convey to him my sincere gratitude. I know it must have taken many arguments with Gil-Galad to make such an offer possible.”

“He cares a great deal about her well-being; it’s a shame that he missed her childhood without even seeing her,” she muses. “I wonder if there is a way for him to at least meet her.”  

“I know that I was prepared to send her off years ago, but now I think that it is not worth the risk. I believe that he would agree with me,” he says, feeling genuinely regretful of the fact. “Sauron’s gaze is too fixed upon elven leadership; he is probably well informed every time Elrond travels. She cannot go there herself, I fear to let Celebrían make the journey without the protection of Nenya, and I still have no idea what wearing the ring could do to her, or what she may learn from it should she bear it. ”

“Perhaps you should tell her the truth as Medhion advised,” Arradiel suggests, “as I said, she is no longer a child and the truth cannot be hidden from her forever.” 

“No,” he counters flatly. “She is not ready to know that. Besides, in the reckoning of the elves, she is still young.” 

“You’re not taking into account her half-elven blood,” Arradiel observes, “who knows what havoc that is playing with her maturity.” 

“Please don’t,” he begs, “I’m not ready to talk about reproduction with her yet, much less about her paternity.” 

“Reproduction?” Arradiel repeats his prudish descriptor with mirth, “Arondir was younger than she is now when I told him such things.” 

“Well, I have never had such a discussion before,” he says tartly, “I have to think about how to go about it.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you literally have thousands of children and have never once discussed sex?” she asks, taken aback by the notion.

“Not really,” he protests awkwardly, “I was not allowed to raise the first Uruks. By the time I was even told of their existence, they had already established families. You cannot blame them for not welcoming me in the raising of their young when I was not present for their own childhoods.”

“So,” she says dubiously, “you never gave them guidance?” *

“I did try to tell them that it was important to listen when your mate says that you are hurting them,” he replies, “but I think that all that did was inform them of how ill Morgoth was using them.”

“Just to listen, not to stop?” Arradiel’s voice rises in appalled horror, “Adar, did anyone discuss consent with you? Maybe your parents?”

“Have you forgotten that I was not born?” Adar asks, “We first elves simply woke up.”    

Arradiel gasps, “I had not realized that you were among the original elves of Cuiviénen. I thought that you were one of the later generations born there.” 

“None of us knew much of anything. It was,” he pauses ruefully, “—a surprise, when the first child was born. I remember it was a baby girl, her mother let me hold her. I wept for joy, and though I didn’t know it at the time, I was weeping in longing too. When I told that story to Sauron, he understood before I did what it was that I wanted and sought to give it to me. As is always the case, his gift came with a cruel twist.”

“Bastard,” Arradiel whispers in Sindarin, her voice a low hiss. It’s a surprising display of vulgarity from an elf whom he has never heard utter a curse before. 

“So you did not think to discuss your wish for children with your spouse, because you did not yet know that you desired it?” Arradiel concludes in pity.

“Spouse?” Adar asks in surprise, “I have never been wed.”

“Never?”

“I think that there were a few with whom I was close, my memories from Cuiviénen are hazy, but there was not time to explore where those friendships may have led before Morgoth took me.”

“Be clear about this,” she says firmly, “do you mean to say that Sauron taught you the ways of the flesh and that he was your only partner during all the years that Morgoth reigned?” 

“No,” he replies, feeling puzzled by her distress, “I mean to say I have never had a partner other than Sauron.”  

“Ever?” Her voice is sharp. 

Staring at his hands to avoid looking her in the eyes, he admits, “After I thought that I had killed him, the idea of being so close to anyone like that again made me ill.” 

“That is understandable,” Arradiel consoles, making an effort to modulate her tone. “But after time had passed, there wasn’t anyone…”. She trails off and then corrects herself, “No, there wasn’t, the only beings you had any longstanding contact with were your children, who were not an option.”

“Why is this so strange to you?” he asks. “Elves usually only take one spouse throughout their lives, and they usually  remain faithful even when death separates them. Do you think the Uruks are incapable of such loyalty?” 

With a grasp of his hand, she says, “Most elven relationships are founded on mutual consent. Think of poor Aredhel! I never would have faulted her for trying to find another spouse, that is, if her monstrous husband hadn’t murdered her after she finally managed to escape him.”

“Eöl forced a child on her; it isn’t the same,” he protests. “Not that it was Maeglin’s fault for being born to such a union, but—”

“My friend,” she cuts him off gently, “I want you to think very closely about what you just said.”

“That is not what happened to me,” he breathes, “it was different.”

“Do you want to explain it to me?” she asks. She squeezes the hand that she is holding tightly. “If you do not wish to discuss it, I would not make you, but if you want to talk, I promise that I will listen without judgment.” 

Never, in all the long years of his life, has he spoken of the details of his private moments with Sauron. Though he doesn’t think of himself as abused (not in this manner anyway), the prospect of speaking them out loud is suddenly terrifying. But then— Arradiel has always been an understanding presence, she knew he was an Uruk and had not fled, she knew of his past misdeeds and had been willing to help him atone, and she was the only living being who knew that Sauron had been his lover and she had not condemned him for it. Perhaps it would be safe to speak of this to her, for he finds that as much as he is dreading it, another part of him does want to explain things.    

After an indeterminate amount of time, during which Arradiel waits calmly, he finally starts with, “It could not be as it was with Aredhel, there was usually pain, but it was not one-sided. Outside of punishments for military failures, he rarely hurt me physically.” 

“Rarely is not never.” 

“Sometimes he would lose control when he was angry,” he admits, “but that did not happen often; he prided himself on his self-control.” 

“In those moments, he would take his anger out on you?” 

“Yes,” he says wincing, “but it is not as if I were completely defenseless, or unable to endure some pain, and I never actually asked him to stop.” 

“Sauron is one of the Maiar, a divine being, I fear for what your definition of ‘some pain’ means,” she comments. “During these periods where he would experience a loss of control, would he have stopped if you had asked it of him?”  

“Maybe not,” then grudgingly admits, “probably not.” 

“What about the punishments?” she asks pointedly. She seems angry, but that anger is not directed at him. Still, it makes him uneasy, and Arradiel senses his discomfort because she calls for a brief break to compose herself.

Once they are both sitting back down, he answers her question, “Punishments were usually performed at Morgoth’s orders, but they were nothing compared to what Morgoth would do to Sauron. Much of what the Dark Lord did to him could have only been survived by an Ainu.”

“This time, I would point out that usually does not mean always,” she tells him, “I do not mean to dismiss his pain, but I would like to focus on your experiences now. There were times he hurt you outside of Morgoth's behest?”

“A few,” he says carefully, “as I said, he would sometimes lose his temper, though it was rarer than you think.”

“Can you tell me about one of those times?” 

“Findekáno?” Maedhros asks dazedly, and Adar lets him hold on to the delusion as he continues to gently work through the knotted tangles of his hair. It’s the sort of touch that Adar imagines a parent would render upon a child. A wordless gesture of kindness and a reminder that he is not completely alone. 

Adar knows what obsession looks like for Morgoth, has seen it’s marks upon Mairon’s form often enough to recognize that Morgoth’s torture of the elf hasn’t been a fixed interest, more a matter of principle thanks to his preoccupation with Fëanor. The Dark Lord hadn’t even thought to punish Adar for conversing with him while carrying out his orders to keep Maedhros alive.

It leaves Adar surprised when Mairon strikes with unanticipated pain and white-hot precision. He pulls at the memories of Maedhros and examines them. Adar can sense the Maia’s anger, it burns through his mind like fire. Beneath the rage lies a sense of betrayal and hurt: “Thou dost crave the embrace of another! I am grieved that I am not enough for thee.”

“It isn’t like that,” Adar protests, feeling his stomach plummet. It is rare for Mairon to slip into this state. When it happens, it feels like a different being crawls under his lover’s skin. Other than the use of language, the change is almost imperceptible, but still off-putting. It is akin to walking into a room and discovering that someone has moved everything over just a bit. On the surface, it looks normal, but a close inspection reveals that all is different. 

Trepidation forces Adar to choose his words carefully: “I only wanted to comfort him.” 

Mairon leans down and tenderly takes his hand, the one that he had used to offer solace to Maedhros. Then Adar’s hand is burning: first skin, then muscle, and finally tendons. The agony is so sharply intense that he cannot scream. He is reduced to pathetic gasps as he feels the searing of his flesh. When it is over, Mairon guides the blackened, mangled ruin to his lips, saying, “It is a shame that thou hast forced this matter. Fear not, thou art still a beauty in mine eyes. Come! Show me that I am the only one that thou needest.” 

Sweating from pain and with exhaustion creeping in, Adar does not feel remotely amorous but if he refuses, Mairon’s temper will likely flare up again. It is better to soothe him and coax him back to normalcy.

After that, Sauron took charge of Maedhros’ captivity. Adar did not see the elf again until Morgoth ordered that he be strung upon Thangorodrim. 

His beautiful red hair had been shorn to the scalp.

Haltingly, Adar recalls the memory aloud, and finishes by adding, “Knowing what I do now. I think that Morgoth may have inadvertently shown Maedhros a kindness. At least Sauron could not touch him upon that mountain.” 

Arradiel gives a pitying nod and looks down at his scarred appendage. “Is that why you kept your left hand covered for those first years that you stopped wearing Nenya?” 

“At that point, it was more habit than anything,” he tells her, as he pulls back his sleeve to expose the brackish skin beneath. “I used to wear a gauntlet because the injury made my hand weak, and I feared that it could be used against me, but there’s hardly any danger of that sort here. I never cover it at home, and beyond the knowledge that it was once a hurt that I suffered, Celebrían is not bothered by it.”

“Sauron gave you a permanent injury. For I know that you still have a hard time gripping things with that hand,” she states. “Yet you claim that the pain you suffered was not one-sided?”

“No,” he replies, “more often than not, he liked for me to hurt him.” 

“Oh…” she pauses. Arradiel keeps her promise of impartiality, her tone is uncertain and a little curious, but not condemning, “I have heard of such things, but I do not know how much of what I have been told is accurate.”

“Does it matter?”  

“Did you want to hurt him?” she counters. 

“Sometimes?” Feeling his face flame, he scrabbles for the words, “I don’t know? I didn’t always mind, I even enjoyed it in certain moments, but…it was complicated.” 

“How so?”

“He always wanted it taken to such extremes,” Adar says, “he was like that in all ways. There were times when Morgoth would do unspeakable things to him and then he would come to me and want me to—he said that he needed me—that he wanted—”. Unable to finish the thought, he buries his face in his hands. 

“In those moments, you did not wish to harm him further?” Arradiel guesses. “Did you tell him that?”

“I tried,” he tells her in distress, “but he wouldn’t listen; he said that what I did helped.”

A myriad of emotions ripple across Arradiel’s features, too quickly for him to read them all. Finally, she says, “You’re right, that does sound complicated. With that acknowledged, would you agree that, in spite of also being a victim of Morgoth, there were times when Sauron…took advantage of an already unfairly balanced situation?” 

Giving the statement consideration, he nods. He still does not think that his situation and Aredhel’s are very alike, but he can acknowledge that there were some similarities. “It would be hard to argue with that when taking advantage of situations was probably sung into his nature with the First Music.” 

Arradiel hums in agreement, “What advice would you give to another if they were in similar circumstances?” 

Notably, Arradiel does not mention Celebrían, but it is hard not to think of her because she has been the only person who has sought his advice in years. Hard to imagine his little one in a situation where she feels beholden to hurt another or endure needless pain to placate one she loves. He hates the way that it makes him feel and what it says about his past. The look Arradiel gives him is sympathetically knowing, “I can guess what you are thinking, and I would like to reframe my question a little. If I may?”

Adar rubs at his temples and gestures for her to go on. 

“If someone had been through similar circumstances in the past, and you were looking to offer comfort, what would you say to them?” 

He looks down at his hand, with its burned and pitted surface, just recognizably in the shape of finger indents. At the spaces where flesh should be and flesh was not. “That it wasn’t their fault.” 

Tears trickle down his face, and a detached part of himself notes that he has cried for himself more in the past few years than he has in the thousands that preceded them.

For the first time, it doesn’t feel selfish.

*Decades of waiting, worrying, and planning have finally come to a culmination in this moment. 

He is standing in the moonlight, waiting at the meeting point for the first of the Uruks to make this attempt at coexistence. He is not wearing armor or weapons; he wants to present himself as their father and not their lord. Somewhere in the distance Celebrian is watching from a safe vantage point. She had insisted on coming and was old enough to refuse to take no for an answer; she had argued that an elf should be there to greet them as a show of goodwill. Adar had eventually relented to her pleas under the condition that Celebrían remain hidden until he could verify that it was safe. He doubted that Glûg would knowingly put his family in danger, but he couldn’t take the risk that Sauron hadn’t manipulated him. 

It is the first time that Celebrían has left Eryn Galen, and it is a delight to witness her wonder as they travel. It hadn’t been easy to convince her to remain hidden, but he had explained to her that it was very important that Nenya not fall into the hands of Sauron (at the moment it rested on a chain around her neck). He had given her strict instructions that if he were to be taken, she should not spend her life in a futile rescue attempt; rather, she should flee back to the village where Arondir would escort her to Lindon, then a proper rescue could be organized. Gil-Galad would be unlikely to bother mounting a rescue for him, but Celebrían doesn’t need to know that. 

After several hours, the meeting time comes and goes, and his fear drifts from discovery to absence. Had there been, at the last moment, some new worry that had presented itself? Some tearing loyalty to Sauron? Adar feels a disappointment so keen and deep it is in itself a mourning. Hope withers within him. He hadn’t realized until this moment just how fully he hoped until it was snatched out of his grasp. 

Then, just over the far hill, a tiny group makes its way forward. There are only four beings, but he knew that they must begin with small measures. One of the side effects of the change that Morgoth had wrought upon his body was that his eyesight, while still better than a man’s, was not as keen as an elf's. As such, it’s dark enough that he cannot make out the distinctive features of the travellers until they are closer. When he can see them, they are a vision. The tallest must be Glûg’s daughter; the last time he had seen her, she had been in swaddling clothes. Her mother stooped more than the last time he saw her, and the others who trailed behind her must have been born after Eregion. Ruluka bowed low, keeping her children behind her, “Lord Father.”

With a gesture, her children repeat the greeting. In the past, genuflection had been common, but after all these years, it seemed an odd thing to receive such a greeting or to be called a Lord.  Before he can reply, Ruluka flung herself down at his feet and began reciting, in that near-growling voice, “We most humbly ask for your forgiveness …” The following words of penitence are all stuck end-to-end as if she is in a rush to get them out. He bends down and pulls her gently up, hugging her to him. Her head barely comes up to his chest. “Ruluka, daughter. You need say no more. Thank you for coming back.” 

