Archive of Our Own

They received word from the Eastern Marchwarden that a Ngoldin¹ lady and three companions had been denied passage through Doriath six days ago. The messenger said they had directed the party through Dimbar, along the northern marches.

Tilion was two-thirds of the way through his phases; Celeborn was likewise two-thirds of the way through his tour of duty, captaining a woefully inexperienced company guarding the Northern Marches. It was wearisome, and he cursed his past self for so nobly volunteering for duty during the Spring Festival. Nonetheless, Celeborn was able to summon the energy for outrage. 

“Did she offend Captain Mablung so that he wishes for her death?”

The messenger threw up his hands in denial. “Mablung is patrolling Region at the southern border. It was Lord Amroth who instructed them thus.”

Celeborn pressed two fingers to his brow-bone and massaged the blooming headache there. Foolish cub. He’d told Amdír his son wasn’t ready for a captaincy yet, but his friend was overly proud of Amroth’s skill at arms and native charm.

Celeborn led the company east, towards where the road curved into the haunted hills, where the trees were full of alien chittering and the air sticky with weird magic. They had yet to run into anything foul so far, but Fimbrethil, their scout, had taken on a grey tinge. She was highly attuned to disturbances on both the seen and unseen plains, but this was her first time patrolling near Nan Dungortheb. 

“There's a great disturbance ahead, sir. It feels like there’s more than one ulunn².”

Celeborn released the breath he had been holding, letting go of his exasperation and allowing a little excitement in its stead. Elsewhere there were orcs, and sometimes larger creatures in Morgoth’s employ, but here the monsters were something else altogether. Most were spider-shape, but Celeborn had also seen other chitinous creatures with more legs than eight. 

“The most ulnnin I’ve seen before on the Northern Marches was three. Are you ready to learn what Nan Dungortheb holds for us?”

Fimbrethil did not look ready, poor girl, but there were a few whoops from the rest of the unit.

“Lace-weaver formation,” Celeborn ordered. “Standard shadow protocol.”

The wardens melted into the forest gloom, following Fimbrethil’s subtle signals as she led them towards the source of the fell strains.

Celeborn could not feel the tendrils of dark magic himself, but the murmurings of friendly forest around him grew softer, and a hostile atmosphere instead emanated from the stooped trees in their path.

The air grew close and fetid as the ground rose beneath their feet, the stench of decay first subtly tickling the nose before it turned overpowering. Celeborn pulled his scarf over his nose and mouth, noticing that he was the last of the wardens to do so. He took a deep breath of filtered air.

A scream rent the stillness. Celeborn motioned to hurry, and the company picked up their pace, sacrificing some of their stealth for speed. Another scream, less than a league, but still far off. They hurried on.

Celeborn felt the vibrations the ulunn’s tread before he saw it, up and to the left, nearest to — 

“Fimbrethil, look out!”

The scout stopped short and then rolled to her right, staying low. In a moment the ulunn broke through the undergrowth, six-legged, long, sharp pincers protruding from the front and back, with a screech that sounded more like grating metal than anything a creature of flesh could make.

“For Doriath!” Celeborn cried, pulling the ulunn’s focus to him. Yellow eyes swung towards him, some foul substance crusted at the corners, mandibles dripping with blood.

Celeborn readied his spear, anchoring with his left arm and guiding with his right. He crouched, dancing on his toes and was ready when the ulunn lunged. He darted right, the hard shell grazing his arm. He spun and stabbed at the rear leg. The point slid off the armored limb. 

Celeborn growled with frustration and rolled away. Another warden darted forward, aiming for the weaker underbelly. Too slow though, and the clacking mandibles almost took off the arm. Another warden ran up from behind, winding up to thrust his spear in with all his strength and puncture the chitinous hide.

“It has eyes behind!” Celeborn yelled just as the ulunn reversed direction with a terrible click of limbs, rear stinger protruding. The warden staggered back; Celeborn hoped the warden avoided the sting, but didn’t stop to check. He was already sprinting towards the ulunn’s head. It dodged and swung, striking Celeborn and sending him sprawling. 

An arrow struck from above. Celeborn sent up a quick prayer of gratitude to whoever had remembered his advice to gain the high ground if possible. The arrow glanced off, but the ulunn reared up, searching for the attacker above. Celeborn saw an opening and took it, throwing the spear with all his might towards the soft underbelly. 

Thwunk. The spear struck home. 

The ulunn reared back, uncanny cry ascending to an unbearable register. It shook its whole body, plates undulating in a wave from mandibles to stinger, dislodging the spear with a pained gurgle. Then it turned and bolted through the woods, faster than a creature of that size should be able to move. Every muscle in Celeborn’s body wanted to pursue, hunt the abomination down and prevent it from harming anyone again, but a shout from Fimbrethil stopped him short.

Celeborn forced himself to join the company.

“We’ve found the Ngoldrim,” Araglas said, mouth pinched and nostrils flaring.

Celeborn steeled his stomach, knowing the scent of blood and offal was likely Elven in source. He noticed the forearm first, the gloved limb strewn among the fallen branches, torn tendons hidden under an ornate vambrace, in a style unfamiliar to him. Further in, a step beyond some reaching roots, was a half-smeared torso, right arm and chest still intact and shapely, but the bottom left quadrant a mess of intestines, blood, and crumpled metal. The armor did not match that of the dismembered arm.

