Written for the Trick or Treat Exchange 2015.
Celebrimbor opened his eyes to his familiar room in Himlad. He did not know at first what had wakened him, but then he saw a tall, straight figure standing by the table. The one standing there had uncovered the Fëanorian lamp, letting its blue glow shine into the room, though his face was still in shadow under his dark hair.
Celebrimbor blinked against the light. “Father?” He could see his father more clearly now. Curufin was dressed as for battle, in armor but without his helm. His face was proud. He stared straight ahead, not acknowledging Celebrimbor’s presence.
Celebrimbor sat up and pushed back the covers, swinging his legs onto the floor. “Father, what is it? Are we under attack?” His father did not answer. Instead, he slid the cover back over the lamp in a single swift motion, leaving the room in sudden darkness.
“Father!” Celebrimbor stood, reaching for the table. He felt for the lamp, but it evaded his grasp. He searched for it stubbornly, but he could not find it—or the table—
His reaching fingers found the blankets. He was in his room—not in Himlad, of course. That land was lost to Morgoth, and Celebrimbor would not be welcome there even if his family held it. He was on the Isle of Balar.
Slowly, he sat up. The cold of midwinter had seeped into his room, but the chill in his heart had another cause. Something has happened.
Wrapping a blanket around himself, he went to the window and opened it. A dusting of snow lay across the ground and the rooftops. Nothing stirred in the town; he saw no lights and heard no sounds of alarm. Whatever the message of his dream, it seemed it had come to him alone.
Part of him wanted to rush to Círdan’s house and demand to speak to him, though it must surely be past midnight. But what had he to report? Only a vague sense of dread, and the inner certainty that something had befallen his kin. Círdan should have whatever warning he could give, if it meant that Morgoth had dealt his foes another defeat, but Celebrimbor could not justify disturbing him before morning.
He leaned against the windowsill, staring out into the darkness. The stars shone very brightly in the winter night, and he could hear the sound of the waves in the distance. He remained where he was, in spite of the cold, until dawn began to lighten in the sky.
It was not until weeks later, when the survivors of Doriath reached the Havens of Sirion, that Celebrimbor could give a name to his fear and know the cause of the sorrow he felt that night. He grieved in silence to hear the deeds of his kin, but he grieved also for their deaths, and for the way his father had turned his face away and departed without speaking.
Chapter End Notes:
The title is from a proverb quoted by Faramir in The Two Towers, "The Window on the West."