one time salt / the next honey / each disguised to cover poison

[atlantablack]

Fandom: TOLKIEN J. R. R. • The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth
Rating: T+
Relationship: Celegorm/Dior/Nimloth
Word Count: 6,229
Content Warnings:

canon typical violence

consideration of kidnapping children

Summary:

In which Celegorm tries to do some reconnaissance on Doriath, finds some children in the woods, does his good deed for the century, and promptly gets taken prisoner for it.

Dior's bitter he can't just murder Celegorm. After all, he's not one of the eldar, it doesn't count as kinslaying if he does it.

Nimloth's impressed no one is dead yet and plans on keeping it that way for as long as possible.

---

Beginning Notes:

this fandom truly introduced me to the idea of bullet-point fics & honestly, I will never have time to write this fully fleshed out, but the idea is driving me up a wall and demanded to be written down.

fic title is from The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab

---

It is such a grand word, soul. Like god, like time, like space, and when she’s tried to picture it, she’s conjured images of lightning, or sunbeams through dust, or storms in the shape of human forms, of vast and edge less white. 

The truth is so much smaller. 

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab

☀︎

Celegorm is not meant to be anywhere near Doriath. Let’s start there.

He is not meant to have left Amon Ereb at all. And if he had told Maedhros where he was going he would have been snapped at and told to sit down and shut up because Maedhros was still in denial about the fact that they would have to simply take the Silmaril if the boy king refused to give it to them. And Celegorm knows Dior will refuse. He doesn't claim to be an expert at politics but he feels he can safely say that Dior isn't going to simply hand the thing over. Has never set eyes on him but he knows this.

Oh, he'll let Maedhros try his hand at peace. Let him soothe his conscious the slightest bit. If he also worries about pressing too hard when Maedhros still hasn’t stopped looking brittle around the edges since that disastrous battle, then that’s his own business. The point, is that while he isn't supposed to be here, it's also supposed to be a normal reconnaissance trip. Maedhros would thank him later. Or he would have if everything had gone to plan.

He’s on the outskirts of Doriath still, just past where the girdle used to begin, when he hears the sound of children crying. And he does genuinely consider ignoring them. Where there are crying children there is sooner or later going to be an adult, and the goal is to not run into anyone. But the crying rises in pitch for a moment, high and pained, and they sound young and people may say what they like about Celegorm but he is, unfortunately, not yet a complete monster.

Celegorm ends up finding the twins. They had, he finds out as they exchange guilty looks, snuck off to explore and gotten lost and wandered way too far from Menegroth and then Eluréd had slipped and fallen in the mud and sprained his ankle.

He does briefly consider kidnapping them as he wraps Eluréd’s ankle and calms them down. It’d be fucking brilliant leverage to get the silmaril back. But fuck him, he’s apparently still got something soft left in his heart because he can’t quite bring himself to do so. Also, Maedhros would kill him.

"Adar said if we ever saw any elves with hair like yours to run." Elurín says. "Said you'd kidnap us like you did Nananeth."

Celegorm should probably feel bad about that but can’t be bothered. Still ends up finding himself even more reluctant to kidnap them, if only because he loves to prove people wrong. Says, "I should kidnap you. But I won't." They give him deeply suspicious looks at that but they don't start crying or screaming so he figures they must sort of believe him. Instead he wipes their faces and then sets Eluréd on his hip as he leads them toward Menegroth.

After a few minutes of silent walking the twins clearly decide he isn't an immediate danger and start chattering at each other. And then, they start asking him questions. Curious and too young to know they shouldn't be. They know Dior told them to run if they saw Celegorm, but they don't truly grasp the gravity of why, and it's easy to forget when he's being nice. Never let it be said that Celegorm can't be just as charming as his father when he wants to be.

He spitefully teaches them some words in Quenya. Tells them stories about Valinor that he hopes will scandalize the Sindar. Tells them about his brothers and says only good things about them so that they'll repeat it later.

By the time he actually gets to Menegroth he has Elurín clinging to his back, half-asleep and exhausted, and Eluréd has fallen asleep. He’d forgotten how quickly kids tire. Had forgotten how trusting they could be, their worlds too small still for them to have any true comprehension of monsters. He's focusing rather intently on not letting Elurín slip off his back as he dozes while also not letting Eluréd slip and he blames that as to why he doesn't spot Dior the moment he's within view.