The next corpse was whole, but shriveled and twisted within its armor, as if it had been sucked dry and desiccated, though the blood of the other body was fresh. Celeborn suspected this body was older; the armor was leather, in the Mithrin style, not like the strange plates of metal and cloth on the other.

“There,” Araglas murmured. He pointed to what looked like a heap of leaves. Celeborn took a step forward and saw something glimmer. 

He nodded at Araglas. Celeborn’s second gulped and moved towards the heap. When Araglas knelt down and gently brushed away some of the debris, an arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder.

The ensuing yelp broke through the tense silence and set the entire company to laughing. Celeborn hurried to Araglas’ side, knife drawn.

“He lives still. Help me,” he ordered.

Carefully, unsure of the injuries and still half-expecting a trick of the evil woods, they pulled the Elf up. The gleam Celeborn had seen was armor, steel still shining beneath streaks of mud and foul matter. It matched that of the first corpse. The helmet was askew on his head, blocking one eye. Celeborn loosened the helmet from where it was painfully dug into flesh.

As he pulled the helmet away, silver hair tumbled out. Star-kissed, Celebrimbor thought, and tossed his own silver braids in a half-conscious mirroring. The Elf’s face was chalky, eyes tightly closed in pain, mouth smeared with something dark and sticky.

“Poison,” Araglas said, “maybe from multiple sources.”

“Almost certainly from multiple sources,” said Celeborn. Everything in Nan Dungortheb was poisonous in some way or another, though the effects ranged from minor irritation to instant death.

The Elf began to twitch, convulsions running through his limbs.

“Beleglinn!” Celeborn called. “Do something!”

Beleglinn rushed forward, fumbling a sweet smelling salve from his bag of remedies. He smeared some under the Elf’s nose and on his throat, taking his pulse and temperature, before he relayed orders: “Help me get him out of his armor.”

They worked to undo clasps and ties, methodically removing the Elf from his casing. Beleglinn tugged the wrapped tunic apart as soon as the cuirass was loosened. The heaving chest beneath was mottled with bruises, but had no open wounds.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” said Araglas, peering over Celeborn’s shoulder.

“There might be extensive internal injuries,” Beleglinn said, feeling along the Elf’s abdomen. “I can’t feel any—” The Elf began to shake harder, almost wresting his body from Celeborn’s grasp.

Fimbrethil rushed forward. “It’s not physical. Oh, it’s so icky .” She wormed her way between Beleglinn and Celeborn and put her hands on the Elf’s head. She began to sing, reedy voice starting with simple scales with words of blessing woven in but quickly moving to more powerful music.

The Elf continued to thrash, sweat breaking out all over his body, choked sounds emanating behind tightly closed lips. Neither the Song nor medical interventions seemed to work.

Determination flared in Celeborn; he was not losing anyone today, not any of his company, and not this stranger. He shoved Fimbrethil and Beleglinn aside. Ignoring their protests he wrapped his arms around the Elf and drove his fists into his stomach, pushing aside his hesitation at the pain such rough treatment of bruised flesh would cause. The choking sound became a frantic hacking and the body shook more in his arms. Celeborn pushed again, even harder this time, and the Elf finally retched. Celeborn sent a quick thought of gratitude to Melian’s weavers for the protective shield of the scarf still pulled over his nose and mouth.

When the Elf had emptied his stomach, Celeborn pulled him away, avoiding looking at the sickly black vomit too closely. He poured water from his canteen over the Elf’s mouth and then guided him to drink a mouthful.

“Spit.”

The Elf obeyed, his face moving from a grimace of pain to disgust, eyes still tightly closed.

“Here.” Celeborn fished out his flask of miruvor and held it to his lips. “Spit one more time. Now swallow.”

The Elf heaved a deep sigh and then seemed to calm, still breathing hard but no longer twitching. He opened his eyes. Deep brown wells shone with a light of their own.

Just like Galadriel, Celeborn thought.

“Lachend³,” said Araglas.

“Aranel Írisse⁴,” the Elf said, frantically searching their faces.

“Pilde⁵.” Celeborn squeezed his upper arm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. Araglas shot him a look. “It’s Telerin,” Celeborn snapped. Which the poor Ngold probably didn’t speak, but which Galadriel assured him held many similarities to the forbidden Quenya, a source of anything from amusement to rage for her on any given day.

The Elf looked at Celeborn with wonder. “Ma nalie Linda⁶?”

Or maybe he was wrong, and this was no Ngold. Celeborn reassessed the silver hair and light-filled eyes. He shook his head. “Lanie⁷.” To Beleglinn he said, “Help me get him up.”

The Elf could barely walk, but they could not camp here.

“We need to get him to the supply drop at least,” Celeborn said. “Pair up by height, and we’ll take turns carrying him. Araglas, with me. Fimbrethil, do one last sweep and make sure there are no other signs of life. Let’s move.”

~

“Sir, he’s a Ngold,” Araglas said yet again.

