Beneath Starlit Skies

11

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

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

Celeriel makes him feel more like Mairon than Sauron.

He doesn't hate it.

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

He frowns.

This cannot go on forever.

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

No. It won't be for nothing.

It cannot be for nothing.

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

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

She has to be.

(He might go mad if she isn't.)

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

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

But he is, incidentally, happy.

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

::

"Celeriel,"

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

"Yes, Mairon?"

Mairon holds her gaze.

"I'm leaving, Celeriel." He says gently, kneeling.

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

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

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

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

"Me too?" She asks hopefully.

"You're coming with me."

And so they leave, together.

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

::

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

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

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

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

She sneezes miserably.

"I'm fine." She tries to say but it comes out sounding something more like: "Mmmphn."

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

Mairon is making a funny face.

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

"It's hot," Celeriel declares, pushing Mairon's hand away and falling backwards into the snow.

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

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

Again.

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

"Noooooooo...." She wails, sniffling. "I don't want tooooo!"

The winter air has addled her judgement.

"Celeriel—-"

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

"Celeriel!"

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

"Come here, Celeriel." He says sternly.

"Mmmnn?"

"You aren't burning." He informs her firmly. "You are freezing. Now come here and put on your cloak."

Celeriel frowns, brows furrowing.

"I'm cold?"

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

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

"Are you sure?" Celeriel asks quietly.

"Yes." He promises, wrapping her in the fur garment.

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

"Sleep." Mairon urges, eyes gleaming brightly.

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

She dreams of soft golden fur.