Dior spots Celegorm approaching before Celegorm spots him. Has about five simultaneous heart attacks at once and immediately mentally reaches for Nimloth. Celegorm the cruel is carrying his children. He's been frantically searching for them for hours yet somehow the Fëanorian found them first. If the bastard wasn't carrying his children Dior would try to gut him before he got a chance to get any closer.

Dior has already received the first letter from Maedhros. He is drawing his own conclusions about why Celegorm is in Doriath. He is not as far off as he would like to be.

He also has to do some rapid mental re-arranging to slot the elf in front of him into the place of the shadowed image of a monster from his mother’s stories because the monstrous traits he’d always envisioned easily but the beauty had escaped him until this moment.

Dior is in fact wearing the Silmaril at the time this is happening. Celegorm spots him and his entire face twists into an ugly snarl. His hands stay gentle where he’s holding the children. He deeply, viciously regrets not kidnapping them.

"If you hurt them," Dior says, trembling and furious. Does not understand how his mother had ever looked at this elf and saw anything other than a monster. He wants to go snatch his children away and cannot grab them both at once and fears to take only one.

Celegorm rolls his eyes. "They aren't the ones who need to worry about getting hurt," he says, baring his teeth. "Throw me the silmaril though and you can keep your pretty face intact."

Nimloth appears before that can go wrong. She looks between them, reaches out to Dior and says, calm down, goading him will help no one. Then she fearlessly walks right up to Celegorm and plucks her child off his back. Is still in Celegorm's space as she brushes Eluréd’s hair back and looks at his ankle. Says, “Keep holding him. Harder for you to try and kill my husband if your hands are full.

Celegorm barks out a laugh even as Dior furiously splutters. "I could still kill him while holding the kid," Celegorm says just to be annoying. "I'm insulted you think otherwise."

If he wasn’t still holding Eluréd, Dior really would have tried to rip his throat out then and there.

They are in an incredibly sticky situation. Now that he's seen it Celegorm isn't going to leave till he's ripped the Silmaril off Dior's neck. It wasn't the plan and his brothers are going to be pissed, but he's here now so he might as well.

Once the twins are safely elsewhere Dior has absolutely no intention of letting Celegorm leave Doriath. Whether that's because he's dead or locked in a room he doesn't care. (In Dior's words "we're all sure I'm a man, not an elf, so it doesn't count as kinslaying if I do it.")

Nimloth would just like to get this over with, preferably without bloodshed. She's also morbidly curious now about this elf turned horror story turned elf once more, who is gently holding her son even while he glares murder at her husband. She likes contradictions.

The twins of course notice none of this. Eluréd is half-awake now but still quite comfortable being held by Celegorm and knows he and Elurín are going to get into trouble for sneaking out and staying in Celegorm's arms seems like a good way to avoid that for a while longer. If they're lucky Adar and Nana will be so distracted by Celegorm that they forget to punish them! (They do not in fact forget.)

Celegorm does, for the record, realize that following Nimloth into Menegroth while Dior stalks his heels, is not a great idea. He is also very aware that while he could take Dior and Nimloth on his own, he cannot in fact fight an entire city by himself and win. He is also aware that Maedhros is going to be furious if he gets a message from Doriath that they've taken him prisoner. But Eluréd is warm in his arms and Elurín is watching his brother over Nimloth's shoulder with worried eyes, a sprained ankle seeming like the worst thing in the world, and he could put the kid down and run. Toss him at Dior, confident he'll catch the kid first, try to kill Celegorm second. But he doesn't want to and it’s not only because of the silmaril. He’s just enjoying the uncomplicated warmth of a child trusting him. It's a novelty really to realize he can still want something other than blood and the silmarils.

When Curufin asks him much, much later, what the fuck had possessed him to suddenly bend for the twins when he’s not bent for anyone else in centuries, he’ll say it was because his hands were not so stained as to wish harm upon children. Curufin will scoff even as he avoids Celegorm’s eyes, his thoughts inevitably turning to Tyelpe. What he doesn’t say, what he refuses to even acknowledge, is that he’d looked at the twins sitting in the mud, tear tracks on their faces, and for just a moment he’d heard Finrod in his head say, don’t you dare, Tyelko. Don’t you fucking dare. He hasn’t forgotten these are the grandchildren of the man Finrod died for.

Celegorm doesn’t regret Nargothrond either. But occasionally he dreams of Finrod telling him all the reasons he should. Most often he just dreams of a sea of blood soaking into Beleriand and he dips his hands into it, thinks, what’s a little more?