“But he speaks Telerin.” Celeborn was deeply regretting the Iathrim’s egalitarian tendencies. Did they need the highly hierarchical nature of the Northern Sindar? No. But it would be nice if captaincy counted for something. Limlaith shoved her nose beneath his hand, still thrilled at his return to camp. Celeborn scratched the hound’s ears, the one creature here who would heed him.

“It really all sounds the same to me,” Beleglinn said.

“Are you married to a Teler?” Celeborn asked.

“We don’t know who he is! And he was wearing Ngoldin armor, traveling with a company of Ngoldrim. What happens if we bring him into Doriath and then we find out he’s one of the Kinslayers?”

“I will vouch for him – on my honor!” Celeborn snapped his mouth shut and took a deep breath. He hadn’t meant to yell. “Fine, he can’t go much further today – the journey here probably pushed him to his limits. Araglas, you take command of the unit and travel to the northern way-station. There, send news of our patrol, and ask what should be done with our Telerin friend here. I’ll stay here with him.”

“I take command?”

Celeborn glared at Araglas. “Yes. You’re my second. Or are you rejecting that along with my counsel?”

“I just think—”

“Sir,” Fimbrethil interrupted, “You can’t stay here alone!”

“I won’t be alone. Limlaith will keep watch.” At her name, Limlaith lifted her head expectantly, ears perked. Celeborn signaled down and she settled with a soulful sigh.

“Sir—”

“Fimbrethil, I have patrolled these woods since before you were born, before the Girdle was raised.” This was, strictly speaking, true, if by ‘patrol’ one meant ‘camping with one’s father and sister.’ “And the rest of you need to continue the route east. After a meal like this, Nan Dungortheb will be alert and dangerous.”

There was further grumbling, but the company at last departed for the nearest way-station, no doubt enticed by a more filling meal than powdered meat and lembas. 

Celeborn watched them depart, absently rubbing the top of Limlaith’s head. “Let’s see how our friend is doing,” he said to the hound.

He ducked into the hempen tent. The rescued Elf lay under a blanket and a couple of borrowed cloaks, shifting uncomfortably with eyes clamped shut. He had started out their journey clinging to Celeborn and Araglas with gritted teeth and fingers dug into their arms. Yet his strength had deteriorated rapidly, the jarring walk sapping what little he had.

His eyes flew open when Celeborn came in, and he moved as if to sit up. Celeborn put a hand on his leg. “No need, no need. Lie still. I only came to see if you need anything. Water?” He guided the water skin to the Elf’s lips.

The Elf drank, and rasped: “My thanks.” 

So he spoke Sindarin after all, but strangely accented. Celeborn tilted his head, trying to place it. “Where are you from?”

“Gondolin.”

“Gondolin? The hidden city? I half believed that was a made-up tale, a cover for some terrible Ngoldrim-driven accident.”

The Elf barked a laugh, then grimaced. “Is it any stranger than a wood protected by a magic fence?”

“Guarded is different than hidden, but I suppose you folk have an affinity for hidden things.” Celeborn moved from a squat to a more comfortable seat, assessing the Elf’s condition. He still seemed to be in quite a bit of pain, his face tight, his body shifting every few seconds to seek a comfortable position. But at least he was talking now, aware of himself and his surroundings.

The pieces of information he’d dropped so far did not fit together, and Celeborn hoped he could draw out more with an introduction. “I am Celeborn Galadhonion, Captain and Marchwarden of Doriath. Who are you?”

The Elf thought for several moments. “Celebrimbor.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Celebrimbor shook his snarled hair, the silver turned a flat grey in the dim tent. “No one’s ever questioned my name before! With the hair it seemed rather self-evident.” 

“I just didn’t expect to meet a name-brother among the cursed hills of Nan Dungortheb. Silver hair, skilled hand — the name is a good fit, especially if you made that fine armor yourself.”

“Yes, my name was given to me more for my craft than for my looks — I’m a silversmith first and foremost, though I also know the art of jewel-smithing and steel-smithing and—” 

A full body shudder silenced him; it seemed he was in pain again. Celeborn reached for the small pack of aid that had been left with them.  

“Here, we might have something that can ease you. What manner of pain is it? The creatures of Nan Dungortheb secret all manner of poisons — I have seen wounds like burns, poison that freezes, itches, swells. What do you need?”

Celebrimbor looked at him for a beat. “Nothing like that.”

Celeborn tried to decipher his expression. “Truly, even if it’s minor, we should try to treat it. I will get you beyond the borders of Doriath and find you a proper healer, but I have seen even small poisoned wounds lead to death.”

“I do not think death threatens.” Celebrimbor twitched again, and bit his lip.

A memory of a group he had rescued once while patrolling flashed through Celeborn’s mind. He was not ashamed of what he’d had to do, but he did not relish telling Celebrimbor. “Ah. Are you perhaps overcome by very strong desire?”

Celebrimbor’s face flushed. He twitched again. “How did you know?”

“Well, you seem to be uncomfortable, yet not in pain, and I have seen such poisons before.”

Celebrimbor swallowed. “Given that, perhaps you could grant me a few moments of privacy?”