No one quite knows what to do at his declaration. The girls eye one another uneasily, and Ruluka herself is frozen in his arms. It’s his fault; he didn’t embrace his children enough before, but it is something that he plans on rectifying now. Wordlessly, he gives the prearranged signal to Celebrían that it is safe to venture forth from her hiding place. Quietly, he informs them that the elf who will be living among them is approaching. His soul lightens to have them back, back from Sauron and his own rash actions. 

“We have been making ready for you,” he tells them. “Though you must be weary, it will be some days yet before we can reach home. We need only travel a small distance tonight, then we can take shelter while the sun shines overhead.”

One of the younger Uruks turns to the other and asks lowly, “Is that an elf?” They gesture towards Celebrían, who is rapidly approaching. 

“Course it is,”  the other replies, “you’ve seen elves before.” 

“Only when they’re pitching arrows at us on supply runs,” the first snipes back. “Not exactly an opportune moment to get a good look.” 

Finally, Celebrían appears, and for the second time, Ruluka tries to bow, only to be caught in an embrace instead. “I have so longed for this moment,” she says. “Ada has been telling me of his other children for years.” She shifts to free one of her arms and then reaches out to her father, locking the three of them together. Over her head, he can see the remaining three Uruks gazing at each other awkwardly, no doubt silently debating where Adar had found such a barmy elf. 

Everything happens in stages for the comfort of both peoples. Months of the small band of Uruks simply living on the periphery without problems, followed by supply trips of gradually increasing length. Things are still a long way from comfortable, but at least both Elves and Uruks can conduct themselves with a modicum of civility. Though there had been a few near-misses. It helps that most elves haven’t seen an Uruk child before, and half of the number that they have met are barely tall enough to reach their elbows. 

At first, the Uruks were not very impressed to have Celebrían around. True, she called Adar her father. True, she never flinched when she looked at them. True, she spoke the Black Speech. True, she helped them build a shelter to protect them from the scorching rays of the sun. Still, an elf by birth...Well, give her a chance, eh?   

By the end of six months, they’re relaying every dirty fighting move in their arsenal to an astonished Celebrían. After thoroughly scolding Adar for not teaching her at least some methods of self-defense, Ruluka's eldest girl, Agralash, turns to Celebrían and asks, “What are you going to do when some man comes along with a fancy for that pretty silver hair? Sing a song at him?”

“Why would I need to worry about a man liking my hair?” Celebrían puzzledly questions. 

“Elf men don’t court rough like that,” Agralash’s sister hurriedly interrupts before the conversation can turn awkward.

“Tell that to Celegorm,” the Uruk says tartly. “He’s the one that Celebrían was telling us about in the story of…”

“Lúthien,” supplies Celebrían helpfully.

“That’s right,” Agralash snorts, “imagine Sauron getting bested by a girl and her dog. No wonder he forbade the telling of that tale! Anyway, my point is that if Lúthien knew where to kick Celegorm, she could have gone on to embarrass the Dark Lord much faster.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Celebrían offers, “you teach me where to kick, and I'll give you some story scrolls that I’m sure Sauron has also denied to you.” 

Agralash shrugs. “Every girl should know that, I don’t need payment for it. Besides, I couldn’t use your scrolls anyway. I’ve no idea how to read your fancy elf-writing.”

“Don’t worry,” Celebrían assures her. “I’ve translated many into Black Speech.”

“It wouldn’t help,” Agralash says defensively, “I know the runes but not how they make words.”  

“How was that overlooked?” Adar asks. “It’s true that most of my children never learned the elven languages, but the Uruks have a good foundation in their own script.” 

“Many Uruks used to have a good foundation in writing,” Agralash corrects. “When he took over, Sauron said that only the higher ranks of our people needed to know how, and that was decades ago. I only know what little I do because my mother taught me in secret, but she has trouble...I don’t fully understand it, but the symbols get turned around in her head. She never properly learned, and now reading is another thing that is banned in Mordor.” 

Adar hadn’t realized just how angry he was— still is—at Sauron. At first, all he can do is rage at Sauron’s needless cruelty. Then he recalls that there is always an angle with the Maia, and if anything, the denial of literacy shows just how calculatingly ruthless he is prepared to be; the fact that it would break Adar’s heart was probably just an added benefit. It’s a way of keeping his slaves dependent and too busy fighting each other for privilege that they would not have the time to rebel against their new master. 

“Well, it’s a good thing that you are no longer in Mordor,” Celebrían exclaims brightly. It’s only because he raised her and can recognize the rigid nature of her smile that Adar can tell she is silently furious, “I can help you fix that. If you have a desire to learn.” 

“You?” Agralash can’t keep the surprise out of her tone, ‘an elf’ is unvoiced but audible all the same. She repeats, “You would teach me how to read?”  

“Every girl should know,” Celebrían replies with a smile.

Chapter Text

Ever so slowly, more Uruks trickle into their dwelling. It’s mostly the young and those easily missed who are sent off to him as whispers begin to circulate in Mordor that they can have a life free from Sauron’s slavery. Celebrían offers to teach every single one of them to read and write. Some of the elders dismiss the offer as unnecessary, though they are grateful to be treated as beings capable of more than simply scratching out an existence. 

For every one that refuses, there are at least three that accept, and most nights, Celebrían wanders from shelter to shelter with a gaggle of children following behind her, begging her for stories. By the end of ten years, most of the Uruks are referring to her as ‘Ibirnessa’, a blending of two cultures embodied in a word and person. When they tried, they would remember to call her ‘Celebrían’ but ask any Uruk among them who Ibirnessa was, and they would look puzzled that you shouldn’t know the Silver Sister.      

Ibirnessa is known for holding her own in a fight. Maybe she’s not as strong as some, but she’s tenacious, taking hit after hit to a point where most Uruks would give up and beg for an end to it. She never does. Instead, with a smile, Celebrían lets her opponents wear themselves down to dust trying to make her break. Given the Uruk culture, it earns her a certain level of respect, even if it induces a near apoplexy in Adar to witness.

“How can you walk off a pummeling from Nargash like that?” Agralash asks her curiously, after a round of combat lessons. “Years ago, Usneg thought to take her as a mate, and Nargash struck him so hard that he was still chewing all on one side the last that I saw him, and that was a single blow. You just got hit a lot more than once.”

Grinning, Celebrían simply says, “Nargash wasn’t seriously trying to hurt me; she was just helping me learn how to fight.” 

“Nargash takes every fight seriously,” the Uruk notes, “even the pretend ones.”

At that, Celebrían shrugs a little helplessly, “I don’t know. I suppose that I must be hardier than I look?”

“Yeah,” Agralash agrees, “and I’ve seen rabbits more intimidating than you.” His daughter rolls her eyes and snipes back in kind.

The discussion makes Adar nervous, because Agralash was right, anyone else would have broken bones instead of bruises and a swollen lip. Celebrían should be prostrated on the ground instead of energetically bouncing a toddler on each of her hips as she carries on her conversation. It must be another indication of her Maia blood. Thankfully, none have guessed it, for as much as he loves his children, Celebrían’s parentage must continue to remain a secret (even from herself) for her protection. The thought twists a knot of guilt into his chest, which only loosens when a small girl, upset at being left out, elbows past him to latch onto one of Celebrían’s legs.

“Maybe you got it from your mother?” Agralash muses as she plucks another child up before they can leap onto Celebrían, “My mother says that Commander Galadriel was fair to look upon but harder than iron.”

Whatever Celebrían’s reply, Adar does not hear it over the pounding of his heart in his ears; he looks down at his shaking hands and begins to hyperventilate, horrified that after keeping this secret for so long, the truth has been bandied about in such a cavalier manner. All it will take is one careless remark, one scrap of gossip offered up in fear, and it will all be over. How many know? How long until he knows? 

“Deep breaths,” a voice reminds him. He feels a hand squeeze his shoulder, it grounds him in the present and drags him out of the mire of his thoughts. In the time that his fear has kept him distracted, Celebrían managed to settle the children she had been holding at her feet, “Just like we have always done, Ada. Deep, slow breaths. Focus on what you can see and hear.” 

Making sure to keep her hand upon him, she turns slightly and asks Agralash to see the children to their beds before the sun rises, which is met with a chorus of dismayed protests. Celebrían endeavors to overcome their disappointment with a promise to tell them a new story the next night. Staring at their retreating backs, Adar whispers, “How did they find out?”

“Let’s go home,” she suggests as she gently tugs him in the proper direction, and Adar allows himself to be led. The rest of the area's inhabitants are going through the familiar rituals that denote the coming of the dawn. It's soothing to watch the bustle, and hearing the friendly chatter reminds him of all that he has achieved and all that is yet undone. 

Once the door is closed, he turns and studies his daughter, the stubborn lines of her jaw conflict with the concern in her eyes. Eventually he states, “You were the one that told them.” 

“I did,” she admits softly, “and I do not regret my actions, but I am sorry that you discovered my deception in such a manner. I held off telling you because I worried that you would work yourself into a state if you knew, and in delaying, I only ended up making things worse.”

“We talked about how important it is to keep—”

“No,” she corrects firmly, “you decided. There was no talking about it.” 

“You have no idea of the danger you would be in if word of your existence were to reach the wrong ears.”

“Let us be clear,” she replies, “you are speaking of Sauron. Father, I understand your fear, and I very carefully weighed the dangers before I chose to share my parentage with the others. You have told me that he was my mother’s greatest adversary. I know what he did to both her and you. I also know that if he knew of my birth, he would undoubtedly like to kill me as a form of petty revenge, but he has killed so many that I cannot think my claims much higher than others who have run afoul of him. At most, he would wish to make my death crueler as a way to punish you for your so-called betrayal, but I promise that I will be cautious. I have no plans to walk into his path and deliver myself up to such a fate. Yes, there are increased dangers, but I deemed that the benefits outweighed them, and if I were given the choice to go back and undo it, I would change nothing.” 

“What benefits can you possibly be referring to?”

“Those of honesty,” she says simply, “the Uruks are your children as surely as I am; that makes them my family, of which I have had precious little before. As much as it pains me to admit, for I love her dearly, my mother caused more destruction among them than any other elf. It would have been wrong not to tell them that she bore me, they deserved the right to make a fully informed choice about whether or not to accept me. Sauron withheld much from them because he deemed them lesser, and I refuse to imitate his actions.”

She reaches out her hand to grasp his, “Knowing my blood, they still name me Ibirnessa, and that outweighs any danger to my life that may result.”

Intermingling pride and terror keep Adar silent for a long time, but there is one crucial piece of information that she doesn’t know, ‘Because you haven’t told her,’ some part of himself chides. 

Regardless, Celebrían has unknowingly placed herself in an entirely different peril than she supposes. For if Sauron ever discovers her existence, he will try to claim her. Adar knows it in his bones. The Maia has always been possessive of what he believes belongs to him.  

However, he can say none of this to her, so instead, he presses Celebrían to his heart and tells her the only truth that he can bear to say aloud, “I am so afraid for you.” 

Celebrían’s age of majority passes without much fanfare by her own desire, which seems to disappoint the elves of the village who somehow still manage to ply her with sweets and trinkets. The residents had pressed him for the day and Adar had hastily given them an approximate date, though he honestly doesn’t know exactly when Galadriel gave birth. The handful of Uruks who have joined them on this trip are curious; none of them is older than the age of ten, and they know little of the customs among the elves. One of the children asks, “Does Ibirnessa get presents because she is grown up now?” 

“No,” Celebrían tells him before Adar can speak, “I was grown up before. This is why I didn’t want a celebration, I am no different today than I was yesterday.” Then she hands the boy a sweetmeat that had been given to her, which he gleefully devours while the other children whine about the unfair allotment of treats. Rolling her eyes, she partitions the rest of her gifts among them, an act that is met with squeals of delight. Calculating that they only have a few hours of darkness left to them, they shepherd their group home.  

On their return, most rush to their houses crowing over the presents that Celebrían gave them for her majority. All but one small girl who tugs on Adar’s sleeve, “Shouldn’t Ibirnessa have at least one to keep? My father always made me little presents in the days before he said I had to leave him in the land of fire.”

Adar reaches down to pick up the girl. Shutha was a new resident among them, having only made the crossing from Mordor to Eryn Galen three months prior. Her mother was dead, killed by Sauron for some perceived failure, and her father had felt that the best protection that he could offer his child was to stay behind and cover her absence. Celebrían had been particularly attentive to Shutha’s losses and had devoted at least a few hours every night to spending time with her. As a result, Shutha had become very attached to Celebrían and followed her like a shadow. 

“I think that she just doesn’t like the idea that people might feel obligated to give her gifts,” he comments, “I happen to know that she loves a gift that is given freely. She still keeps the first toy that Medhion made for her, because she cannot bear to part with the reminder of his kindness. For that same reason, she keeps books given to her by Oreth and clothing that Arradiel has helped her make, they are precious to her.” 

“Do you think that she would like something from me?” Shutha asks shyly. “What should I make her?”

“She would treasure it,” he assures the girl, “and it would not matter what it is, only that it came from you.”       

Shutha looks thoughtful for a moment. While in the middle of describing her ideas, Ruluka stepped forward with her youngest. As the years passed and her offspring have grown up, Ruluka had taken to fostering the children without parents, caring for them as she now does for Shutha, “Time for bed, sprog.”

Giving a quick peck to Adar’s cheek, Shutha slips down from his arms and allows herself to be led inside by Ruluka’s daughter. He had expected Ruluka to follow, but instead she remains behind. Clearly, she has something on her mind. “I heard from the children that Ibirnessa has come of age.” 

“Yes,” he says, “though I can scarcely believe it, it seems not that long ago when she was small enough to hold in one hand.” 

“That is ever the way of things,” she comments fondly. “If I could have frozen time with my eldest, I would have. Now she’s loud and disagreeable, but back then...” She trails off and nods through the open door at Shutha, who is occupying herself by placing a few clay bowls on the table. “Back then, I was her whole world.”

There is a certain camaraderie that occurs between parents who love their children desperately; who know what it is like to have a child clamber into their lives and insert themselves into the gaping hollows of their hearts. He feels it now in the comfortable silence between them. 

“You may think I’m overstepping, and I acknowledge that the raising of elven children is beyond my knowledge,” Ruluka ventures. When Adar does not silence her, she says with increased confidence, “From what I have observed, Ibirnessa knows nothing of what goes on between mates, more than once I’ve seen a coarse joke go right over her head. Most of them were instigated by Agralash. As I said, I don’t know what it is to raise an elf, but isn’t she a bit old to not know?”