The elves they pass on the way to the twins’ room all stare at him with wide, suspicious eyes. The healer waiting for them in the twins’ room looks like she'd rather do literally anything else except approach him to look at Eluréd. But when he tries to set the kid down he whines and clutches at him. Celegorm shrugs and keeps holding him, which has the added benefit of making Dior's eyes flash with anger. The healer ends up tensely examining and re-wrapping Eluréd's ankle with clean bandages, and then beats a hasty retreat from the growing tension in the room.

Nimloth coaxes Eluréd away from Celegorm and puts the twins to bed. They all make it one hall away from the twin's room before Celegorm lunges for the silmaril and Dior gets his hand around Celegorm's throat. Nimloth had honestly expected this to happen as soon as the door closed behind them so they're already exceeding her expectations.

Celegorm did manage to grab hold of the silmaril but the Nauglamír is not easily broken and so all he does is pull the necklace tight around Dior's throat.

His hand closes around the Silmaril and the oath shifts, ripples out uncertainly. In Amon Ereb all his brother's press their hands to their chests and Maedhros is suddenly very suspicious about where exactly Celegorm is.

Dior gets his hand around Celegorm's throat and deeply regrets that he doesn't have any weapons on him. Has to use his free hand to keep Celegorm from grabbing his knife and then they're just locked in a stalemate, glaring at each other and breathing hard.

Celegorm grins, a jagged, savage thing. Says, "Pity, if I didn't want you dead I'd probably be trying to get you in my bed instead." Means it, even if he’s only said it to get under Dior’s skin.

Dior's grip on his throat tightens. "I just want you dead," he snaps back.

Nimloth sighs, considers the political implications of her husband killing one of the Fëanorians, and sighs again. "It'll be very annoying if the Fëanorians attack us for something we've actually done," she says. "If we're going to be threatened I'd like for them to stay as the ones in the wrong."

Dior looks to her aghast. "I'd like for them to not threaten us at all!"

"Give us back what's ours and we won't," Celegorm says easily, tightening his grip on the silmaril. Dior swallows hard as the necklace pulls tighter around his throat. "Unless you want me to keep threatening you of course."

Dior's fingers around his wrist flex like he wants to break it.

"Let go of the silmaril," Nimloth says after they've wrangled him down another few hallways and into a room. (There had been much cursing and insults thrown. Dior has the imprint of Celegorm's teeth on his arm. Celegorm has blood sliding down his neck from where Dior's nails had dug in.) "I can cut your hand off if you'd rather not but I feel your brother wouldn't care for the competition in who had the worse experience."

Celegorm snorts. As if that'd be a competition. He uses the silmaril as leverage to get right up in Dior's face, close enough he can see flickers of tree-light that have tried to seep out of it and settle in Dior's eyes. "You keep me alive and I will reclaim the silmaril," he says softly. "Whether or not it's covered in your blood when I do so is up to you. You kill me to keep it and my brother's will burn this place down and still take it covered in your blood." He smiles, lets go of the silmaril, and pats Dior's cheek condescendingly. "I'm the nicer option here."

Nimloth grabs the back of Dior's shirt and pulls him out of the room before he can try to take Celegorm's advice and kill him.

☀︎

They lock him a room with no windows. Celegorm paces the room in a circle and wonders how hard it would be to set the place on fire. Doesn't particularly want to burn alive but also wants to destroy something. He tries the door and thinks he could get it open given enough time. Doubts he could do it faster than someone will come back to check on him.

He thinks of the tree-light flickering like a guttering candle in Dior's eyes and wants another chance to get up in his space and push. Wants to prod at Nimloth's calm facade and see how much it takes to break it. He certainly wasn't meant to be here but truly, this is far more interesting than anything else he could be doing right now.

☀︎

Nimloth isn't calm necessarily, but neither is she very scared. They have more leverage now that they have one of the Fëanorians locked in their city. Especially since it's that Fëanorian.

There is also a certain sense of relief attached to the idea that out of all the Fëanorians, the one they call cruel had found her children alone in the forest, one of them injured, and all he'd done was carry them home. It makes them more real. It makes them more malleable if she can only find the right spot to begin the molding.