Celeborn leaned back and covered his mouth, fingers finding a knot of tension beneath his ear as he stalled. Now for the news he really didn’t want to deliver. “I can, of course. But.” He took a fortifying breath. “I think you will find that self-pleasure will be of no aid.”

“What do you mean?” A small muscle in Celebrimbor’s jaw jumped.

“I mean that the poison requires. Ah. The fluids of another.”

Celebrimbor’s brows drew together. “The fluids of another? Are you saying you have to fuck me? I’d heard the Iathrim were deviant in nature, but I thought it merely a disgruntled rumor.”

Celeborn glared at him as the prejudices he knew the Ngoldrim harbored surfaced. “I would never attempt such ignoble trickery.” He fished a cloth from the pack and threw it at Celebrimbor. “Here. I’ll leave you to it.”

Outside the tent he took a deep breath and emptied his lungs completely. “Come,” he called to Limlaith, and went to fetch water.

He indulged in a little bit of stomping as he went to the nearby creek. He’d rescued this lachend, stuck his neck out for him, offered his own body to help heal him, and he was thanked by Celebrimbor throwing insults in his face.

The creek was clear and stony, chattering merrily. Celeborn regretted his loud footfalls as he reflected on how he could verify the water was safe to drink. He filled his helm with water and sniffed it. It was odorless, but that was not enough to know it was free from ill-effect. Here, in the band of the Girdle, it was likely not deadly, but there was no guarantee it wouldn’t have some sort of other unwanted consequence. It could send him to sleep, give him visions, or make him harden for hours on end. And then what a pair we’d be , Celeborn thought.

He carried the water back to camp, trying to talk himself out of his anger. Celebrimbor had only a limited experience of Beleriand, having been born in Avon⁸. He tried to remember Galadriel’s reaction to the many evils of Nan Dungortheb. She was very hard to shock, and tended to react to almost everything with a cool hum, so she wasn’t a good comparison. But her brothers were less enigmatic. Angrod especially had had a rather volatile reaction to both the looser sexual mores of Doriath and the evil they lived with at their northern border. He and Aegnor had found the latter so unacceptable they had chosen to dwell in the evil hills' northern shadow to guard Beleriand from Morgoth and make what incursions they could into the stranger corruption of Nan Dungortheb. Celebrimbor’s disbelief and his rude assumptions were to be expected from someone even more sheltered.

Celeborn set the helm over a grate of stones and green sticks and brought the water to a boil. He scooped some into his cup and raised a brow at Limlaith. “If this knocks me out, keep watch over our friend.” He took a sip.

He lay back and watched the stars shift through a crack in the canopy, keeping an ear perked to any approach. He remained free of unnatural weariness or any other ill-effect — the water was simply water. Celeborn sent a prayer of gratitude up towards the stars.

A muffled sound came from the tent. “Howl if you sense any approach,” he told Limlaith. 

The hound broke her typical silence with a whine of affirmation.

Inside the tent Celebrimbor was still lying on the bed roll, but the blanket was pushed down to his waist and a sheen of sweat covered him.

“How did you know?” He sounded shaky.

“I told you; I’ve seen such cases before.”

“I don’t understand how—” Celebrimbor bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. “Please help me.”

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes. Yes, Eru above, please, yes.”

Celeborn was tempted to make him beg for the privilege or feign reluctance for the act, but he instead unbuckled his belt and pulled off his shoes. The poor man was suffering enough and he was undeniably beautiful; Celeborn wished they had met under different circumstances.

“How do you like it?” he asked. “On your knees or on your back?”

“I don’t know.”

Celeborn was in the midst of pulling off his shirt so Celebrimbor’s face was blocked, but he sounded scared. Once free of the fabric, Celeborn asked, “You don’t sleep with men?”

Celebrimbor swallowed. “I’ve never lain with anyone. I’m unmarried.”

“Those aren’t the same—” Celeborn cut himself off; now was not the time to lecture this lachend on the limitations of his culture. “Well, this is not the ideal situation for your first time, but the poison will have relaxed you.”

He finished disrobing. “Here.” He pried the hem of the blanket out of Celebrimbor’s white-knuckle grip and pushed it down. The livid bruises down the front of his body continued across his pelvis and to his thighs. His cock was hard and darkened, the tip weeping. Better have him on his back then.

Celebrimbor keened when Celeborn took his cock in a loose grasp. Celeborn pushed his knee up into his chest and pushed the other out wide. He guided Celebrimbor to grip the back of his leg. “Hold.”

Celeborn began to stroke, leaning over him and pushing down on his hip when he started to buck. Celebrimbor gave him a pitiful look.

Celeborn couldn’t help smiling. “I will not let the poison rush your first time.” He stroked for a few moments longer, watching the strained play of Celebrimbor’s face and feeling his body tremble beneath his hand. “But you’ve probably stimulated this organ enough.”

“No, no, no, please keep going; you must,” Celebrimbor cried when Celeborn removed his hand from his cock. He started to struggle in earnest; Celeborn had to use his elbow to hold him down.

“Be calm. You’ll like this too.” Celeborn traced his fingers down Celebrimbor’s thigh. The muscle jumped beneath his touch as Celebrimbor moaned and squirmed beneath him. He reached his balls, gently tugging and squeezing the taut skin. He traced his fingers along the seam, pressing into the flesh above his hole as Celebrimbor began to babble.