“Ah,” Adar says awkwardly. He clears his throat, impulsively tugs at his collar, then clears his throat again. He has had this issue in the back of his mind for years now. “I talked to Arradiel about it a long time ago, when Celebrían was at the age when youths usually…gain an interest in such things. Ultimately, we decided that it would be best to wait for her to voice any questions she may have about it and let her mature at her own unique pace. But as of yet, the most curiosity she has ever expressed was when she was very small and asked me how the goat got pregnant.” 

“It’s certainly a sheltered life that she has led,” Ruluka says. There’s a pitch in her tone which indicates envy that her daughters hadn’t gotten the luxury of a similar childhood. It’s the same resentment that Uruks have had against the elves since the beginning, but in this case, the anger has been replaced with a sorrow with which he can sympathize.  

Appearing to shake off her dark thoughts she continues, “I am not saying that you should push her to engage in something that she isn’t prepared for, in that at least there is no question of being too old…just in being ready. If having three girls has taught me anything, it’s that when they are ready, they are the first to know. This is a matter of having some basic facts so that others cannot take advantage, and not just in the physical sense of the word.”

Shoulders hunching, Adar sighs as he continues to eye the house and rubs his face for a moment, “There is wisdom in your words, daughter. Arradiel has been saying the same thing for years now.” 

“Of course she has, Arradiel’s got more sense than most elves,” Ruluka says, and picking up on his hesitance, she pats his shoulder. That in itself is enough to distract him. Before Eregion, no Uruk would have reached out to him, it had been a failing on his part that he had kept aloof, and it comforts him to know that at least some of the mistakes that he made are capable of being mended. “I know that it’s hard for fathers, you should have seen Glûg when Agralash first brought up the subject, he looked like a troll had sat upon him.”   

“As well he should! The whole process of preparing a child for adulthood is terrifying,” Adar says, unable to choke back a laugh at the thought of his son, who faced down Damrod and helped to engineer a coup, being unable to cope with his adolescent daughter’s questions about sex. 

“What is it that you fear?” Ruluka asks. 

Sobering, he speaks with blatant honesty, “That I’ll somehow unknowingly influence my daughter, turning bitter what should be sweet. It is not just the act itself but all the vulnerability that comes with it that can turn disastrous if you attach yourself to the wrong person.”

“That is every parent’s secret worry,” she soothes, “but the best thing you can do is to try and prepare them, give them the space to learn about themselves, and then make sure that they know they will not be left alone to face any mistakes they may make.”   

In the end, that is the crux of it, Adar’s own feelings about the situation don’t matter. Celebrían will live, love, and make mistakes. All he can do is support her. He can try, at least. “Raising a child changes your perspective, it gives you courage where you were once fearful, and instills dread where there was none before.” 

Ruluka nods at the sagacity, “I take it that Arradiel and Oreth will be handling the initial conversation?” 

“Yes,” he confirms, and then laughs at the twin sighs of relief that they both release.

“Not that Ibirnessa is troublesome,” the Uruk is quick to assure him, “I can’t see her squirrelling away her lover under a pile of clothes the way that Agralash did once, as if I wouldn’t notice a grown Uruk trying to conceal herself in a heap of laundry. But I’ve no idea what elves get up to in their bedrolls, and I don’t have much desire to learn.” 

“Fair enough,” he says evenly, “I’ll take Celebrían over to the village once the sun rises, we’ll probably be gone for a few days, she usually needs some time to mull things over and get all the questions out of her system when she learns something new. Can you manage things here?” 

They confer on the practicalities of his absence and then go over plans to start sewing another field of grain. They have become a village in their own right as the years have passed, and one of the many things they now have to take into account is food supply. 

Once he takes his leave of Ruluka, he heads towards his own home and knocks on her door. As is so often the case around dusk, he finds Celebrían dutifully chronicling the events of the past day in a letter to her mother. She’s run through two blank books over the years and is coming close to exhausting her third. Adar thinks with bemusement that Galadriel is going to have a lot of reading to catch up on if she returns. 

“How would you feel about taking a trip to see Arradiel for a few days?” he asks. 

Blinking at him quizzically, Celebrían remarks, “Again? We just got back.” 

“True,” he replies, “but Ruluka helped me realize that I’ve…overlooked something.” 

“We’ve never stayed there overnight with the Uruks before.” Musing, she wonders, “How do you think we can help make things comfortable between them and the villagers? We should probably only bring one or two of the children with us at first. Do you think that Shutha is old enough to be away from home for so long? I would hate to leave her behind. We’ll need to bring extra blankets to block the windows during the daylight hours.” 

Before Celebrían can get too far ahead of herself in planning, he interrupts, “I was thinking that this trip could be for just the two of us.” 

Celebrían considers this, then her face breaks into a small but genuine grin. “It’s been a long time since we’ve spent time together,” she says brightly, “I love my brothers and sisters, but it would be a gift to have you all to myself for a while. Even if it’s just for the journey across the forest.”

“So,” he teases, “there is something that you want for your coming of age.”

Crossing her arms across her chest, she gives a frustrated shake of her head, “Not you too!” she cries. “Honestly, what is the point of a gift if the giver feels compelled to provide it? Rumil compared gifts to an intricate mingling of symmetrical and contrary rights and duties, and while I don’t judge as harshly of all gifts, I am inclined to agree about obligatory ones.” 

“Don’t you think that you’re taking a rather grim view of it?” he asks amusedly. “If I were just listening, I would think that you were old and stolid enough to have been born in Cuiviénen yourself and I seem to remember an elfling that couldn’t wait to wheedle presents out of Medhion.”

“No, I don’t think that I am,” she looks as if she is trying to ward off a headache. “I had to accept a gift from Gworiel last week.” 

“I can’t place her face,” Adar admits.

“The one who always makes those snide comments about your appearance and treats the children like they have some kind of a disease,” she bites out. “Imagine having to accept a gift from her just because I’m another year older, and she wasn’t the only person I loathe who decided to give me a present.”

“At least she hasn’t run off to tell tales to Oropher,” Adar says a little tiredly, as he recalls the elf in question. Not everyone in the village was as comfortable with integration as Medhion and Arradiel, but he has learned to take the small victories in a way that Celebrían can’t manage yet. 

“Only because she wants to tell the villagers ‘I told you so’, she hisses, “decades later and she’s still convinced that you’re going to murder them all in their beds.” 

“Uruks have harmed elves in the past,” he reminds her gently. 

“And elves have harmed Uruks,” she replies. “The whole point of what we are trying to do is to stop the cycle of violence.” 

Tenderly, he takes her face in his hands, “We have spoken of this before, little one. It is not your responsibility to fight my battles for me, not even the bloodless ones.” 

“That does not mean that I like to see you unfairly judged,” she says, pulling away from him and busying herself with re-ordering the items on her desk. It’s another sporadic reminder of her lineage, something that Sauron used to do when he was upset.

“For every Gworiel there is an Arradiel,” he says, walking over to squeeze her shoulders consolingly. 

Giving him a small bump with her elbow, she says, “I know. I just hate having to bite my tongue when those I love are spoken of with ill intent and then suddenly be forced to play nice because I am deemed more acceptable than the rest of my family.”

“Rumil also said something about ‘living today’, didn’t he?” Adar asks pointedly. 

“‘For the past is gone and tomorrow is not yet here’,” she finishes resignedly. 

“Exactly,” he tells her brightly. “Do you need some time to pack? I can meet you at the edge of the clearing.” 

“Alright,” she agrees, surveying her room for any items she deems necessary. “I’ll see you there.”

As he makes his way to the clearing, Adar stumbles upon a young Uruk who is trying to sneak into Ruluka’s house through the front door (to keep the sun out, most Uruk homes don't have windows). They may have been hoping to get by Ruluka while she was busy preparing her young charges for bed, but the ruse fails because a moment later, he hears the Uruk shout, “Agralash, tell your friend that they can visit you at sundown.”

The shamefaced Uruk darts out of the house, while Agralash lingers at the door, the two young women give each other lingering smiles as Ruluka firmly slams the entry closed.

For the sake of Ruluka’s sanity, Adar follows at a discreet distance to make sure the girl actually goes home, and as a result, he ends up meeting his daughter halfway to the clearing. 

When he explains the reason for the delay, Celebrían frowns. “Why doesn’t she want Khaig to spend the day with Agralash? Is she worried that the noise will keep the others up?”

Spluttering, Adar can barely choke out, “Please ask Arradiel.” 

“We’re visiting Arradiel to talk about Khaig and Agralash?” she asks in puzzlement.  

“Among other things.” 

After a long pause, she shakes her head, “What other things?” 

“My terrible misfortune that elven architecture contains so many windows in their designs,” he says flatly, which only adds to her bafflement.

“If you are going to speak nonsense, then I’m going to take the opportunity to sing,” she comments. “I wish the others enjoyed it as much as I do.” 

“You’re winning them over,” he comforts. “Think of all the children who refuse to sleep without a story from Ibirnessa.” 

“Music is different from spoken word. It’s…” She struggles to find the words.  

“More,” he finishes sympathetically. “When I lived in Cuiviénen as one of the Eldar, it used to  transport me in ways that were indescribable.” He can only imagine what it must be like for Celebrían, descended from one of the gods who sang Arda into being.

“Does it still make you feel that way?”   

“Morgoth changed that in me,” he replies with a wince, “but even afterwards, music still had the power to make my skin tingle. I remember Sauron singing as he crafted. I used to sit and watch him work, basking in the song. It was the closest thing that I felt to happiness in the years after my abduction, and at the time, I thought that Sauron was at peace too.” 

When Mair—Sauron had gifted him the sword that he had made with song and fire, Adar truly believed that he had been loved. It stings, because he is recalling from a vantage point and a knowledge that he did not have then. What does it say about him that he still cherishes a memory turned rotten by betrayal?

“They took that from you,” she whispers, “I hate them for that.” 

“Don’t,” he orders her firmly. “Neither of them is worth your hate. Besides, you helped me recover my voice.”

“What do you mean?” she asks. Her eyes widen in understanding, “That night that I got lost in the forest when I was a child. That was the first time that you sang since—”

Pulling her into a one-sided embrace as they walk, he presses a kiss onto her temple, “You gave that back to me,” he declares. “Now, no more melancholy. I want to hear you sing.” 

Looking touched, Celebrían takes up a few of Maglor’s happier tunes, and as always, the world seems to sit up and take notice. The birds mimic her notes, and flowers spring up beneath their feet. 

“Ada,” Celebrían pauses. “Do you recall the very late frost that occurred about twenty years ago?” 

“Yes,” he says after a moment of reflection. Now that she mentions it, Adar does remember the frost that had crept over Eryn Galen. It had stiffened the grass, which had cracked and crunched when they walked the path to the village.  

“You went to see Medhion about improvements to our hearth, and I visited Arradiel.”

Wondering at the odd line of inquiry, he indicates that he remembers the day. Of course, given his comments about elven windows earlier, he supposes that he deserves a little confusion in return. 

“When I met Arradiel, she was in her garden. The frost had withered most of her aeglos blooms, and she was trying to sing them back to wellness. When I sang with her…it startled her. I don’t think that she had ever seen a song have such a strong effect before.”  

Unable to help the spike of anxiety that the statement provokes, Adar’s voice drops. “What did she tell you?” 

She shrugs, “That the blood that ran in my veins was strong and then she cautioned me not to sing before the others. I told her that we had talked about it before, but that caution had been put out of my head in my enthusiasm to help.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“At first, it was because it made me a little nervous,” she admits, “Fëanor was supposed to have great power in his blood. Though I don’t understand how blood can make one powerful. Anyway, the Uruks came soon after, and life got much busier. I just forgot about it. The singing reminded me.”

“On the first count, you need not worry,” he assures her, grateful that she believes her gifts are a result of her elven ties, “there may be a relation between yourself and Fëanor but you have little in common with him besides the stubbornness that all three of Finwë’s lines share.”

With a disgruntled huff, Celebrían says, “I’ll grant you that my Fëanorian relations were hopelessly stubborn, even Celebrimbor at the end. It’s to be expected, Fëanor raised Curufin, who in turn raised Celebrimbor. But that same trait prevented Celebrimbor from giving in to Sauron, so I’m quite proud of him.”   

“See!” he teases. “Your obstinacy can be a boon in the right circumstances.”    

“I refuse to believe that all of my family were like that,” she comments testily, “my uncle Finrod didn’t sound all that headstrong.” 

“Other than the time he tried to out-sing one of the Ainur?” he points out dryly.

“Oh fine,” she gripes. “What about my cousin Findekáno? He was remarkably level-headed.” 

“What?” Adar asks disbelievingly.

Finrod was one thing. For the most part, Galadriel’s brother really had seemed to be a measured person who had the misfortune of becoming caught in circumstance. However, the words ‘Fingon’ and ‘level-headed’ do not belong in the same sentence.

“That isn’t the right descriptor,” she admits. “Perhaps it’s something closer to ‘clear-sighted’? For he was devoted to Maedhros. It made his path clear. Surely a love that is truly felt can only result in purity of purpose?”

It would have hurt less if she had struck him. 

‘Tell her what road your love led you to travel,’ his mind warns him. He viscously shoves the thought away. There is no need to tell his daughter about the nature of his relationship with Sauron.

Aloud, and more harshly than he intended, he snaps, “That same devotion got him killed.” 

Seeing the crestfallen expression on her face, he softens. “Providing that it isn’t in excess, a little stubbornness isn’t always a bad quality. Rescuing Maedhros certainly earned him the epithet of ‘valiant’.” 

They spend the rest of the journey speaking of lighter matters, but a part of Adar can’t help fearing that his daughter may be admiring the dangerous things about her forebears.  

“Do you suppose that it’s alright to check in on them now?” Adar asks Medhion as he watches the elf prod at the scattered pieces of what appears to be a door handle across the table in his smithy. 

Oreth has been sequestered at Arradiel’s house with Celebrían for several hours. 

“I have no idea,” Medhion replies, “I can remember having a talk with my father on the subject when I was younger than Celebrían. I don’t think that it took as long, but that was probably due to my impatience.” 

“Impatience?” 

“By that point, I had met Oreth, she lived with her parents further into the heart of Eryn Galen, my family used to barter with hers,” he says with a smile. “I was more eager for practice than the theory that my father was telling me about. Not that Oreth was convinced by my first clumsy attempts at courtship.” 

“I’m surprised that you had a rocky start,” he comments. “You seem so right together.”

“Thank you,” Medhion replies. “Though we might have had a better go of it in the beginning. I started with poetry, of all things.” 