Dior meanwhile is spitting mad that Celegorm is even in Doriath, let alone that he's held his children. Would like to storm right back into that room with a knife and slit the bastard’s throat. Dior grew up knowing the story of how his parents came to be together. Grew up knowing in another life his mother would still be an elf and Dior would be something stuck in between a man and an elf. (Some days thinks he still is. Even if he is not part elf, there's still the blood of a Maia running through him and he finds it difficult to fully relate to men. Doesn't know what that means. Try's to not dwell on it. Fails.)  The wrong was not committed against him. But it was committed against his mother who he loves dearly. His mother who had never went seeking vengeance but whose eyes always went stormy with anger when she told the story.

He grew up hearing the story of his father and Finrod Felagund captured in Sauron's tower. His mother sweeping in to save his father, too late to save Finrod as well due to her capture at the hands of Celegorm the Cruel and Curufin the Crafty. His father had nothing good to say about his interactions with them. His mother had warned him they could seem fair and kind if they wished. To not let himself be drawn in if he ever had the misfortune of running into them. Dior cannot imagine ever looking at Celegorm and thinking him kind. Even as he'd held Eluréd, his hands deceptively gently, there'd been a cruel, gleaming cast to the light shining from his eyes. His mouth had crooked upwards in a smile and it'd looked like a knife. Dior looks at him and sees only a wolf that needs to be put down.

He tells Nimloth as much and she frowns. Says again, "We cannot kill him."

And he hates that she's right. He'd die before he handed the Silmaril over to the Fëanorians. His parents had won it fairly and he would not relinquish it. But to invite war because he's murdered one of the Noldor, that would just be foolish for the sake of being foolish, and he was not raised to be a foolish king. Was not raised to be king at all. But that is beside the point.

"Wergild," Nimloth says after another moment of thought. "He committed a crime against your mother and reparations were never made. His continued captivity as the price you ask."

"What would we even do with him?"

She shrugs. "Use him as a nanny?" It is only half jest but she chooses to not mention that considering the horrified look her husband gives her. "It could also be a way to get them to leave us alone about the Silmaril," she says.

Dior scowls. Thinks unwillingly of the way the light in Celegorm's eyes had flared bright when he'd touched the Silmaril. The way it had dimmed when he'd let go. He still will not give it up. Looks down at the blood on his fingernails and feels a sharp burst of bloodlust settle hot and ripe on the back of his tongue.

He will not give it up but he thinks of the vicious satisfaction of calling for a meeting and getting to look the rest of the Fëanorians in the eye while claiming not only the Silmaril but their brother as well and a deep pit of want opens inside of him. If in his mind he is also picturing Celegorm in chains and on his knees at Dior's feet, well that's his own business.

Nimloth skims the surface of his thoughts and raises her eyebrows at him. “The goal is to prevent a war,” she says in amusement. “I do not doubt that the Fëanorians would simply steal him back if they believed wergild was just another term for mistreatment.” What she doesn’t say, but they both think, is that inviting a bunch of Fëanorians into Doriath, even under the guise of political negotiation, is a dangerous game that they’d rather not play. That there is nothing to stop a negotiation from turning into a bloodbath except trust that doesn’t exist.

“Must we?” Dior asks plaintively, already knowing the answer and hating it. If he is to only have the lifespan of a man he does not want it to be lived in the same city as fucking Celegorm Fëanorian. Nimloth kisses him apologetically and gently picks the silmaril up off his chest.

“Do you trust me?” she asks.

"Always."

☀︎

Celegorm circles the room for a while, and then, once he’s determined there is nothing to do but wait, he goes to sleep. Snaps awake not long after sunrise to the sound of the door opening. Nimloth breezes in, silmaril shining between her fingers, and Dior following her, eyes hard as they lock onto Celegorm.

Celegorm looks to the silmaril and the door and the sword on Dior’s hip and the knife strapped to Nimloth’s belt. Thinks, now or never, and then his thoughts stutter as Nimloth tosses the silmaril to him. He is, for once, genuinely surprised. He stares at the silmaril in his hand. Stares at Nimloth. The oath shifts uneasily.

“Claim it,” Nimloth orders. “Say whatever words you need to say to claim it.”

Celegorm narrows his eyes at her. “Why?”

“Does it matter?” She sounds as if she genuinely means the question.