Celeborn considered taking him in his mouth, sucking for a moment, but they were in for a long night — at some point extra stimulation to his cock became cruel. He couldn’t resist blowing on the damp tip though. Celebrimbor cried out.

Two fingers slid in easily, Celebrimbor’s body relaxed as he’d thought it would be. Celeborn thrust shallowly, raising his head so he could watch Celebrimbor’s face. At this simple penetration and slight stretch, he was undone, breathing hard. Celeborn went deeper and curved his questing fingers, pressing the spot he knew would generate the greatest pleasure.

Only a few moments of circling pressure and Celebimbor bucked, spilling a few drops of white fluid from his cock.

“No, no, it still— it’s still—” Celebrimbor threw an arm over his face, his voice pure misery.

Celeborn quickly added a third finger with no difficulty, pumped a few times and withdrew. Celebrimbor needed no further preparation.

“Hush, I’ll give you what you need.” Celeborn rose to his knees, groping for the lubricant. He pushed the bedroll up, lifting Celebrimbor’s hips, and rearranged their limbs to give himself the access he needed. He lined his cock up, rubbing his head against the pulsing hole.

“Do it!” Celebrimbor ordered, suddenly imperious. A wave of lust washed away the lordly visage.  “I cannot bear— I cannot—” Celeborn pushed in.

Heat surrounded him, tight, tighter than he would have thought given the effects of the poison. Celebrimbor arched his back and keened. Celeborn had thought to let him adjust, planned for long slow strokes that would demonstrate his skill as a lover, but Celebrimbor seemed ready to tear his skin with overwhelming desire.

He drove in, relishing the slap of their skin as he reached the apex of his thrusts and Celebrimbor’s luminescent eyes squinting up at him between silver lashes.

An idea occurred to Celeborn. “Bania⁹.”

“How—” Celebrimbor began, but his eyes fluttered closed when Celeborn repeated the phrase. “Abá pusta, abá—á rice amrície¹⁰!” He continued on, begging, then ordering, then dissolving into begging again.

It sounded like home and like a fantasy, melodious and familiar and strange. Celeborn wished he could transmit the encounter to Galadriel, show this enchanting creature he’d found, who looked like a brother but sounded like her, but then Celebrimbor made a choked sound and he was back in the moment, the smell of sweat and herbs and musty camp gear more appealing right now then any concocted perfume.

Celebrimbor clutched at his shoulders and moaned again, his body pulsing around Celeborn. He was so close to the edge. Celeborn’s thrusts went wild and he was coming, forcing his body still and his spend as deep inside Celebrimbor as he could get it.

He pulled out only after a long moment, collapsing next to the bed roll, ignoring the stones that poked him.

Celebrimbor whimpered. “Stars, no, it’s not gone. I need more.”

“Give me a few moments.” Celeborn rolled onto his back. It was no surprise a single emission was insufficient for the poison, but he did worry for a moment he would not be able to outlast the toxin. He turned his head; Celebrimbor looked annoyed, not frantic. The spasms and unhealthy pallor were gone. “I think you’ll survive. Use your own hands if you need it.”

Celebrimbor glared but only briefly before turning to face Celeborn and tucking one leg towards his chest. His other hand reached behind him and his eyes fluttered closed. “Does it always feel like this?”

“Have you really never touched yourself in this manner?”

Celebrimbor huffed. “I have other interests.”

Celeborn laughed, reminded so much of his first times with Galadriel. Celebrimbor’s face turned sour and he pulled up a cloak to hide himself from view.

“I don’t mean to laugh in mockery,” Celeborn said hastily. For all that Celebrimbor was ridiculous and prickly, he also knew how sensitive this must be. “You just reminded me of my wife. But, no, I think you’ve been made more sensitive by the poison.”

“YOUR WIFE?!” Celebrimbor pulled his fingers out and sat up, appalled face turning to pain as the extent of his injuries made themselves known. He looked at the door as if he expected an irate woman to storm through at any moment.

“Peace! She would have no issues with this. She’d understand the necessity.” And I think she’d find you delightful, or at least take joy in my delight , Celeborn thought.

Celebrimbor eased himself down. “I really thought what was said about the Iathrim was all slander. But perhaps it is not as debauched as they say.” Celeborn suppressed a smile. “So how do you speak my tongue? Are you so ancient you remember the common ancestor of our languages?”

“Do I seem ancient?”

“No, I would guess we are near in age. So?”

Celeborn hummed to himself, weighing the costs of the next revelation. Celebrimbor, who must have crossed the Ice with Galadriel, would surely connect the dots. But what harm was there, other than perhaps a sudden realization of Celeborn’s loftier status? “My wife is Telerin. She taught me.”

“Your wife is Telerin? How can that be? My mother and I, alone of all our clan, crossed back over.”

Celeborn squinted, thoroughly confused. “Ah. I think you are forgetting a family. A rather important family among your folk…”

Celebrimbor looked at him in confusion. “But. Wait. Are you married to Nerwen? She’s not— Well. Congratulations to her I suppose!”