“Poetry is a bad start?”

“When it’s coming from me, it is,” the elf says ruefully. “I know that not everyone feels this way, but I’ve always thought that poetry was a little overrated. I also thought that Oreth would be easy to win over with a few borrowed words. Instead, she called it nonsense. She was right to do so.”

“Yet you must have convinced her to change her mind?” Adar inquires curiously. 

“In our initial talk, my adar tried to tell me about the importance of honesty. I started listening to him,” Medhion says. “I told her that I cared about her and then backed up my words with actions.” 

“How did you do that?” 

“Her mother loves writing and was constantly gifting Oreth books and scrolls that sat in a pile in her room. So I made her a bookshelf and a desk to put them on.”

“You practice carpentry as well as smithing?” Adar says in surprise. 

“Not if I can help it,” Medhion snorts. “My naneth joked that even if elves used axes, we would never need one, because all I had to do was look and trees would obligingly splinter into pieces. I know, I know—a Silvan who doesn’t do well with wood seems like a paradox, but what can I say? Perhaps, somewhere, there is a Noldor who longs for the deep forests?”

“Maybe it’s for the best?” Adar suggests. “The way that your carpenters have to wait for a tree or a branch to fall down does not seem like something you would enjoy. Not that I am criticizing your practices, it is a custom which my children and I observe in respect of you all.”  

“We appreciate it,” Medhion replies and then laughs. “That was the most miserable project that I ever embarked on, but it convinced Oreth to give me a chance, so I consider it five years well spent. Though she liked my efforts a great deal, I think she appreciated my observation and perseverance even more.” 

“You spent five years making a bookshelf?

“And a desk,” the smith reminds him. “Anyway, at least you won’t have to worry about Celebrían being too impatient to listen. Even if she is a little stubborn at times, she has exercised a better ability to listen in her first fifty years than I did in my first five hundred.” 

“Speaking of Celebrían,” Adar says, “I think I will see how she’s doing. May I return if Arradiel kicks me out?” 

“My door is open,” Medhion replies cheerfully, “and it will remain that way until I can fix the wretched spring on this handle.” 

Adar wishes him luck and then heads out. On the way over, Adar receives the customary mix of reactions: some are friendly, many are neutral, and a few are hostile. Gworiel is among the latter, and he makes it a point to give her a wide berth on the road to avoid her repulsed gaze. 

After giving the door a brisk knock, he walks into the kitchen to find the two nissë quietly talking over cups of tea. 

“Did everything go alright?” he asks, feeling a blush crawl up his face. 

“Well enough,” Arradiel says, “She is in my garden right now. She wanted some time alone to process things. She was a little shocked at first. I don’t think she has bothered to think about the physical side of love.”

“Probably because she’s never given serious thought to romantic love before,” Oreth points out. “When I asked her about her thoughts on it once, she answered like it was something sweet that happens to other people.”    

“Celebrían may never develop an interest; she may love but have a disinterest in the physical expression of it, she could wish for both, or neither,” Arradiel says as she offers him a cup. “All love is complex, romantic love particularly so, and while I am not arrogant enough to claim that it is uncomplicated for other races, elven love can work in odd ways.” 

“How so?” Adar asks curiously. After losing his status as a member of the Eldar, he had mostly tried to ignore the nuances of their cultural practices that did not have some sort of strategic value. Raising Celebrían has changed his stance on the matter.

Oreth answers, “Our slow aging contributes to the strangeness. Couples can wait for centuries before wishing to solidify their bonds, while others seem to know right away. Some pairs have over a thousand years of difference between them and think little of it.”   

“Still, it is seen as inappropriate to form an attachment to one who has not passed their majority,” Arradiel notes. “Indeed, most would advise waiting until they reach at least a hundred years. That is, if one of the elves in question has many years over their intended, things are more lax if the pair are around the same age. I think I remember hearing that Elwing and Eärendil were barely twenty when they wed.” 

“So young!” Oreth gasps. “They hadn’t even reached maturity yet. How could that have been allowed? Elves have nothing but time, we can afford patience.”

“They were Peredhil,” Arradiel comments, “which muddied the issue; their children were born less than a decade later.”

“Ai,” Oreth says despairingly, “that is not enough time to understand oneself, much less be prepared to raise another. Medhion and I have been putting thought into having children for centuries.”  

Due to the difficulty of gaining intelligence towards the end of the first age, Adar is a little shocked to hear of the turbulent childhood that Elrond had experienced. If Adar is calculating things properly, it means that Elrond and his brother couldn’t have been older than six years when their lives were thrown into chaos. Adar can still remember the sadness he had felt when he heard (very belatedly) of what the Oath had driven Maedhros and his remaining brothers to do, for he knew the elf-lord well enough to understand that he must have loathed committing such acts. Not that Adar means to excuse his friend’s actions. Maedhros was as culpable for his sins as Adar is for his own. 

It strikes him that Elrond and Elros' circumstances bore some similarities to Celebrían’s, and he wonders if the twins were left to live uncared for, or if there had been kind hands willing to pick them up and rear them after their mother had been forced to abandon them. No wonder Elrond had been so willing to bring Celebrían to live with him.     

Unable to suppress a slight shudder, Adar grips his cup tightly, letting the warmth of the beverage seep into his hands. It haunts him to think that if he had made a different choice, he never would have known the love of his daughter, and she would have been left to the cruel mercies of a frequently unkind world. He had been so close to losing her without even being able to appreciate what it was he would have lost. The thought leaves him with the need to see her. 

Silently, he reaches out to her, ‘Am I welcome?’

When she opens her mind, Celebrían’s thoughts are a jumble of conflicting impressions, mostly embarrassment and a certain level of inquisitiveness, but beneath that is relief at his presence. ‘Please come,’ she replies.

After dismissing himself from the two elves, who give him encouraging smiles, he walks out the back door. At first glance, Adar sees only the dazzling colors of the garden, he’s grown used to twilight hours and moonlight as he has taken in more of his Uruk children, but when his eyes adjust he finds Celebrían sitting under Arradiel’s lilac tree, arms around her knees as if she were a child again. 

Propping his back up against the trunk, he takes a seat next to her and waits for her to speak. She spends several moments combing out the grass beneath her fingers, smoothing the blades in the same direction, “I’m so foolish!” she finally moans. 

“Don’t disparage yourself,” he tells her, “I have some share in how you’re feeling now. I should have made sure that you had this conversation years ago.” 

“Why didn’t you?” she asks. There is no anger in her tone, only curiosity.

Wincing, he says, “I thought I would have to be the one to tell you and I panicked because I never had to have a discussion like this before. Later, I consulted Arradiel and she offered to guide you. She thought it would be best to wait until you had questions but you never seemed very interested.” 

Burying her face in her knees, Celebrían makes a muffled whining noise, “All that time that you spent talking to me about family and relations, and I didn’t realize…I knew that women bore children and that those children were linked to them by blood, but I never stopped to consider that men had a part to play in it. I need to reevaluate half of the conversations that I’ve had so that I can pick up on what I was too stupid to realize the first time around.” 

“Not half,” he soothes, “probably not even half of half. It’s less important than you’re probably thinking right now.” 

“Many of Agralash’s words are suddenly making a great deal more sense,” she replies accusingly. 

“Well…” he flounders, “she’s a bit of an outlier. Some people just enjoy it more than most, and when you’re keen on something, you tend to want to talk about it. Think of all the time that you’ve spent talking my ears off about Rumil.”

“Those jokes she made about men only being good for one thing!” Celebrían groans in mortification. “I thought she was talking about raising children, and I couldn’t understand why she thought that was funny.” 

“Try not to take it personally, she wasn’t making fun of you,” he assures her.

“Ada, she absolutely was making fun of me, and I’m going to get her back for it. I still can’t believe that I never thought to ask before, I’m so old.  Oreth had this talk with her mother when she was twenty-five, and Arradiel said that Arondir had questions when he was fifteen!”

“Ruluka had some very sage advice about that,” he cuts her off before she can work herself into a rant. “She said that it isn’t a matter of being too old, just in being ready. So the most important thing I will ask is if you feel like you aren’t ready to have this knowledge. There is nothing wrong with you if you say so. We just need to help you find a way to manage if that is the case.” 

Biting her lip, Celebrían takes the time to consider her answer carefully, “I do not mind knowing, and I would rather operate with knowledge than without it. However, I do have questions.”

“Questions that Arradiel and Oreth couldn’t answer?” he asks, shoving back the trepidation that creeps upon him. 

“Not about the physical acts!” she hastens to assure him. Neither of them can quite look the other in the face as she continues, “They told me about those, and they explained consent and emphasized the importance of it between partners.” 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Adar gives a silent prayer of thanks to Nienna for showing him mercy, and then adds another for Arradiel and Oreth. Afterwards he says, “I am always willing to answer your questions.” 

“Thank you. That means a great deal to me.” 

Giving her a teasing bump with his shoulder, he warns, “I cannot say that I will answer them well, but I promise to try.”

Sliding her knees out of their bend, she crosses her arms over her chest as if she were pondering what to say, “You call yourself the Father of the Uruks. I always thought that a father just meant a man who raises you with love, but now I realize that it means something different.”

“That depends on your point of view,” he replies. “I believe that your previous assumptions are accurate. Blood ties are not a requirement of fatherhood. If you consider it, I’m sure that you can think of men who sired children, and yet had no care for them afterwards.”

Eöl, to name one. Fëanor, in his later years. Though she does not know it, Sauron is on that list as well. Not because the Maia would have refused to bring up his child, but because he made himself such a danger that he could never be allowed to raise her.       

“None of the original Uruks were begotten by you?” she asks in surprise. 

“Yet they were still cherished,” he says. “Do you consider them less than family because they are not related to you by blood?” 

Chastised, Celebrían quietly curls into his side, “Of course not, I’m sorry. I know how much you love them.”

Wordlessly, he leans his cheek on the crown of her head to show that he doesn’t hold it against her.  

“Ada,” she whispers, so softly that he almost doesn’t hear her, “you’re not my sire, are you?” 

Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he draws her close, “I wish that I were, you have no idea how much.” Not because their lack of shared blood makes him any less her father, but because of who her blood ties her to, and the sorrow it would bring her if she knew.

From above their heads, a shower of lilac petals descends upon them. Adar thinks about cautioning her, but her face is burrowed against his chest in misery, as if she could hide herself from the world. Her voice is damp with tears when she states, “Then, I am not your daughter.”

Another cloud of blooms fall, dusting their forms. Arradiel and Oreth must have seen through the window because they both appear at the doorway, their faces etched with concern. He signals them to go back inside with a gesture of his hand and then kisses the top of Celebrían’s head, saying  “You are my child. In every way that matters.” 

Arraidel’s eyes widen as she understands the context of the scene they are witnessing, and she quietly closes the door as Celebrían weeps harder. 

Daylight turns to dusk, until only a dim purple light remains to illuminate the sky, and the tree above them is completely bare of blossoms. Thankfully, Arradiel’s backyard opens to the forest and not the road, or they would have faced some awkward inquiries before now. As it is, Celebrían has been allowed to cry, and he is grateful for it. 

“You’re covered in petals. Were they white instead of blue, I would think you had been dusted with snow.” 

Reaching down, he starts to brush at her head and shoulders in a fanning motion. Celebrían gives a small watery laugh and finally raises her head. There are tear tracks on her cheeks and a strain around her eyes, but she attempts a smile, “You’re one to talk,” she says softly, and plucks a petal from his hair. The ground is covered in so thick a layer that only the area where they have been sitting shows hints of grass beneath. 

Looking up, Celebrían laments, “I’m so sorry. Look at what I have done.” From the way that she mournfully strokes the trunk, he can tell that she is apologizing to the tree. 

“There seems to be no lasting harm,” he tries to soothe. 

Shaking her head distractedly, she replies, “Its cycle has been disrupted. I wonder—I think—I can fix this?” She sings a gentle tune in Quenya and then halfway through switches to Sindarin. Celebrían has never deliberately tried to tap into her gifts before, and Adar holds his breath in expectation. Slowly, the leaves brighten to a verdant green and buds return to the branches. 

Releasing a breath, Celebrían leans her cheek against the wood. 

“Are you alright?” Adar asks anxiously. 

“The blood of Finwë,” she muses to herself before looking at him, “I’m fine. Though I’ll need to clean up the mess that I’ve made of Arradiel’s garden.” 

“That can wait until you’ve rested,” he protests. 

“I need to do something with my hands.” Celebrían walks over to the small storage area that holds all of the house’s gardening tools and pulls out a rake. Deftly, she begins gathering the fallen blooms into a pile. Feeling a little useless, Adar finds a sack and starts stuffing the petals that she is gathering inside so that Arradiel can use them for compost later. 

By the time they finish, the moon has risen, and they are covered in sweat. Leaning the sacks against the side of the house, she looks over at him, her expression grave, and after a moment, she says quietly, “Who is my sire?” 

Rising from his crouch, Adar opens his mouth to speak three or four times, but the words simply will not form. He longs to comfort her. He longs to lie and say that her father was an elf from Doriath named Celeborn, or a low man called Halbrand, or someone who doesn’t exist at all. But in spite of the many mistakes that he has made, he cannot tell her a mistruth so monumental and damaging.

“Please do not ask me,” he whispers low enough that she has to step closer to hear him. “I can no more lie than I can tell you the truth. Believe me when I say that his identity has no bearing on who you are as a person.” 

Hesitatingly, she asks, “Will I ever see him?”

“Never.” His throat feels raw from the force with which the word is wrenched out from behind his clenched teeth. He would rather die than let Sauron near her. The fact that so many of his children still live as his slaves makes him want to scream.

Brow furrowing, she stares at him for some time, “When I asked you about my mother, you told me freely and with no restraint. You encouraged me to take pride in being her daughter. Yet you feel that you cannot do the same for my sire.”

“A heavy price comes with the knowledge. I cannot bear to be the one who makes you pay it by telling you.” Fully aware that he is begging now, he repeats, “Please don’t ask.”   

No pleading, no demands. Celebrían simply stares at him, trying her best to understand what he isn’t saying, maintaining steady contact. The full measure of his distress must be visible because she simply says, “Alright Ada, I will not ask.” 

Over the span of the next few weeks, Celebrían adjusts to what she learned (and what she hadn’t), but her silence over the matter leaves him troubled. His daughter has many good qualities and chief among them is an open nature. He usually doesn’t have to guess what she is thinking or feeling because she can be counted on to tell him. 

Today, they are both assisting with laundry. When it comes to establishing any group of people in an area on a long term basis, one of things that is rarely brought up is the most basic question of hygiene. It seems almost bizarre to him that he needed to sit down and discuss creating a laundry schedule with the Uruks. Yet here he is, hanging sheets in the moonlight. 