Celegorm stares at her. Looks to Dior who is watching him with stormy eyes, lip curled in disgust as he looks at Celegorm. Looks back to the silmaril. It is the most beautiful thing his father ever made. He knows Maedhros hates the jewels and Maglor resents them. Knows Curufin loathes that their father’s work is held by anyone other than them. Knows Caranthir would likely have given the silmarils up as a lost cause a couple centuries ago and moved on with no regrets if it weren’t for the oath. Knows the Ambarussa just want to avenge their father and that they’ve equated that with their oath. Celegorm is all of them and none of them. Celegorm wants his family safe even if they cannot be happy. He wants to gut Morgoth as the one who stole them and slew their grandfather. He wants to figure out how to break them and see if his father crawls back out.

Does it matter why Nimloth wants him to claim it? Probably. But if it can ease the oath. If it can lighten the pressure on the hearts of his brothers.

“I am named Turcafinwë and I say that this silmaril has been held by Fëanáro’s son and possessed by his kin once more. I say the oath may release its holding of the first jewel. It has been claimed.” The Quenya flows smoothly off his tongue and he does not, in truth, know if the oath will even accept this, or if it will only be vanquished by all three held once more in their hands. Doesn’t know if he wants it to or not.

But the oath violently twists and fractures, part of it dissolving into light, and then what remains twines itself back around his fëa and squeezes tight. The silmaril in his hand seems to shine even brighter.

In Amon Ereb Maedhros collapses into a chair, hand pressed to his chest in shock. Maglor misses a note as he sings and has to lean against a wall to catch his breath. Curufin nearly takes his finger off in the forge in his shock and swears he’s going to punch Celegorm when he next sees him. The tip of Caranthir’s quill goes straight through the paper as his hand jerks to the side, ink bleeding over the desk. Amrod chokes on the water he’d just taken a sip of. Amras puts his head in his hands and tries to not cry. They all decide Celegorm has a lot of explaining to do.

Dior twitches when Celegorm speaks in Quenya, never having heard the language and surprised almost at how smooth it sounds. Watches Celegorm stare at the silmaril and thinks that he had expected more…. more. More glee, more joy, more vindictive happiness. Celegorm only stares at the silmaril as if he’s waiting for something more to happen. As if his eyes had not just gone sun-bright, as if the silmaril had not been nearly painful to look at for a moment.

Nimloth does not know what she’d expected. Had, in truth, thought the stories of an oath were just that. Stories. Thinks maybe her plan has worked far better than she’d thought it would. And, if her theories are correct, now if the Fëanorians try to commit a second kinslaying, they will not be able to blame it on their oath. They will have nothing to blame but their own twisted hearts.

But she’s watching Celegorm stare at the silmaril and she thinks perhaps, the greater threat now, is bargaining with the Fëanorians for their brother as wergild. In convincing them that though they are taking this as their due they do not mean it as a death sentence.

It is only after the light of the silmaril fades back down to its normal level that Celegorm truly, properly takes in the necklace that its set in. He frowns at it. Recognizes this as one that Finrod had taken great pride in. The Nauglamír he had called it and if asked, Celegorm would have just assumed it was lost in the ruins of Nargothrond or in a dragon’s belly or even stolen away by the orcs to Angband. But it feels strange in his hands now that the oath is not distracting him. He is not his father or Curufin, able to discern a jewel’s merits with just a look, but he is still his father’s son. He sings a high note, ignoring the way Dior jerks forward, presses his mind to the necklace, and then recoils in disgust. Nearly throws it across the room. He pulls his knife out, presses the tip beneath the silmaril, and means to pry it out, but Dior has grabbed his wrist in a bruising grip before he can.

“What,” Dior snaps, “do you think you’re doing?”

“If you want to keep wearing a necklace that’s cursed then by all means, go right ahead,” he says, “but the silmaril can’t stay in it.”

“It’s not cursed,” Dior scoffs before his thoughts catch up and he realizes that it could very well be cursed.

“You’re a man. What would you know,” Celegorm says dismissively and aggressively shakes his wrist in an effort to get Dior to let go.

Nimloth does not get a chance to intervene before Dior grabs a fistful of Celegorm’s hair and wrenches his head back. “I may be a man,” he hisses, “but I am not the one who tried to steal and unwillingly wed the daughter of a king out of nothing but cruel spite. I haven’t tried to usurp the crown of any kingdoms.” He would have perhaps gone on but Celegorm’s knife presses against his throat and his mouth snaps closed.

“You think you have the upper hand here,” Celegorm says, eyes glittering in amusement, hand perfectly steady as he holds the blade to the thin skin of Dior’s throat. “Do not think that just because the oath no longer compels me to take this jewel that I won’t still slit your throat.”

