This is a birthday fic for my wonderful friend and irreplaceable beta, CrackinAndProudOfIt, better known as Crackers. It's an AU sequel to her story Postliminium, and I have *attempted* to write this fic in her narrative style. Happy Birthday, Crackers!

Tyelpë really was thoughtful, I mused. The bed I was lying on was soft and comfortable, blankets lying loosely over it, so I could tug them on or off as I wanted. (They were all piled on, despite the heat—warm consoling weight) The room had small vents that kept the air fresh, no matter how long I stayed in here. There was even a small Fëanorian lantern sheathed in alabaster within my easy reach, that could be brightened to light the room completely, or dimmed to serve as a soft light to sleep under. And I don't even believe that I had told Tyelpë of my fear of unrelenting darkness. (Had he been watching me that closely? Had I not noticed?)

None of this, unfortunately, could hold my attention long, no matter how I tried. Because however much I tried to focus on something else, the chains wrapped around wrist and ankle intruded on my thoughts, insistent, demanding. Because Tyelpë, along with believing in redemption, apparently also believed in contingency plans.

And had the smith-craft to be able to forge a chain to hold me. (Angainor—nonononono. Don't go there.)

Closing my eyes would have been counterproductive, but I focused my will on slowing my heartbeat and controlling my breath. (1…2…3…4…5…6…) If I could control nothing else in this situation, I would control myself.

I had almost managed it when there came soft footsteps in the corridor, and I knew who it was. I had no idea what to say to him. (The betrayer betrayed, the one who planned to chain the world with a golden Ring now weighed down in golden chains…) Yet when Tyelpë entered the room, it seemed he had the same problem. There was an uncertain nervousness on his face, but the bright fire of determination had lit his eyes, and I swallowed nervously. (1…2…3…4…5…6…) The Elf pauses, and he studies my face, searching, I know, for the differences between my face now and the one he knew. The biggest, of course, are my eyes. No longer the soft, concealing grey—now a burning, brilliant gold.

Tyelpë breaks eye contact, but it is only to turn and grab a chair that is in the corner. It squeals in protest before he lifts is completely clear of the floor, and I feel a quick flash of amusement. It is as frightened of coming closer to me as he should be. He sets in near the bed, and sits. Pensive—he leans forwards, elbows on legs, head bowed, fingers idly chafing each other. Then he raises his head, and there is still determination, but also sadness in those eyes.

"I don't hate you," he says, the first words he has spoken to me. (The last words I spoke to him—Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul—We had both been quite silent in our last fight.)

"I don't," he insists, perhaps taking my silence as disbelief. "I'm not even sure I'm angry with you." Now that I didn't believe. I wasn't even sure it was possible…

"Truly," Tyelpë insisted. "Annatar—if that's what you want to be called, I know you hate Sauron and I can't blame you, you've also used Mairon, do you like that better?" He's blathering. He does that when he's nervous. I say nothing. (It's what I do when I'm nervous)

"I just—" he sighs, a heavy exhalation that somehow calms him. (I'm holding my breath. Not good. 1…2…3…4…5…6…)

"I did know what I was walking into," Tyelpë admits. "The scars on your neck make it very obvious who you are, especially once you admitted you once served the Darkness." You were not deceived by the gentle smiles and the lure of knowledge. You invited the monster in willingly. Does that make you or me the bigger fool?

"Then why—" I growl, the first words I speak to him, but I pause. What am I even asking? His smile is sad.

"I told you," he says simply. "I believe in redemption. I asked you if you did, and you didn't answer. I think I have the answer now. You don't, do you." It's not really a question.

"I'm a song in D minor, Tyelpë, and I'm not going to be transposed," I snap. How long have I been thinking that? Too long. (1…2…3…4…5…6…)

"The interesting thing about D minor," Tyelpë says after a musing minute. "Is it has the exact same notes as F major. It just starts at a different note."

"And has completely different chords," I say flatly. I know far more about music than you do, Tyelpë. You won't win this one. He exhales in frustration.

"Alright, but a bent ring can be smoothed, a broken statue re-carved, a shattered sword reforged," he argued, changing the metaphor to something he has more strength in. (1…2…3…4—)

"You don't understand, Tyelpë." It comes out harsh, a wolf's warning snarl. "I'm not just bent, or broken. I'm not gold anymore. I was dumped into nitrohydrochoric acid. I'm chloroauric acid now, and I burn anyone who touches me."

"And yet," Tyelpë murmured, not meeting my eyes, "if you do it correctly, you can turn chloroauric acid back to gold."

My jaw goes slack, and I have the very inappropriate desire to either laugh or groan. He can't be serious.

"It's not that simple, Tyelpë." And to my confusion, it emerges more as a plea than the dismissive statement I'd intended. But now the Elf laughs.

"Of course it's not!" he exclaims. "You're not an inorganic compound. I cannot change you into something else against your will."

I flinch at that. Badly. Face buried in the pillow and hands drawn to safety under my body. (Because while you may not, Tyelpë, someone else already has)

"I would not do that to you," he murmurs, abandoning the chair and perching hesitantly on the edge of the bed. A gentle, bracing hand finds my shoulder. I flinch a little, but it is not a touch that brings me memories, and the Elf knows it. "I would never do that to you."

I know that. Truly. I do. My head turns, and my eyes peep out again, though my hands stay safely buried. My attention is caught by a lock of Tyelpë's hair that has come to rest on the bed in my line of sight. I am suddenly aware of an inexplicable kinship with it. (We are both now bereft of stars.)

"I would not hurt you in such a way," Tyelpë murmurs. "It would not work, regardless. Nothing can restore you to what you once were by force." He sighs, heavy and sad. His hand slips off my shoulder as he leans in to hug me, the awkward bundle on the bed.

"But I will not stop hoping you will chose to become gold again," he murmurs in my ear, and pulls away, standing and heading for the door. My heart stutters, and my throat clenches, and my eyes prickle uselessly. I want to cry out, to beg him to stay, to not leave me in the dark and cold and alone—

No stop. Breathe.

(1…2…3…4…5…6…)

I hope you enjoyed, and please review!