Bedding is a particularly onerous task due to the size of the material involved and because many Uruks have difficulties with back and shoulder mobility, which makes both washing and hanging linen out to dry burdensome. As a result, Adar and Celebrían fill in with the job several times a month. They are standing in a clearing, sheets hanging from lines strung between poles they had driven into the ground, Shutha helpfully carrying a basket of pins to hand to them, when they hear a loud screech. 

“Where is she?” Agralash’s tone is furious as she storms through the bedding, which flutters in the night breeze. “I’m going to kill her.” 

A figure storms between the lines, and Adar would be more concerned if Celebrían were not grinning widely as she continued her work, unbothered by the demand for her blood. 

“Ibirnessa,” the Uruk growls, “get your scrawny ass out here and face me. Goat dung— in my bed, I just washed my sheets!”

Celebrían gives away their location with a snort of laughter, and the stomping gets nearer. 

Before they are face to face, Agralash is already making threats, “I swear that the next time it snows, I’m going to shove you tits first into the largest bank that I can find. You bitch—” 

Flinging aside a sheet with an impatient movement, she comes face to face with Adar and Shutha instead of Celebrían. Agralash bites off the rest of her threat and toys with the end of the filthy sheet that she has dragged from her home. “Er…hello, Shutha, Adar. Nice night that we’re having.” 

“Indeed,” he says primly as he secures another clothespin onto the line while Shutha stares at them both with wide eyes. Celebrían, standing just to his left, shrieks with laughter. 

“All those sly comments you made about how much you enjoyed dirtying your bed and what a shame it was that mine remained pristine,” his daughter continues in mock innocence. “I only wanted to help you keep your sheets the way that you like them.”

“Someone finally told you?” Agralash asks in a mixture of surprise and relief. 

“No thanks to you,” Celebrían says flatly. 

“Honestly, I wanted to tell you,” Agralash defends, “but my mother threatened to wallop me, she said that I would scar you for life.”

Rolling her eyes, Celebrían relents, “Give me the sheet. I’ll take it to the river and rewash it.” 

“Damn right, you will,” Agralash gripes, “it gives me the creeps.”     

“All water gives you the creeps, you’re an Uruk,” she replies. 

“Better to be a water-lean Uruk than a water-fat tree-shagger!”

“You just accused me of being scrawny.” 

“A tree-shagger, then.” Agralash seems to unbend, “I’ll walk down with you to the river, but I’m not getting in.” 

“Fair enough,” Celebrían says and turns to him, “Ada, did you want me to stay and finish this before I help Agralash?”

“Go on, we’ll be fine,” Adar encourages. He knows that it’s been difficult for Celebrían to grow up without peers. Even if she’s a bit rough around the edges, Agralash is a good friend, unwilling to idolize her the way the young ones do, but also close enough in age to her that she will not view Celebrían as a child in need of guidance. 

Idly, the two chat as they walk in the direction of the water and he can just hear Celebrían ask, “How precisely do you throw someone ‘tits first’?” They share a laugh before they pass out of sight.

Agralash is a good friend but, Doom of the Noldor notwithstanding, he is suddenly very worried about Galadriel returning. She is going to skin him alive when she hears what’s become of her only daughter’s vocabulary. 

Another group of Uruks to meet and relocate. These clandestine meetings are becoming more dangerous as the years pass. Sauron knew that small portions of his army were deserting; he was too clever not to have noticed after all this time, but by some mercy of the Valar, the Maia seems not to know just where his missing vassals are going. Adar suspects that Sauron views the Uruks as little better than beasts of burden. When they leave, he likely views it as something akin to an animal fleeing before the lash of a whip. He doubts that the Dark Lord has ever even considered that his slaves are running towards something. 

It’s the usual assortment: many children and a few scattered adults. Mixed among them is one unexpected face, his son Rugol. It is beyond surprising, Rugol had been old when he last saw him, nearing two hundred years. Given the violent lives that Uruks lead, it was almost unheard of for one to survive for so long. 

In the last conversation that they had, Rugol’s joints had been too swollen and stiff to take part in the siege of Eregion, Adar had come to visit him in his tent, and his son had spent the whole of the time begging him to withdraw them all from Ost-in-Edhil. But Adar had been obsessed with Sauron's return, terrified that his children would be enslaved, too far-gone to listen. He truly had thought that would be the last conversation that they would ever have, to discover that it is not so is an unlooked-for blessing. 

“My child,” Adar whispers. He forces himself to be gentle when he folds Rugol into an embrace, for his son is so small and fragile. 

“There were whispers,” Rugol wheezes out, “of a place where we could live free from the pressure of the Dark Lord's boot upon our backs, they said that our father lived and still cared for us. I didn't know if it was true, but I thought it better to try than die under his grip.”

No wonder the group was so late; journeying to this meeting spot must have taken an excruciating toll on his body. Given the exhaustion that the adults of the group are exhibiting, they must have carried Rugol more than half the way, but no one complains. This is what Sauron never understood, what the elves of Lindon would not believe, what the dwellers in the village of Eryn Galen have only begun to see: the loyalty that his children are capable of demonstrating. 

As is part of their ritual now, Celebrían approaches at his signal, and introductions are made. While they give the Uruks a break from their travels, she quietly pulls him aside, “Ada, the extra time that they needed for their journey has made their supplies run low, and we don’t have enough to supplement for the difference the longer trip will take.” 

 “We will need to forage,” he replies warily. It would increase their chance of being discovered, but there was little that they could do about it. 

Taking the chain that held Nenya off from around her neck, she hands it to him, “Why don’t you guide the rest of the Uruks home, and I’ll stay behind and return with Rugol at a more sedate pace? I can forage for the two of us, and then you will not need to take the risk of stopping to find food for so many.” 

“Perhaps it would be wise to split up,” he says slowly, “but you should be the one to take the larger group ahead.” 

“It has to be you,” Celebrían tells him softly, “these Uruks do not know me yet and have no reason to trust me.”

“Then we all go together,” he declares. 

“This can work,” she urges, “ and it will be safer for all if we proceed as I suggest.” 

Adar wants to protest. As it turns out, Celebrían isn’t expecting a response. She is already making the offer to Rugol, who accepts before Adar knows what is happening. Her features have settled into the stubborn determination that is a mirror of her mother. “This is the best way,” her voice is gentle, “and you cannot shelter me from every danger.” 

Trepidation runs through him like a river. She’s right, but that doesn’t mean that he has to like it. Nor does it do anything to ease the dread that churns in his stomach. He reaches out to brush against her mind and is relieved to find that she is taking this seriously; there is determination and a little anticipatory nervousness. He is less pleased to note that there is also a sliver of excitement. Quickly, he tries to hand Nenya back to her, but she refuses. 

“You will need it more than I will,” she reasons, “I only need to hide one person, you need to cover for the group.”

“Celebrían, you cannot expect me to let you travel without protection,” he protests. 

“I have never used it before,” she counters, “it would not be an asset to me, but it could help you.” Cursing himself he loops the chain back over his neck, slipping the metal beneath his tunic. He knew that Galadriel always meant for her daughter to have the ring but the danger of what it may reveal to her had stopped him from pressing it upon her. 

“Promise me that you will not take any unnecessary risks,” he begs. 

“Of course I won’t,” she vows, “I have no interest in continuing the family tradition of being murdered by despotic Ainur.” 

“That is not comforting,” he complains. 

“Try not to worry so much,” she tells him. “Sauron doesn’t even know that I exist—”

“As far as we know,” he interrupts, “and I would remind you that we have very little information on what knowledge he does and does not possess.”

“We will be careful,” she assures him. “Besides, I’m sure that Rugol won’t let me get into any trouble.” 

“Hmm…I want to get the full picture of her,” the Uruk says, jerking his thumb at Celebrían. “This seems like the best opportunity.” 

With trepidation, Adar leads the bulk of the group forward, keeping his pace slow so that he can keep an eye on them for as long as possible but eventually they trail out of his sight. He spends the rest of the journey sick with fear. 

One very warm evening, about three weeks after their return, Adar is pacing in his home. Celebrían and Rugol have not returned yet, and even with the added time that the old Uruk would have needed to make the crossing, they have long passed the point when they should have arrived. 

Ruluka and her daughter are sitting on chairs nearby, looking anxious as they debate the merits of sending out a search party. Agralash argues, “Look, I know that I’m always having a go at her for looking like she could lose a fight with a wet rag, but seeming isn’t everything. Ibirnessa’s got guts made of army boots, she’ll be fine. We just need to give her more time. Rugol is probably holding her up, he was ancient when I was born and has only added more years to his count since then.”    

Escaping to the open window looking out over the front of the house, Adar drags in a deep breath and tries to calm himself. The darkness beyond the reach of the lamplight and the warm air on his face, help to ground him in the moment. He knows that Agralash has a point and tries to list to himself all the perfectly ordinary things that could have delayed their return. The problem is that each day that has passed without the slightest sign of them has escalated his worries. 

Behind him, he can hear Ruluka repeat amusedly, “Guts made of army boots?”

Agralash snorts, “To match the one that’s lodged up her—” 

While he stands at the window, he hears a voice say, “Ibirnessa!” His breath catches. A silence of some minutes pass before the cry is taken up by others. Adar takes a moment to hide his feelings by bracing himself against the casing before he heads out the door. 

Running quickly in the direction from which the commotion is coming, trying to ignore the thundering in his ears, he enters the clearing with his heart in his throat. Celebrían is holding Rugol’s weight across one shoulder while a group of children surround her, tugging on her clothes and complaining about the misery of taking lessons from Agralash for a whole month.  

From behind him, Agralash says, “I’m never going to teach you lot anything again.”

“Promise?” one voice replies cheekily.

“Don’t say that,” Celebrían chides the boy. “You are lucky to have her instruction. Agralash is very clever.” 

Crowing, Agralash calls out, “You hear that, you ungrateful little shits?” 

By this time, a few adults have joined them and are taking over the job of supporting Rugol. The old Uruk accepts the help with a huff and looks back at Celebrían in grudging approval, commenting, “She’s a good one to have around in a crisis.” 

As yet, Adar has not spoken, being too content to drink in the sight of his daughter who appears dirty and very tired but alive and unharmed. The children are dancing around her in excitement, telling her about everything that she missed while she was gone. However, Rugol’s words draw him out of his relief, and he pointedly asks, “What crisis?”

Giving an exhausted sounding sigh, Celebrían loudly says, “I’m alright, Ada.” Then she throws her arms about him and whispers, “We need to talk.”

Sending the group of welcomers away with the promise of spending time with them the next night, Celebrían gratefully leans against him as they walk home. Once they are safely ensconced inside, he asks again, “What crisis?” 

“On the third day, we ran into a garrison of Uruk soldiers from Mordor,” she replies as she wearily lowers herself into a chair.

“What?”   

“They didn’t see us,” she promises. “That’s why it took us so long to get back. We had to wait them out, and it took ages for them to receive orders to move on. I swear that I didn’t sleep the whole time they were there, and during that time, I came to the realization that I hate spying.”

If Adar tries to think about every part of what Celebrían said, the stress might actually kill him. He decides to pare the information down into small disquieting bits that will hopefully keep his heart from giving out all at once. “How are you feeling?”

Shaking her head dismissively, she says, “I’m tired, hungry, and filthy but otherwise well.”

Somehow, he gets his hands to stop shaking long enough to pour water into a couple of cups for them and finds the resolve to ask his next question with a calm he doesn’t feel. “How close were you to the garrison?” 

Wincing, Celebrían explains, “We got caught on a plain with only a few landmarks for cover. There really wasn’t anywhere to hide, and if we had tried to flee, we would have been spotted, so I got us behind the biggest hill and waited for them to set up camp. Then I had Rugol pitch a tent, and we hid among them.”

Feeling his head spin in panic, Adar hastily takes a seat. “You hid in the middle of a group of troops loyal to Mordor?”

“More at the edges than in the middle,” she offers lamely. Then hastily adds, “I stayed inside, and I kept myself covered.”

Taking a sip of water, he tries to calm himself only to choke when she adds,  “I definitely was always cloaked during the times when I needed to leave the tent.”

Promptly, Adar starts coughing on the liquid. His throat is making a noise that isn’t normal even by Uruk standards. The hand that is holding his cup is spasming without his consent. Celebrían worriedly takes it from his hands and pats his back until the fit passes. 

“What could have possessed you to take a risk like that? They could have killed you.” 

“Sauron hasn’t mobilized on this size before,” she says. “He’s always kept his troops close to Mordor. We needed to know what he was up to, it isn’t just us who could be in danger, it’s the village, the men, the dwarves, and my mother’s people, who are my people too. I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing if it were possible for me to prevent another Eregion from occurring.”  

At any other moment, the memories of Ost-in-Edhil would have silenced him with shame, but he’s so afraid for her right now that the words barely register. “If you had made a wrong move, if even one soldier had gotten suspicious, they would have killed you. It was pure luck that you weren’t caught.”

“But Ada, I wasn’t caught, and now we have information that can save lives,” she raises out of her seat. “I need to go to the village, to get word to Arondir. Lindon has to be told.”  

He speaks before his better judgement can stop him, “I need you to promise me something. If you ever get cornered, tell them the name of your mother.”

Frowning in confusion, Celebrían looks as if she is about to disagree. Adar takes her face in his palms and tugs her close, forcing her to look into his eyes, “Tell them who you are. Do you understand me? He won't kill you.”

Unable to think rationally, Adar completely misses the suspicion in her tone, “She was Sauron’s enemy, she killed more Uruks than any being alive…and you want me to tell them the name of my mother.”

“Yes,” he says firmly. “You will be taken straight to Mordor, but you will be alive.” 

Like a door slamming shut, Celebrían’s face goes blank. The righteous fire bleeds out of her, leaving a bland expression behind. She draws away from him and drops her eyes to her cup. “If that’s what you want.” 

“It is,” he replies, too relieved that she isn’t fighting him on this to question why she is giving up so easily. 

“We still need to get word to Arondir,” she repeats. 

“You’re exhausted,” he tells her. “I’ll go, details won’t be needed at this point, and probably shouldn’t be trusted to a messenger if Sauron is deploying troops. Better just to send a summons to bring Arondir. Hopefully, Arradiel will know where he can be found. Get some rest while I’m gone. I should be back before nightfall tomorrow.” 

“Very well,” she replies calmly. Staring at the table dully, Celebrían traces the grains of the wood beneath her fingers. “Are you going to take Nenya?”