And Dior, who sometimes has more antagonist spite than sense, bares his teeth and says, “Go on then. It’ll be your death sentence as well.”

Nimloth, who is far more interested in the supposed curse on the Nauglamír, steps forward and carefully wrenches Celegorm’s hand away from her husband’s throat, twists his wrist painfully, and plucks the knife right out of it when his fingers involuntarily loosen. Says to Dior, “Let go of him. No one is killing anyone.” Squints suspiciously at the necklace. “What exactly does the curse do?”

Dior reluctantly steps back, Celegorm’s hair slipping through his fingers as he goes. Celegorm holds his gaze and doesn’t drop it until Nimloth takes his chin in between two fingers and turns his face toward her. “The curse,” she says again, “what does it do?”

He jerks his chin out of her hand and eyes his knife speculatively. “How the fuck should I know? I didn’t put it there. Go ask whoever gave you the damn thing.”

There's a beat pause. Nimloth and Dior exchange a glance. "How can you tell there's a curse?" she asks. Follows Celegorm's instructions to reach for the jewels with her mind and then does the same and recoils, passes the feeling to Dior who scowls.

"Here," she says, tossing his knife back to him. "Don't cut yourself taking it out."

Nimloth disappears while he works on prying the jewel out. Dior leans against a wall and watches, trying to untangle the twisted emotions in his chest. "I'm going to claim you as wergild," he says, just to see what will happen. "I've already sent a message to Maedhros."

Celegorm doesn't even pause in his work. Just says, "Smart, that's a good plan."

Dior wonders how disappointed Nimloth would be if she came back to find Dior had throttled the bastard anyway. "Will your brother fight us on it?"

This time Celegorm does pause, looking up at Dior. "Depends on how mad he is at me. Or how thankful." And then, a shit eating grin on his face, "Depends on whether I tell him I want to leave when he gets here."

Dior does not snarl at him. Swallows the anger down with some difficulty. "And are you going to tell him that?"

"Haven't decided yet," he says, cocking his head to the side and studying Dior. He reminds Dior of nothing so much as a wild animal deciding if he's being threatened. "Keep being interesting. Maybe I'll want to stay." There's a strange look in his eyes, half-amusement, half-hunger.

It makes the back of Dior's neck prickle.

The silmaril pops out of the necklace a few minutes later and Celegorm holds it in his hand, staring at it with that same expectant look, like something is supposed to happen that isn't. "I'd forgotten what it felt like to look at it without the oath choking me," he says quietly, tosses it in the air and clenches his fist around it. "I thought…"

He doesn't say what he thought, as Nimloth comes back, and Dior finds himself unwillingly curious about what he'd been about to say. Nimloth has Elwing on one hip and Eluréd on the other, Elurín following behind her. She dumps Eluréd on the bed next to Celegorm, ignoring the strangled noise Dior makes, and then plucks Celegorm's knife out of his hand again. "This is Elwing," she tells him, nodding at her daughter. Elurín climbs on the bed as well, settling down on Celegorm's other side to watch the adults with wide, serious eyes.

Celegorm raises an eyebrow. Says, "My brother would tell you to be more careful around me." The words are offset by him raising his arm so Eluréd can clamber into his lap and reach for the silmaril. He drops it in Eluréd's hand easily and it finally sinks in for Dior properly what exactly it is they're doing here.

They're calling it wergild but it is still bringing a Fëanorian into Doriath to live. It is still his sons already shedding their fear of Celegorm, too young to grasp why they should remain wary despite the way he's being kind to them. And Dior could try to explain it, to sink some fear into their hearts so they keep their distance, but more than anything he simply wants his children to be happy, and that does not aid in that goal. Keep being interesting, Celegorm had said and Dior doesn't know if he was serious. Doesn't know if there's some invisible line where he decides it doesn't matter that they're children. He does not mind putting himself in the path of danger, would maybe even take some enjoyment in playing whatever twisted game this is. But the children. The children.

"And what would you say?" Nimloth asks. She's watching him the same way she stares at a particularly difficult piece of pottery. The way she stares at the insides of the animals she sometimes cuts open to examine out of curiosity. They're both maybe a little too comfortable with violence.

Elwing, having studied this new elf with judgmental eyes, reaches out a tiny hand in question. Celegorm obligingly reaches back and squeezes it.