“She goes by Galadriel now.”

“Galadriel.” Celebrimbor’s tone was still all wrong, even if he was a lord among his people.

“Yes.” Celeborn frowned. “Do you bear her some ill will? I know her family is proud and contentious, but I did not think there was any open animosity between them, though if you are in service to some other lord—”

“Oh no, no, nothing like that! I like Nerw— Galadriel,” Celebrimbor said with a face that said otherwise. Seeing Celeborn’s stony look, he added, “We’re kin.”

“Oh. Oh! You are of Eärwen’s house. And so also King Thingol’s kin. Why didn’t you say so earlier?” The apprehension Celeborn felt towards the upcoming trip to Menegroth eased.

Celebrimbor smiled, dimples creasing his cheeks even as his eyes turned sly. “Ah, no, the other side.”

“You are a descendant of Finarfin?” Celeborn squinted at him. He had met all of Galadriel’s brothers and their families; they were a distinct sea of blond among the more monochrome coloration of both the Noldor and the Sindar. Perhaps a silver head could have blended in amid the gold, but no, Celeborn was sure he would have remembered Celebrimbor if he had met him before.

“Ah. No. But I am of the house of Finwe.” Celebrimbor grimaced.

“So of Fingolfin’s line. Are you Turgon’s son?” Celeborn’s stomach dropped. If he were to bring the son of the Hidden Kingdom’s ruler into Menegroth, Thingol would never forgive him. The exodus of so many Sindar still stung the king’s pride.

“Mmm. Turgon has but one daughter.” Celebrimbor sighed heavily. “I am Curufin Feanorion’s son. Sorry,” he added as Celeborn’s utter dismay showed on his face.

Curufin’s son. Celeborn’s judgment would never be trusted again. He could hear the whispers from the court, Thingol’s disappointed face, Lúthien’s judgmental eyebrow, Galadriel’s sudden horror. He hadn’t even known Curufin had a son, though he’d met the man a few times when patrolling the river Aros near Himlad. But of course, Celebrimbor had been in Gondolin, which now that Celeborn thought about it, was passing strange.

“Wait—” Celeborn had thought he followed the intricacies of Ngoldin politics well, but something here did not align.

Celebrimbor covered his face and moaned. “It doesn’t matter; we are estranged. Forgive me if I don’t want to discuss my relations at the moment.” He arched his back a bit. “Have you had sufficient time to recover?”

“This feels like a trap,” Celeborn said, not really joking, but he was already moving towards Celebrimbor.

“No, just terrible luck for me.”

“I’m not sure you are the unfortunate one.” He was thinking of himself, but Celeborn suddenly remembered the severed limb, the smear of gore across the ground. He tore the cloak away from Celebrimbor’s hips and moved to bracket him with his arms. Celebrimbor’s distressed face peered up, still half blocked by his hands. “After all,” Celeborn forced levity into his voice, “not everyone is rescued by such a handsome prince, with stamina to boot.”

Celebrimbor didn’t smile, but he did pull his knees up and when Celeborn entered him again, cried out with something closer to bliss on his face.

This time Celeborn started hard and fast. No space for thought, this time he would pound Celebrimbor until his head was empty of everything but the sensation of Celeborn’s hips striking his own, his cock buried deep.

When Celebrimbor came, there was no spend, just a full body shudder, his fingers clutching Celeborn’s biceps with bruising strength. Celeborn kept going, pumping with precision, his world narrowing to Celebrimbor’s teeth sinking into his lip, his hand clutching his hair.

“It’s too— too—” Celebrimbor started, his mouth working as he searched for words.

“Shall I stop?” Celeborn forced himself to freeze, nominally out of consideration, but truly with a streak of sadism.

“No, no, keep going.” Celebrimbor sounded almost fearful as he locked his ankles around Celeborn’s waist and sought movement once more.

“Don’t think, just feel,” Celeborn said, and resumed, chasing his own climax now. He tipped over the edge slowly, warm pleasure uncurling from his core and chasing waves down his limbs. He pulled out and lay down next to Celebrimbor, head pillowed on his arm, fighting off weariness.

Through the glow, he became aware that Celebrimbor had turned away from him, his breath coming in uneven hiccups. Celeborn dragged himself upright and set a hand on his shoulder.

“Is the poison still at work?”

“No.” A gasping sob tore through Celebrimbor.

“What’s wrong?” Celeborn rubbed circles into the quivering shoulder.

“It’s my fault.”

The image of the bodies in Nan Dungortheb flashed through Celeborn’s mind. “No, no it is not. Those hills have claimed many travelers. Its evil is inexplicable, and more intractable than what emanates even from Angband.”

“But I knew. I knew Aredhel was not going to Barad Eithel, and I spoke in support of our route even when the others said we should look for another way.”

“Even if you had joined your voice to theirs, you could not persuade a lady of such lineage to do anything other than what she desired.” Celeborn had never met Aredhel, but if she had even a fraction of Galadriel’s stubbornness, he knew this to be true.

“But I helped her plan this, I planted the idea in her mind.” Celebrimbor drew a ragged breath. He whispered, “We were going to see my father.”