Glancing at the small box on the shelf that holds the ring, Adar considers the question in surprise. It's rare for him to use Nenya for anything other than trips to relocate the Uruks. He can't remember the last time he wore it to visit the village. Then again, Celebrían might not be thinking clearly after the ordeal that she has just gone through. “I shouldn't need it.”

“No”, she comments distantly. “I suppose you will not.”

Before departing, he urges her again to sleep and then heads off at a rapid pace. Perhaps the walk will clear his head. 

By the time he gets to Arradiel’s home, the daze hasn’t faded. A long talk with her would have helped to settle his mind, but he reminds himself that as much as he values her counsel, he should not overtax her kindness. Besides, his message sends a flutter of activity through the village. Arradiel does not know if her son is in Lindon, Elrond’s realm, or has been sent elsewhere, but declares her intention to seek a messenger in the last place that she had word from him. 

After much debate, where Arradiel reminds them all that she was the one who first taught Arondir how to shoot an arrow with deadly accuracy and could take care of herself, she agrees to allow Medhion to accompany her. With the understanding that it’s better to have two messengers instead of one in case of dire circumstances. They part, and Medhion rushes home to pack for their unexpected journey while Arradiel flings open various drawers and cupboards to gather the supplies that they will need. Within a few hours, the two are ready to go, and Oreth has returned with her husband, offering to care for Arradiel’s garden and house while she is away. Then the two elves depart, leaving Adar and Oreth behind to watch their figures slowly disappear into the distance. 

“Why don’t we stop by my home for some tea before you head back?” Oreth suggests, after she sees to the garden and a few housekeeping tasks. “You look done up.” 

“I would appreciate that,” he says gratefully, “it has been a very long month.” By the time that they have walked the path and set the kettle to boiling, he has poured out the whole of the events to her.  

“Looking back,” he muses, “I shouldn’t have come down so hard on her. She seemed unsettled when I left.” 

Oreth hums, “Her actions were done with the most noble of intentions, but she did take an awful risk. Though with her parentage, I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise.”

“In so many ways, she is every inch Galadriel’s daughter,” he bemoans. “Do you know that I once watched her mother take on Sauron with naught but a sword?” 

“They say that the blood of Finwë runs hot,” Oreth admits, “but do not be so quick to dismiss yourself from our little queen’s behavior.” 

“When have I ever encouraged such foolhardiness?” he counters. 

“By merit of your actions. Shall we tally up a list?” Oreth asks in bemusement. “You led a military insurrection against the Dark Lord.” 

“He was experimenting on the Uruks,” he defends. 

“Then there was the creation of Mordor right under the noses of the elves stationed in the Southlands.” 

“Though I wish my actions there undone,” he says, “I would remind you that it was in an effort to give my children a home.” 

“Let us not forget,” she plows forward as if she hadn’t heard him. “You also survived a plot conducted by Sauron specifically designed to end your life at Eregion, and instead of taking refuge in obscurity (which many would have considered the wisest course of action), you immediately absconded with his offspring and successfully began implementing a plan to rob him of his army.”

“Sauron had more goals in mind than simply ending my life at Eregion,” he comments timidly, “and there were several months in between the siege and the time when Galadriel placed Celebrían in my care.” 

Oreth raises a brow at Adar in response, and he wisely stops speaking. 

“My point is,” she says, “that she is as much your child as she is Galadriel’s. Every time you have done something rash, it has been in service to others, and more than anything, that is what makes her your daughter.” 

“Tell me, do you and Arradiel ever tire of being right?” 

The smirk that she gives him over her steaming cup of tea is all the answer that he receives.

“I should head home and talk things out,” he says. 

“Try not to be too hard on her,” she advises, “it really was very bravely done.” 

“The difficulty will be in finding a way to tell her that without encouraging her to act anymore like her mother—or myself—than she already does,” he replies ruefully. 

Collecting his cup, she comforts him, “You will find a way.” 

“You sound more sure of that than I do,” he says wryly. 

“Well,” she laughs, “as you said, I am often correct.” 

“Adar!” Shutha cries when he returns. “Have you seen the Uruk that Ibirnessa brought back? He’s so old!” 

Stooping down to pick up the girl, he smiles, “I have seen Rugol and I suppose he does look rather weather-beaten.”

“Look!” She thrusts a stone, painstakingly carved into the figure of a warg under his nose. It’s so small that when he holds it out for inspection, his palm dwarfs it in comparison. “He said that my adar asked him to give me this. He made it for me especially.”

“Very pretty,” he compliments. “Your father must have worked a long time to get the stone to take that shape, it’s not as malleable as wood.” 

“It has a secret. Look!” Shutha twists hard on the carving. 

“So it does,” he notes, eyeing the change in the figure with interest. It had been cleverly worked. “It’s a credit to your father.”

“I wanted to show Ibirnessa, but she didn’t give lessons tonight.” 

Frowning, Adar states, “That isn’t like her.” 

“Ruluka thinks that she’s tired from her trip and probably needs to rest,” the girl says. “Agralash says she won’t teach us until we learn some gratitude first, so we didn’t have any stories.” 

“Unsurprising,” he snorts. 

“What is gratitude?” Ruluka asks. “Whatever it is, I never want to learn it if it means that I won’t have her teach me anything again.” 

“Gratitude is the same as what you felt when your father sent you this,” he says as he waves the stone warg in her face before returning it to her.     

“For Agralash?” the girl exclaims as she reclaims her prize. “That will never happen.”

“Never is a long time,” he tells her sagely. “Why don’t I see how Celebrían is faring while you tell Ruluka that I have returned?”

Shutha agrees and, with the indefatigable energy of the young, runs off to tell everyone by shouting at the top of her lungs. It’s a far cry from the shyness that she displayed when she first arrived, and the change makes him smile to himself. 

On returning home, he expects to find Celebrían fast asleep or taking a few hours to write to her mother. Instead, he is startled to find her sitting in the same chair that he had left her in; she doesn’t appear to have bathed or even changed clothes. Only a slight alteration of her angle indicates that she moved at all during the day. 

When he had left, the house had been in its usual order. Celebrían is habitually tidy, or rather, she became that way after the tumult of her early childhood had passed.  But you couldn’t discern it from the state of things now. During his absence, a wilderness has crept up from the very earth; brambles with ugly thorns, sharp as knives. 

They creep over everything, spreading tangles over tables and chairs and even wind themselves around Celebrían’s limbs like vines grown over a statue. In the midst of it all, she is staring ahead, lips moving as if she were speaking to someone he can’t see, her words so soft that he cannot hear them despite the quiet that pervades. She doesn’t notice the dry, withered knots that entangle her, not even when the barbs make her bleed.  

Calling her name gets him no answer, though her lips never cease moving. Adar fights his way through the thicket and ignores the way that the thorns rend and piece his flesh. Then he sees it: Nenya glittering on her finger like a trapped star. He’s close enough to hear her now.   

Desperately, he reaches out his mind to hers.  

“Show me the truth,” Celebrían asks of Nenya, and the ring obeys. 

Her vision is dark but in the distance there is a light that burns like an inferno and in the center of the flames is a figure bringing terror and beauty in equal measure. As ancient as creation itself. 

It offers to exchange the misreckoned past for a perfect future. She wants to turn away from the grotesque radiance it exudes, but the pull is irresistible.

“Ash nazg durbatulûk—”

A song, her oldest memory, treasured for all that Celebrían should have been too young to remember, is sung in the distance. In it lies a warning to turn away. With a desperate wrench, she pulls her gaze from the Eye.

There is a pounding that could be a forge-hammer or the sound of her own heart. Her much-wondered-about mother is standing far away, sword in hand. Celebrían wants to follow, wants to see her mother’s face, but the path is barred. 

“Ash nazg gimbatul—”

Behind her, something whispers beguilingly. Celebrían runs, heedless of the direction, knowing that she must not look back. She stumbles on the roots of a holly tree, and as she gazes up into its branches, she spots an elf in a beautifully wrought golden cage. He is bedecked in jewels, but his face is unbearably sad. When she looks closely, she can see that the jewels form chains that shackle him. Clawing at his confinements has left his fingers a bloody mess, all but one, which is missing entirely, and hemorrhaging sluggishly from its stump. Try as she might, she cannot reach him. Through his tears, he silently urges on her flight. 

“Ash nazg thrakatulûk—”

Where is her father? Never before has she wanted to see him so badly. Kneeling, she closes her eyes and covers her ears in a desperate attempt to block out deafening hammer-blows. When she opens them she finds a silver basin filled with crystal clear water. Looking into its depths, she spies her reflection: all of them.  

She sees herself as a child.  

As a woman with scars on her face. 

A warrior, spitting a challenge through the bloodied and elongated teeth of an animal. 

Now, she lies naked and unashamed, entwined in the arms of an elf whose face shines with the light of summer and the dark depths of Doriath. 

One reflection sings joyfully. 

Another weeps tears of blood.

Oh— she does not want this. Where is her father? He will make it stop.  

The last image is the most ghastly and the most beautiful. 

In the water, she sees herself wearing a crown made of echoed screams. Her form and purpose are cruelly perfect. Too perfect. Celebrían realizes that she is wearing a mask that mimics her appearance. Pulling does no good; it is adhered to her flesh. She claws at it in desperation, disregarding the pain and the gore that stream down her neck as she rips it away. Beneath the ruin, she discovers another face. It has been waiting patiently to emerge from beneath her skin and consuming her from the inside out. 

Her father is already here—he always has been—whispering through her blood. How deep has it taken root? Is there anything of herself left? The reflection in the basin, which both is and isn’t her, leans close and finishes the verse as if it were a foregone conclusion:

“Agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.”

And in the darkness bind them. 

Forcibly, Adar rips the ring off of Celebrían’s hand.

“Too late,” she murmurs as tears spill down her cheeks. “The mirror looked into me. It showed me myself, and it showed me my face. It was Sauron’s face." 

Adar gives serious thought to tossing Nenya into a swift moving river. Surprisingly, it is Celebrían who rejects the idea, “I asked her for the truth,” she tells him. “I can hardly be angry with the ring for giving me what I want just because I dislike the answer that I receive.” 

His daughter has been so dispirited ever since she learned that Sauron is her sire that Adar obliges her wish out of sheer relief at seeing some animation return to her person, but she quickly settles back behind a wall of silence. He wishes that she would cry, scream, or rage instead of falling into steely detachment.

Not that it is readily apparent. It is clear that she is trying very hard to behave outwardly as if nothing has happened to destroy her world. The changes are small, she stops arguing (which leaves Agralash looking almost comically disappointed), she no longer sings, and most tellingly, she completely stops writing to her mother. Usually, he would be the one to engage her in the conversation that she needs to move out of her troubles, but in these past few weeks, he has felt frozen and helpless. 

If only Arradiel were there, she might be able to get Celebrían to open up, but the elf has not yet returned from her journey. He knows she hasn’t returned because Celebrían checks in at the village nearly every day. When Adar questions her about it, she only replies, “The situation is more urgent than we originally believed.”

More than that, she will not say, but sometimes he finds her tracing the contours of Nenya with a haunted expression. She has yet to wear it since he pulled it off her finger.

A storm threatens, and though no water falls upon the land yet, black clouds darken the skies and prevent either of them from traveling to the village. Overcast days always engender a certain level of merriment among the Uruks, not unlike elven festivals. The promise of reprieve from the burning rays of the sun prompts parents to let their children run a little wild and ignore the set patterns of sleep that usually confine them. Chores are left undone, and everyone enjoys the novelty of walking about during the daytime hours. One of the biggest sacrifices that his children made upon abandoning Mordor was freedom of movement, and Adar is taking the time to appreciate the moment when he spots Arradiel, Medhion, and Arrondir approaching.  

There is much whispering among the Uruks upon their approach. None of the elves have ever cared to visit their part of the forest before (not since they have taken residence), though all know the way to find them. A mutual disclosing of locations had been a requirement of the accords that he had drawn up with the villagers. However, Arradiel and Medhion are well known to most of them by now, and because they have always shown them kindness, they receive respect in return. 

A few of the children are tugging at Medhion and asking him if he has brought them toys, which makes the smith laugh and promise to provide them with some the next time he sees them. Arradiel makes enquiries with a few of the mothers that she is familiar with about the well-being of their offspring. Arondir is staring at the scene as if he has never seen anything like it before. When a boy compliments him on his impressive bow and arrow set, the elf jumps in surprise before offering awkward thanks. 

“How come he gets to have weapons?” 

Another feature of the compromise between himself and the villagers was that neither side would visit the other armed. Arondir is technically breaking the accords, but then, he wasn’t present when they were agreed upon. Celebrían sends the child off with a message for Ruluka and Agralash to join them. Soon enough, mother and daughter appear, looking curious as they are ushered inside.

Once the door is closed, Celebrían gets straight to the point: “What news from Lindon?” 

“The High King has consulted with Círdan and Elrond, and all agree that a great change is coming, but the nature of that change is blocked from their sight.” Arondir looks hesitantly at the two Uruks.

“He won’t let them see,” Celebrían replies, and Adar stiffens; this is the first time that either of them has hazarded speaking of Sauron. She deliberately avoids his gaze.

“How is that possible? Gil-Galad possesses…” Arondir trails off. 

“A ring of power?” Celebrían asks blandly. “Yes, I know. There is another elf, I think his name is Círdan, who has one as well. ”

“Do not speak of such things before—” he hisses.

“Before people who have as much to lose as anyone in this room?” she snaps.

“People who have given their allegiance to Sauron in the past,” Arondir says trying to control his temper and be reasonable. 

“They broke that alliance when they chose to come here.” Celebrían cries. “The refusal to serve him puts them unalterably against him because he will never forgive them for it. If he were to discover our little refuge here, he would slaughter every last one of them. You once told me how uncomfortable it made you when your fellow soldiers would hold the people of the Southlands with suspicion and contempt. Can you not see the similarities? I know that Uruks have given you great pain, but will you condemn an entire race down to the last child to soothe it?”

Arrondir’s head snaps up as if the last sentence had wounded him. His lips form a silent ‘No’. 

“Then you are who I always thought you to be,” she replies, “and I am glad of it, for recently the whole of the world was beginning to seem a mighty stranger in my eyes.”

Some of the tension drains out of Arrondir, “I am a soldier,” he says, “I do not have permission to share this kind of information.”

“Fair enough,” she replies. “I will share it, and then I will go before the High King myself to admit what I have done and accept whatever punishment he deems fit. You can leave if you choose, but wouldn’t you rather report what I am about to say? For I can assure you that I plan on speaking it, whether you are here or not.” 