"I've got nothing to tell you," he says with a shrug. His eyes cut to Dior, gaze burning. "But haven't you heard? I'm cruel and unpredictable and I'll tear your throat out sooner than I'll help you."

Nimloth thinks he could say a lot about himself if he cared to. Dior wants Celegorm to just try to rip his throat out. Wants to be given a reason.

Celegorm, if he took a moment to actually think about what it is he wants, wouldn't be able to say. He wants the twins to stay small and innocent and safe. Wants the little princess to stay little, all her judgement focused on how much attention the adults will give her, and not on how dangerous they are. He wants to get in Dior's face and see how far he can sink his teeth in before Dior tries to kill him in truth. He wants to see if he can inspire a spark of fear in Nimloth just to prove he can. But what he wants out of the future? What does it matter?

For the most part Celegorm simply follows along in the shadow of others. A guard dog ready to bare its teeth when needed. He'd followed Oromë for centuries, wild and always growing wilder. He'd followed his father to Alqualondë, to the first taste of blood on his sword. He'd followed to Losgar and burned the boats even as he'd thought of Írissë stuck on the other shore. He'd followed Maedhros and then Maglor and then Maedhros again despite the way he'd given the crown away as if it was nothing. He'd followed Curufin to Himlad and helped hold the land. Followed him to Nargothrond and helped displace Finrod even though in the back of his mind there'd been a voice that sounded like Írissë saying, what the fuck is wrong with you. If Maedhros and his brothers came and agreed to Dior and Nimloth's terms, Celegorm would stay. If they came and didn't he'd fight his way out.

He's only half-sure he means that. It had been easy to imagine attacking Doriath when they were only faceless elves and an arrogant child made king. It's harder with one of the twins sitting in his lap, warm and trusting.

Celegorm is a mess of contradictions and anger always just waiting to burst free. Is only half-sure how to be his own person outside of his family. Has never had to bother learning. Wonders if maybe it isn't time to figure it out.

☀

Maedhros had told his brothers to prepare to ride for Doriath the moment he'd gotten his breath back. Can see no good way for this to end. Celegorm has either stolen the silmaril, somehow, and left a bloody diplomatic disaster in his wake. Or he'd claimed it and then been killed himself. Maedhros thinks the oath wouldn't have changed at all though if that were the case. Which means his idiot brother is alive and now Maedhros must clean up the mess.

They make it half-way to Doriath before meeting an envoy on its way to Amon Ereb with a message for them from Dior and Nimloth. Maedhros reads it. Reads it again. Hands it to Maglor and pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"Well," Maglor says cheerfully, passing the letter to Caranthir, "nobody is dead! I'd say things are looking better than they were."

"They want to take Celegorm prisoner," Curufin snaps, glaring at the letter.

"Wergild," Maedhros corrects. "Not prisoner. One they have a right to as well."

Curufin goes silent and sullen at the quelling look Maedhros sends him. Caranthir asks, "Is there any meaningful difference in this case?"

"How did they catch him?" Amrod asks, baffled by the idea that Celegorm had gotten caught at all. "Why was he close enough to get caught?"

"How are we going to break him out?" Amras asks practically.

Maedhros doesn't answer. Watches the envoy that's already turned and begun heading back. The elf who had handed him the letter had not looked pleased to see them but neither had he looked as if he held any personal hatred for any of them outside of Curufin who had received a poisonous glare. Whatever Celegorm had done must not be too terrible. Which begs the question of, indeed, how he'd gotten caught at all.

"I will make no decisions until we speak with them," he says eventually, ignoring the outrage that ripples through the group.

"You cannot mean to actually agree to this!" Curufin exclaims.

"Do you truly think," Maedhros says, staring Curufin down, "that Celegorm could be held if he didn't want to be? Our idiot brother would be more likely to get himself killed on purpose than be held somewhere he doesn't wish to be. We will hear them out and speak with him before any decisions are made."

None of them can dispute this. This does not make any of them any happier about it. But Maedhros, despite himself, despite knowing better, has the tiniest shred of hope spark to life in his chest that perhaps this will not end as badly as he’d feared.

---

End Notes:

I spent this entire fic deeply amused by how casually Celegorm underestimates Dior. Like my guy, he could kill you <3 he would kill you <3 without the benefit of a surprise attack where he's distracted by you know the rest of the battle happening you might not even manage to kill him back which would be sooo embarrassing for you <3

Originally posted on AO3