Celeborn stayed silent for a long time, still pressing circles into Celebrimbor’s back. Finally he said, “We make our own choices. I do not think your powers of persuasion are such that you could compel Aredhel against her will.” Celebrimbor’s breathing grew even below his hand. “And we only know one other died; perhaps Aredhel and your remaining companions live still.”

Celebrimbor rolled onto his back, wiping tears away with his knuckles. “I do not think that is likely. Never have I felt such monstrous will set against us, and I have fought the forces of Morgoth.”

Celeborn kept his skeptical thoughts to himself; Celebrimbor had not been in Beleriand during the darkest times, when every day brought news of death and horror, and the islands of safety they fought for shrunk.

Celebrimbor sighed deeply. “But thank you. You have been good to me; better than I deserved.” His eyes fell shut and Celeborn watched as he fell into a deep sleep. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs from his own mind and crawled from the tent to relieve Limlaith from her guard.

~

Celeborn sat next to the fire as the slow, cold hours of night inched by. A sprinkling of stars swung overhead through the branches, drawing his eyes, but mostly he listened to the night noises, ears pricked for an unnatural hush or an over-loud step.

He thought how the night had changed from the darkness of his youth; how being bound by darkness here on the edges of Doriath would have been unheard of during the starlit heydays before war began to creep towards them from the east; before the lachendin returned. He thought about the dismembered body he’d seen in Nan Dungortheb, and the lost souls in those haunted hills. Neither of those thoughts were comforting, so he let his mind drift to silver hair and dark skin, an absurd pout and desperate eyes.

Galadriel would tease him, tell him he was easy, that any boy who looked at him with enough desperation, who promised enough worshipful attention could get his cock. This was likely true. Now his cock had led him to the most politically unfortunate circumstance yet. He suspected he would be spending quite a lot of time patrolling the northern border over the next few years. Maybe he’d spend enough days here to finally be able to get Beleg to open up, earn some respect he’d felt was his due for some time now. But that meant sundering from Galadriel, from his sisters, his father, his mother, his friends—from good wine.

But the fallout from bringing Celebrimbor to Menegroth was still days in the future. There was always trouble in the days ahead. Better to dwell on the past if the beauty of the present wasn’t enough to hold the mind.

Darkness crept away and a grey mist arose, keeping their campsite in a bubble of firelight. Celeborn stirred, stretching his shoulders and arms, the strain from the day before beginning to make itself felt. He built up the fire again and went to fetch more water.

The fog was dissipating and the birds were reaching peak racket when Celebrimbor poked his head out of the tent.

“There’s coffee.” Celeborn gestured with a tin mug.

“Coffee? What’s that?” Celebrimbor was adorably mussed, hair in disarray and a smudge of dirt near his eye. His color looked much better, lips pink and skin no longer ashy.

“You’ve never had coffee before? It’s very invigorating.”

“In Gondolin we were limited to what we could grow ourselves.” He took a sip from the proffered mug and made a face. “Bitter. What I really would like is some way to clean up.”

Celeborn felt a flush of heat as he thought of his own release sliding out of Celebrimbor. He tossed him a cloth. “There’s a stream just beyond that stand of oaks there.”

He spent a few moments picturing clear water running over brown skin, well-formed arms flexing to wring out a rinsing stream, but then shook his head to clear the images. He’d had no indication from Celebrimbor that he had any desire for him now that the poison was quelled. He would not push the matter.

Celebrimbor returned, skin now clean and only covered by his stained shirt which reached partway down his thighs. He sat down on the log next to Celebrimbor, and stretched out his bare legs to warm his toes by the fire.

“Let me try that drink again.”

Celeborn poured him his own cup. After a sip, Celebrimbor made another face but kept on drinking. “Do you like the flavor?”

“I’ve grown to enjoy the bitterness,” Celeborn said, “but I enjoy the stimulation even more.”

Celebrimbor raised his eyebrows over the edge of the mug. “Did you—” He took another fortifying sip of coffee. “Did you enjoy the stimulation last night?” he said in a rush.

A corner of Celeborn’s mouth crept up. “I did. Did you?”

“Very much. I had no idea… Would you want to, again, this morning?”

Celeborn burst out laughing, relieved and charmed. He reached forward and took the mug from Celebrimbor and held his chin with his other hand. “Yes.” He leaned forward and kissed him, parting his lips and tasting the bitterness in the slick heat of Celebrimbor’s mouth.

Celebrimbor scrambled forward and straddled Celeborn’s lap, not breaking the kiss. They both reached down to tug at Celeborn’s laces, tangling their fingers as they sought to undo the leather thongs. Celeborn let him have at it and moved his hand to slide down Celebrimbor’s crack. He whimpered into Celeborn’s mouth as his thumb teased the rim. He pushed his hips back but Celeborn kept his slow circling external.

Celebrimbor finally freed Celeborn’s cock and retaliated with a teasing touch of his own over the tip. Celeborn pushed in at last, moving his thumb shallowly as Celebrimbor fluttered around him. He exchanged his thumb for two fingers.

Celebrimbor shoved him back to better brace himself on his shoulders and Celeborn leaned back on his other arm. He pulled his fingers out and Celebrimbor moaned, but didn’t stop working Celeborn’s cock with firm hands.