Resignedly, Arondir agrees. “Very well. If you are intent on this path, let me ask a question. What makes you think that Lord Círdan possesses a ring?”  

At this, the elf sends an accusatory look at Adar, who holds his hands up defensively, “I knew that there were three rings and that Galadriel held Nenya, I guessed that the High King might have the second, it just made sense. But I had no idea that Círdan possessed the third…I thought it might have been given to Elrond. I’ve only heard the Mariner’s name spoken in passing and never in conjunction with the Three.”  

“Then how did you come to possess this knowledge?” Arondir presses Celebrían.

“Nenya told me.”

Ruluka grunts in surprise, “You donned the ring?”

“No wonder you’ve been acting like someone shit in your porridge,” Agralash comments, which earns her an elbow in the side from her mother. 

“Is it so obvious?” Celebrían asks in a small voice. 

“Please,” the Uruk says with an eye roll, “you’ve not been subtle.”  

“What else did you learn from it?” Medhion interrupts.

“Less than I needed and more than I wanted.” Staring hard at their three visitors, Celebrían’s voice turns accusatory, “You already know. How long have you known?” 

“They found out on the day that you first met Arondir,” Adar tells her. “Do not blame them. I was the one who pressed them to keep silent.” 

Outside, thunder rumbles. In the distance, Adar can hear the young ones exclaim loudly in a mix of fear and excitement at the noise.

“Who else knows?” 

“Oreth,” Medhion says. “I’m sorry, I never could keep a secret from my wife.” His words earn a tiny smile from Celebrían. 

“The High King knows as well,” Arradiel adds. “So do the Lords Círdan and Elrond.” 

“I see,” her tone is unreadable.

“Know what?” Agralash yells in frustration. “Just spit it out already!”

“My sire is Sauron,” Celebrían replies emotionlessly. A simple sentence for an ugly truth.

Ruluka appears speechless and only reacts with a widening of her eyes. Agralash, whom Adar suspects has never once been lost for words, has a more ready response.

“Fuck,” she says emphatically. 

Unable to reply, Celebrían settles for staring at the floor, which prompts the Uruk to add, “Look, that isn’t your fault. More than one Uruk has a parent that they can’t stand. Just ask Nargash what she thinks of her sire—only make sure you’re not in swinging distance at the time—anyway, the point is, it just makes you one of us even more than you already were.” 

A little of the tension bleeds out of Celebrían at the assurance, and she stares at Agralash in quiet contemplation.

Laying a hand on her shoulder, Arondir interrupts her reverie gently, “I am sorry for the pain you must be feeling, and I wish that I could give you the time to settle into this burden, but events move against us. Sauron moves against us. I need to know what you have learned.” 

Steeling herself, Celebrían inhales deeply and then nods. “He will go for Númenor first.” 

“Yes,” Arondir agrees. “Gil-Galad and Elrond thought that he might. If only to keep his enemies from allying.” 

Another crack of thunder is followed by a flash of lightning that illuminates Celebrían’s face when she replies, “Sauron plans on losing.”

Many voices sound at once: 

“What?”

“Did you overhear that in the garrison?”

“Why would he want to lose?” 

Her features show a flicker of uncertainty: “I do not know what benefit he could gain, but I do know that he has no plans of winning the upcoming battle.”

“How do you know?” Arrondir asks, not disbelievingly but grimly. “Did his soldiers speak of it?”

“No, I don’t think that he would discuss his plans with his slaves,” her voice hardens in disgust. “However, he is not giving them the supplies or troops that they would need to win. He thinks that they are too stupid to notice, but of course they have.”

“Some of us always notice,” Ruluka comments. “But the ones who pointed such things out early on had a way of ending up dead. After a while, we learned to keep our mouths shut in front of him.”

“Perhaps he reckons on sending another garrison and hasn’t shared that information with the Uruks that you spied upon?” Medhion asks. “As you said, he is not eager to place trust in his...”

“Slaves? You might as well say it,” Ruluka says. “It is the truth.” 

“It isn’t for you,” Celebrían replies. “Not anymore. Never again.”

“Ibirnessa,” the Uruk reaches out to touch a strand of her bright hair. “I never thought to hear such words from an elf.” Then she shakes herself, “I’m diverting the discussion. Medhion is right, it would not be unusual for Sauron to keep the movement of one group of troops secret from another.”

“Maybe not,” Celebrían admits. “But I’ll tell you something else. He has given instructions on what they are to do during a prolonged absence that he plans on taking right after the battle. It seems to me that he wants to be captured by the Númenorians. Again, I have no idea why he would want to be led there as a captive.” 

Closing his eyes, Arondir wearily answers, “Because Númenor is riddled with civil strife at the moment, and is ripe to fall from within.” 

“Of course,” Arradiel says with a dawning understanding. “The Deceiver would present himself as a prisoner, but would never stay that way. If he could charm Celebrimbor and Galadriel, he could charm anyone.” 

Adar doesn’t miss the way that Celebrían flinches at her mother’s name. He senses a slight fraying in her detached exterior. He wants to pull on that thread and release his daughter from its tangled web, but before he can say anything, Celebrían soldiers on. 

“There is more to it than Númenor,” she turns to Arondir. “You mentioned it when you asked me about Gil-Galad’s sight being blocked, but you never followed through with the thought.” 

They all still. 

“Wait,” Arradiel questioningly turns to her son. “How did he manage to manipulate the power of the elven rings? I was given to understand that Sauron had no influence on them.”

“Galadriel believed it,” Arondir confirms, “Círdan believes it, and even Gil-Galad believes it.” 

“They were all deceived,” Celebrían says flatly. “Nenya knows, it’s part of what she showed me. I assume that the other two rings know as well. Eventually, the bearers would have figured it out on their own, I think that I am just speeding up the revelation.”

“Sauron never touched them,” Arondir says desperately. “Galadriel swore that he didn’t. Do not tell me that she lied.” 

“I don’t think that she did,” Celebrían soothes, “just because he didn’t touch them doesn’t mean that he never influenced their creation.” 

“Celebrimbor,” Medhion guesses. “It is said that the Lord of Eregion welcomed Sauron and gave him his trust. Just how close were they?”

“Very close,” Celebrían concludes. “Close enough to influence a vulnerability during the creation of the rings. A flaw that a loving heart would not think to perceive.” 

“Do you think that Celebrimbor was in love with…” Medhion trails off in horror and pity. “Ai, what strength it must have taken to refuse Sauron at the end.”     

An ache of sympathy runs through Adar. He is in a unique position to understand the storm of guilt, fear, and love that comes attached to trusting the Dark Lord with your heart. That Adar compounded the tragedy by destroying Celebrimbor’s city makes him want to curl up in shame. If Maedhros still lived, the elf would never have forgiven him for it. 

“Listen,” Agralash says. “This has all gone beyond me. Why exactly is the making of rings so important?” 

“That is exactly the question that nobody has asked,” Celebrían exclaims. “I told the children that you were wise, and this proves it.” 

“Too true,” the Uruk gives her a self-important smirk. “Now explain exactly why I’m so smart.” 

“The explanation is clear enough,” Arondir says. “Though he lied to Celebrimbor, telling him they were meant to save the other races from the decay of Middle Earth the way the elven rings had done, the real reason was to sow discord and ruin. Look at what he has done with the Dwarven rings, and Valar only knows what effects the Rings of Men will have on their bearers.”

“You have all been operating under the assumption that he and Morgoth have the same goals,” Celebrían returns. “It seems true enough that Morgoth reveled in disorder, but that is not Sauron’s way. Nenya revealed that to me as clear as day.” 

“What does he want if not chaos?” Medhion perplexedly asks.

“Order,” Adar breathes sharply. “Above all things, he seeks order and perfection.” 

Ruluka frowns. “What does that have to do with the making of rings?”

“Even a Maia’s power can only stretch so far,” Celebrían points out. “Think of Melian, she too was one of the Maiar. I doubt she could have made her girdle wide enough to encircle the whole of Middle Earth the way that the Valar protect all of Aman.” 

“Right, a Vala is stronger than a Maia,” Agralash says, “however, this Maia does want to control the entirety of these lands. So, how are the rings meant to help him gain that mastery?”  

“Think of the rings like pins on a map,” Celebrían suggests. “The pins are placed in strategic locations, given to specific people, throughout all of Middle Earth and each pin has a string that leads to the same source.” 

“And that source is Sauron,” Agralash bites out. “Wonderful, he looks to stand with one foot in Númenor and the other in Rhûn. What exactly have the Valar been doing while their renegade Maia has been positioning himself to piss all over Middle Earth?”

“Thank you for that metaphor,” Celebrían says dryly. 

“Seriously,” Argalash insists, “I get that they never gave a damn about us Uruks, but aren’t they supposed to be fond of elves?”

“They went to war before,” Arondir interjects, “now all of Belariand dwells in Ulmo’s depths.” 

“So their solution is to do nothing instead?” Agralash snaps hotly. “Not even to tell us what Sauron is planning? They must know, but they’re leaving us to try and figure it out for ourselves.” 

Half-expecting another flare-up of temper from Arondir, Adar is surprised when the elf only looks sad. “There are many choices that Ilúvatar makes which remain a mystery to wiser elves than myself. I wish I had answers to give you.” 

Privately, Adar wonders if the elf is thinking about Bronwyn. When elves die, their souls depart to Mandos to await rebirth in a new body, but the fate of men remains unknown. Just as it does for the Uruks. He understands the agony that comes with not knowing. 

“You and me both,” Agralash sighs. The two fall into a mutual contemplative silence. 

“Say that Sauron has created the rings, or at least influenced them, with a flaw,” Medhion says. “It would follow that the flaw he had in mind was to make the rings susceptible to his will.” 

“The rings and their bearers,” Celebrían agrees.

“Yes,” the smith muses, “but that would still imply that Sauron could control all the rings. Maiar he may be, but he cannot position himself to dwell in nineteen places at the same time. It would require—”

“Nineteen seems such an uneven number for a perfectionist like the Dark Lord,” Celebrían comments grimly. 

“A binding agent,” Medion finishes, “another ring—a ruling ring.” 

“One ring to rule them all,” she whispers with a shudder. Something about the phrase makes his skin crawl, and judging from the faces of those around him, he is not the only one to feel this way. Celebrían continues, “Make no mistake, if he creates his master ring, there will be nowhere to hide.”

“Then the rings should be destroyed,” Arradiel says, and at her side, Ruluka agrees with the sensibility of the suggestion. 

“Others have tried,” Arondir tells them. “King Durin—that is the new King Durin—distrusted the dwarven rings and exhausted every avenue trying to unmake them. Nothing worked, and in the end, he was forced to disperse them among his people or risk open war among the Longbeards.”

“If I were Celebrimbor, and I had just discovered who Annatar truly was,” Medhion adds, “the first thing that I would have done is try and destroy them. If the greatest of elven smiths and the best of Durin’s Folk could not find a way, then it may not exist. But all hope is not lost, as we have just discussed, Sauron’s power is mighty, but not without its limitations.”

Agralash perks up, “What limitations are those?” 

“I’m not knowledgeable about this kind of crafting. All that I aspire to make are things of much use and a little bit of beauty,” the smith begins. “That being said, it seems to me that the power that would be needed to drive a ring of this magnitude may not exist in Middle Earth. For the life of me, I can’t even figure out how Celebrimbor managed to source the other nineteen. Then again, the line of  Fëanor was always full of surprises.”

“It may buy us a little time,” Celebrían says. “However, we cannot trust that he will be delayed forever. Sauron will eventually find a way to power his ring, and Númenor is still in great danger. Which is why I need to go to Lindon.” 

“Why can’t Arondir deliver the message?” Agralash asks. 

“Several reasons,” she replies. “For one, Arondir may get in a great deal of trouble if the High King believes that he divulged knowledge about the rings. For another, the information about Númenor is solid, but everything else that we have just spoken of could be viewed as pure conjecture. If we want Gil-Galad to believe us, then he and Círdan may need help discovering the vulnerability in their rings, and I can show them where to look. Finally…” 

“Finally…?” Arradiel encourages. 

“Sauron knows that Nenya has found another bearer,” she hesitates and risks a glance in his direction. “He saw me, and if I stay, I may put everyone here in jeopardy.” 

‘Not yours.’ 

A scream of despair winds its way through Adar, rushing through his lungs before perching in his throat with a rattling moan. 

‘Not yours’, the voice sounds the same as it did on the peaks above Ost-in-Edhil. 

During his darker moments, he has thought of it. What would have happened if Galadriel hadn’t saved him? It’s so easy to imagine his body sprawled in a halo of black blood. Left to rot, like he should have been on another mountain top. Because Mairon Sauron hadn’t cared enough to bury him, and his children—

‘Not yours.’ 

For so long he had only had his children, and then suddenly he did not have even that, he had prayed for death to come swiftly. The knowledge that he had failed, so completely as to have been abandoned, left him feeling terribly lonely, even the uncertain fate of the Uruks souls after death seemed a kindness in comparison.

‘Never yours.’ 

“Ada breathe,” Celebrían begs. Adar inhales in a series of jerky spasms and finds himself curled up on the floor. She shouldn’t be seeing him like this: shivering, teary-eyed, and too weak to stay standing. A broken being who has never been able to stop the people that he loves from leaving him. Vaguely, he thinks that he should be embarrassed to be brought to this state in front of so many others. But at the moment, he cannot work up the energy, and a glance at their faces reveals concern, not mockery. Not like—he quickly thrusts the memory of Sauron’s gloating visage away. 

“He knows.” 

“Not that,” she assures him. “Sauron saw that someone wears Nenya, but he didn’t find out that he is—that I am—he doesn’t know. The ring protected me, just as the other elven rings strive to protect their bearers. That is one boon that we have amid all this mess, a gift that Celebrimbor gave us, and I bless him for it. The Three do not want to be controlled by the Dark Lord.” 

“Why didn’t Sauron see Adar when he wore it?” Agralash asks while still darting anxious glances at him. Like she is worried that he will relapse into the jittery wreck that he had been a few moments ago. 

“I’m probably not skilled at protecting my thoughts,” Celebrían admits, sounding uncertain, “I never had to in the past.” 

“Or Nenya resonated more strongly with you because you are an elf. The Three were designed to work in conjunction with the Eldar. She wanted to be worn by you, I could feel it,” Adar rasps.

“Does anybody else recognize how insane it is that a piece of jewelry has an opinion about who wears it?” Agralash blurts, “Or is it just me?” 

Ruluka nudges Arradiel and points at a wooden spoon that the elf is standing near. Confused, she passes it to Ruluka, who promptly swats her daughter with it, “You are not helping.” 

Once she has ascertained that he is lucid enough to have a conversation, Celebrían pulls away. “I should start preparing for the journey. Do you need some time to rest, Arondir? You must have come a long way.” 

“We should wait until the storm passes,” the elf says. As if to emphasize his point, another bolt illuminates the sky outside the windows. “I will be rested enough by the time it is over.” 

“You’re leaving? Even after…” Agralash waves a hand at Adar, who has only just managed to maneuver into a sitting position. 

“Danger lingers here as long as I do,” Celebrían replies rigidly, “and even if Sauron did not know about me. How can I remain?” 

“What does that mean?”

Instead of answering, Celebrían walks into her room and closes the door. Arradiel watches her retreat with a troubled countenance before she leans down to offer Adar a hand up. Medhion comes to his side to assist him in making it to a chair. 

“Would you and your daughter mind giving us a few minutes of privacy, Ruluka?” Arradiel asks as she pours out a cup of water and places it before him. 

“Right,” the Uruk gives her a sage nod and starts ushering Agralash outside. “Let’s go make sure that none of the sprogs have run into the clearing with all this lightning flashing about.” 

“You do realize that means we will be going to the clearing with all this lightning flashing about?” 

“None of your lip,” Ruluka gripes on the way out. 

Arondir also heads for the door in an effort to give them space. Once it closes, the elf turns to him. “Has it been like this between you since she found out?” 

“That was more than she has spoken to me in weeks,” Adar says tiredly. 

She looks at him searchingly for a long time, “You do know that you are Celebrían’s father?” 

“Of course,” his response is instantaneous and uttered with solemn conviction. 

“Good,” she reaches out to grasp his hands. “Celebrían loves you, and I know that you are aware of this, but I think it bears saying again—you are the man that raised her. You are her family. That’s not in question, nor will it ever be. ” 

Against his will, he chokes out, “Will it?” 

That seems to pain Arradiel, “You can’t assume that someday Celebrían will wake up and decide that she doesn’t want you for a parent anymore. If you think that way, she will pick up on it—she has picked up on it—that is part of the reason why she is drawing away from you now.” 

“But— “ 

“Galadriel could return from Mandos and want to have a place in her life, but that doesn’t mean that you will lose your place in it. Besides, that isn’t really what you are afraid of, is it? Given all that he has done, I know it’s hard to believe right now, but Celebrían would not willingly choose Sauron over you.”

“Sauron took everything from me: my mind, my body, my very identity.” Adar leaves ‘my love’ unsaid, “until all that I had left was my children…then he took them too.” 

“Now he threatens to take away another child,” Medhion murmurs sympathetically. “Your only remaining child.” 

“The Uruks are still my children; they made a mistake in joining Sauron, but I do not condemn them for it. I well know how easy it is to be deceived by him, nor am I blameless in their choices,” Adar protests. “Though in one thing you are right, Celebrían was the only child he hadn’t torn from me. Until now.”

“Let me ask you a question,” Arradiel softly interjects. “If you were allowed to return to Sauron, to have things back to the way that they once were between you, and the price of that return was Celebrían. Would you make the sacrifice?” 

“Never,” Adar recoils in horror. “You wrong me by ever thinking that I would do something like that.” 

“Yet you wrong her by assuming that she would make a different choice about you.” 

“It’s different—I’m not—” he stumbles over his words. 

“Not what?” she asks. Arradiel’s voice is soft and inviting of confidence, “Not worthy of being loved? You are wrong.” 

“Stop,” he begs. 

“You are worthy of love, Adar,” she says again as if it isn’t the most devastating thing that he’s ever been told.

“Then why do they all leave?” the words come out in a thin wail.  

“The choices of others bear no reflection on you being deserving.” Medhion places a hand on his back, “I know a little about love. No one who cares for his children as deeply as you do could be unworthy of it.” 

“I can’t,” Adar gasps, holding Arradiel's hands in a death grip. He tries to focus on her fingers, but his vision blurs. “I can’t—I’m sorry—I can’t—“ 

“Of course you can believe it.” She tugs him forward until his head is resting against her neck. It makes him feel like the child that he never got to be, held safely in his mother's arms. She doesn’t let go, not even when his breath chokes and hitches with tears. Behind him, Medhion rubs slow circles on his back. 

“I want to,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, something to be kept hidden lest it be snatched away. He desperately wants to talk to Celebrían, but he is just so tired. 

Arradiel notices him fighting to stay conscious, and says, “We’ll keep her here until you wake up. Don’t worry.” 

The sound of pelting rain draws him from his rest. The storm must have finally released the deluge that it had been threatening all day. With his head buried in his arms, his cheek half pressed against the table, he thinks that it must not have been long since he fell asleep, because Arradiel and Medhion are still seated around him. 

Despite the weather, everything feels warm and cosy. Adar briefly considers going back to sleep. Having to deal with everything that he has just experienced seems exhausting, and while rest has helped to ease his panic, the anxiety has not completely dissipated. It would be so simple to let himself drift off again, but his neck is beginning to get uncomfortable, and more importantly, his daughter is somewhere in this house in pain. 

After handing him a cup full of water, Arradiel watches him slowly sip the liquid until he can speak without difficulty, “How long was I asleep?” 

“A little over an hour.” The elf eyes him critically, “Resting has done you well.” 

“It has,” he agrees, stretching a bit to work the knots out from remaining hunched over in a strange position. 

“Are you feeling up to talking to Celebrían?” she asks. “It will do neither of you any good if you are too weary or heart-sick to have an honest conversation.” 

“Well enough,” he tells her. “I promise that if either of us becomes upset, I will stop and give us both a break. Speaking of breaks, you’ve just come off a long journey, you should be getting some rest yourself.” 

“I will remain until my son departs,” Arradiel says. Adar, who knows how hard it is to watch a child continually march into danger and has had to do the same often enough, does not press her further.  

According to Arradiel, Celebrían hadn’t left her room in the time that he had been asleep. He knocks, but there is no answer, he gives another knock, “Do you plan on locking yourself away in the confines of your room until you leave?”

After getting silence in response, he continues, “I can talk to you just as easily through the door, but I would like to see your face.”

The quiet has a sharp and desperate edge to it, but he soldiers on, “Celebrían, silence has created a  breach between us where there never has been one before. I am afraid if we do not speak now, that we will not find a way out of the break.” 

Soft footsteps sound, and her door opens a crack. Adar breathes a sigh of relief and slips into her room. Celebrían tries to busy herself with packing, but from the look of the satchels piled on the bed, it’s clear that most of the work is already done. To escape his worried stare, she turns to the journal sitting closed on her table, running her fingers lightly over the embossment on the cover. “Aren’t you going to take it with you?” 

She shakes her head. 

“Why not?” he asks. “I think that your mother would like to hear about your journey to Lindon.” 

Celebrían’s whole body recoils, and he realizes that without meaning to, his words have driven right into the heart of her deepest agonies. “How can I ever speak to her?”

Her breathing takes on a ragged and breathy cadence as wounds that she has been valiantly trying to ignore these past few weeks break open. She clenches her hands into fists, he can see her fingernails bite into her skin as she tries to use the pain to distract from her turmoil. It must not work because she squeezes tighter and tighter until he reaches over to pry her hands open before she can draw blood.

“Are you with me?” Adar asks, stroking the deep indents upon her palms. Celebrían stares at him in confusion, as if she were uncertain when he had gotten so close. She blinks at her hands.

“W-What did he do to her?” Forcing herself to look at him, she whispers, “You said—everyone said—that she was his greatest enemy. She never would have consented to such a union. How can I bear knowing that I am born of…” she trails off, unable to bring herself to say the word. 

Oh. Adar had never thought about it in quite that way before, hadn’t considered how it would appear to Celebrían.

“You know that Sauron can change his face and form,” he begins carefully. When she nods, he goes on, “At the time that your mother…knew him, he had taken the guise of an Edain. He called himself Halbrand, a smith, and the so-called heir to the Southlands. I think that in her own way, she cared for Halbrand, though it turned out to be a deception.”  

“If she did not know who he truly was,” Celebrían bites out, “then she could not consent.” 

“No,” he admits. “Still, that has no bearing on you.” 

“Yes, it does!” she hisses. “I am a reminder of what he did to her.”

“Don’t you think you should allow her to decide what she can or cannot handle?” he asks gently. 

“But—”

“Your mother was in the vision that Nenya showed you,” Adar holds out the ring. “Let’s see if we can find her again.” 

Adar’s not sure if he is acting wisely, but his daughter needs this or she’ll never be able to move on, and she seemed certain that Nenya was determined to protect her identity. With that knowledge, he taps on her mind and Celebrían invites him in. She hesitates for a long moment before sliding the ring onto her finger.  

Galadriel’s eyes drift over her daughter's face, trying to drink in every feature as she nurses. Her expression is one of tenderness as she sings to the tiny bundle in her arms. It’s a simple song from days long past in the beauty of Valinor. 

As she presses close to her child, she can feel her body dying as Sauron’s poison claws a path to her heart. It’s not the glorious end that she had expected to find. Not the diminishing that would have occurred on a boat west, or battle and the clanging of steel. She has exchanged both paths for the tiny being holding onto her with a strength that belies her size. 

All the guises that she had worn throughout the years: the unbloodied exile, the hardened warrior, the lady of light, and the mother of hope. They are there, right up to the end. All that she has ever been survives within her, and now, through her daughter, nothing will extinguish. After her song closes, she whispers, "I love you."

Giving a quiet sob, Celebrían pulls out of the memory and tries to step away, but he keeps her in place with a gentle clasp around her shoulders, “I don’t know what Galadriel did or didn’t feel about her relationship with Sauron. Because at the end she had the strength only to say what was most important to her, and above all, she desired for you to know how fiercely she loved you.” 

“All this time,” she whispers. “I thought that I was helping you heal from the pain that he caused, but it turns out that my existence has been pouring salt into every wound that monster has ever dealt you. How can you stand the sight of me?”  

Adar gently removes one of his hands from her shoulder to press against the curve of Celebrían's chin, forcing those glistening grey eyes to hold his stare as he speaks, “You are a gift. The summation of so many beautiful things. Yes, I sometimes see your father in you, in your passion and your methodical nature. But also, there is courage and strength that comes from your mother. Wisdom and understanding are reflections of Arradiel and Medhion. A capacity to endure from the Uruks who have named you sister. Every single one of these things has brought me nothing but joy.”

Leaning into his hand, she says, “You’ve forgotten yourself in all of that.” 

“Clearly, you got your good looks from me,” he replies with a wet laugh.

“I hate it when you speak like that,” she chides. “From you, I received the most selfless love that I have ever known. You could have looked at me and seen only the offspring of two of your greatest foes. Instead, for some unknowable reason, you chose to love me.” 

Cradling her face like she is the most precious thing Adar has ever seen (because she is and she always will be), he tells her, “There is no mystery about that. I love how quickly you rush to the defense of others. I love how you insist on throwing the whole page away when you think that your handwriting is too messy. I love that you filled my life with the music that I had once thought lost to me, and make me laugh, and I love… you.”

As the cold that has crept between them in the last few weeks is thawed by the warmth of Celebrían’s smile, Adar closes his eyes and ever so gently rests his forehead against his daughter’s. He’s pleased when she leans into the touch. “I’m going with you to Lindon,” he says. 

“What?” Celebrían jerks away. “Ada, you can’t! The whole point of my going is to protect everyone here. If you come with me, you are just going to put yourself in harm’s way.” 

“A father’s place is always to stand between his children and harm,” he tells her firmly. 

“You have other children to think of,” she counters. Her features settle into a familiar stubbornness that he is relieved to see after all these weeks. 

“Yes,” he agrees, “and they will benefit from my being able to advocate on their behalf before the High King of the Noldor.” 

Crossing her arms, Celebrían starts pacing, not an easy feat in the cramped accommodations of her room, “Can you at least promise me that you won’t deliberately throw yourself into danger?” 

“Can you swear to do the same?” 

“You never seem to believe it whenever I say that I have no intention of making myself a target for an insane Maia,” she remarks waspishly. 

“Then we shouldn’t have a problem.”

It doesn’t take long for him to pack, and after that, he has a quick conversation with Ruluka about keeping things running while he is gone. “Since I’ll just be doing what I’ve been doing since we got here, I don’t suppose that it’ll be much of a problem,” the Uruk assures him wryly. 

Soon enough, the rain clears, and they prepare to leave the home that has been their refuge for so many years. Together they walk outside, where Arondir is waiting for them, when Agralash steps forward, pushing Shutha in front of her.

“Go on,” she tells the girl with her typical impatience, “you’re a big sap, she’s a big sap. It’s literally impossible for her to do anything other than love it.” Then the Uruk shoves a clean rag into Celebrían’s hands, who stares at it nonplussed. 

Agralash shrugs, “You’ll need it in a moment.” 

Slinging her travelling pack a little more securely over her shoulder, Celebrían crouches before the child, “What is it, Shutha?”

Shyly, the girl holds out the carved warg that she has been carrying about ever since she received it. “I know that it’s long since passed, but it’s for your day of maturity. You never kept any of your presents.”

Exactly as predicted, Celebrían’s eyes immediately become damp, and she hastily brings the cloth up to dab at them, which only prompts Agralash to tease, “See!”

Pausing only for a minute, long enough to throw the rag at the Uruk’s face, Celebrían eases down to kneel on the grass. Shutha is staring at the ground, looking nervous but pleased. Celebrían leans over to hug the girl tightly. “This is the best gift that I have ever been offered, but I can’t take it. Your father meant it for you.” 

Once Celebrían has released her from her stranglehold, Shutha shakes her head and presses the figure back. “No, I want you to have it. You’re nice, and you make me feel safe, and you’re teaching me how to read, and you always wash my clothes so I don’t have to get in the water.”

“You do a lot for me, too,” Celebrían protests. “Why don’t I just hold on to this while I am away?”

Before Shutha can protest further, she’s pressed into another embrace, which the girl returns. Celebrían looks up at Agralash pleadingly, “Please keep up with their lessons? I don’t want them to forget what they’ve learned.”

Giving a disgruntled noise of assent, the Uruk gripes, “You are doing my laundry for the rest of my life.” 

“Just you, though,” Celebrían cautions. “If I get stuck doing the washing for every woman to whom you take a passing fancy, I’ll never get anything done.”

“Fine. Fine. Fine.” Agralash tuts, “I think that you’re jealous because you’re not my type.” 

“I seem to remember you complimenting my hair once,” Celebrían fires back. 

“Pretty hair doesn’t make up for the lack of ass,” the Uruk retorts.   

They set off amidst a chorus of children calling out goodbyes and the hooting laughter of Celebrían and Agralash.