“There’s lubricant in the tent,” Celeborn said with a raised eyebrow. He was big, and Celebrimbor was inexperienced and no longer had poison loosening him.

Celebrimbor leaned forward and took the tip of Celeborn’s ear into his mouth, flicking the silver hoop there with his tongue. “I can take it.”

Celeborn groaned and tried to take back control of his breath as he felt Celebrimbor hold him firm and began to lower himself down on his cock.

“I was thinking,” Celebrimbor said, rather breathless himself, “that I would like to try the reverse today, enter you instead, but then I remembered how your cock felt inside me and— hnnn. ” He settled fully onto Celeborn’s lap, body pulsing around him, hands clutching at his shoulders.

“Maybe next time.” Celeborn thought of Celebrimbor leaning over him, inside him, his head cradled in Galadriel’s lap, silvery-gold hair spilling around him. “There’s so much you haven’t done yet.”

Celebrimbor laughed softly and gathered his legs underneath him. “Next time,” he said, and began to move. Celeborn braced his own limbs to thrust, and lost himself in the tight heat of Celebrimbor’s body.

Celebrimbor’s breath grew uneven, but then he glanced over his shoulder. “I did not think to ask when you expected your companions to return.”

Celeborn grinned. Limlaith would give a rare bark of welcome when she heard the party return, but Celebrimbor did not know that. He sat up and grabbed Celebrimbor’s ass, raising him, and letting himself slip out. He pulled his cheeks apart and heard Celebrimbor squeak as the breeze hit his hole.

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind. Most have seen me in more compromising positions. You, on the other hand…” He let the thought of how Celebrimbor would appear linger, torso draped over Celeborn’s shoulder, half held up by the hands exposing his well-used hole to imagined eyes, shaking legs doing the rest of the work. “But I don’t think you mind either.”

“Monster,” Celebrimbor said, but there was no venom in his voice.

“You wouldn’t. You want everyone to see how well-fucked you are. They could hold your hair back, maybe someone else could try your hole, feel how loose you’ve become.” If Celebrimbor was allowed to stay in Menegroth — a doubtful outcome — but if he could, Celeborn would arrange just such a scenario. He could fuck Celebrimbor, then instruct him how to use his mouth first on a cunt, then on a cock, all the while playing with his hole, keeping it stretched and just slippery enough for the next round, but not too slick that it wouldn’t still burn.

“I would, I would, but please put me down and fuck me,” Celebrimbor begged, and Celeborn relented, feeling as desperate as Celebrimbor sounded.

They didn’t last much longer; Celeborn spilled first and sagged back, watching as Celebrimbor rode his lingering hardness, hand flashing over his own cock. With a cry, he let a silvery stream of come spatter Celeborn’s shirt. Celeborn didn’t care, pushing himself up to kiss him again until he softened completely and slipped out of Celebrimbor’s body when he shifted.

“Do you want to get dressed?”Celeborn said at last, and tugged the shirt to cover Celebrimbor’s ass.

“No,” Celebrimbor said, but pulled himself off Celeborn anyway, groping for something to clean himself with.

They arranged themselves into a semblance of decency, Celeborn turning his shirt inside out and Celebrimbor making faces the entire time he donned his dirty clothes. Celeborn pulled out a cake of lembas and broke off a piece for Celebrimbor.

“Thanks.” He slowly chewed and took a sip of now cold coffee. “Blech, it really is meant to be hot, isn’t it?” After another bite, he asked, “so, you wish to take me to Menegroth?”

“That’s what I thought last night. You could recover, tour the city, replenish your supplies. But that was before I knew you were Celebrimbor Curufinwion.”

“Not even you could sway Elu Thingol to let this errant Feanorian in?”

Celeborn laughed dryly. “King Thingol is not easily swayed, and our grudge against your people is deep.”

“Well.” Celebrimbor shrugged. “Maybe my grandfather can speak for me.”

“Your grandfather?” Celeborn looked over at Celebrimbor, perplexed. “I thought… and even if he lived, Feanor would not endear you to Thingol in the least.”

“No, my other grandfather.” Celebrimbor smoothed his mussed hair and began to braid his hair into a single tail.

“Other grandfather?” Celeborn prodded.

“Yes, Daeron — my mother’s father.”

“YOU ARE DAERON’S GRANDSON?!” Celeborn’s voice reached an undignified pitch as outrage overcame him.

“Oh, is that important?” Celebrimbor tied off braid and looked up, all innocence. “My mother is his youngest daughter; she left with my grandmother when Daeron refused to end the search for Elwe.”

Celeborn looked at him unamused. “Do you have any idea how I’ve been dreading bringing you in front of the king? Balthorin¹¹ , you are an ungrateful wretch.”

“Don’t say that.” Celebrimbor sat next to him and leaned into his shoulder. “I’m very grateful. And eager to make up any trouble between us any way I can.”

Celeborn grabbed his braid and tugged Celebrimbor’s head up. “Oh, I can think of some things you can do.”

Limlaith’s warning bark sounded before they could advance too far into the details, but Celeborn knew the interruption was only temporary.