the stranger song by Agelast

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

“Come on, Celebrimbor, don’t look so sour, it’s all in good fun,” said the airy voice of Annatar, floating above him. Celebrimbor hunched his shoulders and glared down at the floor so so he wouldn’t have to watch his companion gloat.

He knew, intellectually, that Annatar’s suggestions were sensible. Always working and never enjoying yourself was a recipe for unhappiness. He knew that. And despite what Annatar said, Celebrimbor could enjoy himself and did enjoy himself -- often enough!

It was just that his enjoyment was different than other people’s…

But still, he had agreed to make an appearance at this party Annatar had planned for him and an appearance he would make, no matter how much he longed to retreat back to the safety and comfort of his workshop. After all, was he not the last of the House of Fëanor, all of whom were, perhaps not the best of people, but were always courageous enough?

Thinking all this, however, did nothing to stop the sinking feeling in his stomach when he entered the room and it seemed that the whole of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain turned to look at him. And suddenly the people he spoke to and worked with -- and not to put too fine a point on it, ruled, everyday, seemed strange to him. Strange and hostile.

He did not understand it. Why did he feel this way? Had they changed, or had he?

So when Annatar rested an arm on his shoulder, Celebrimbor didn’t shrug him away. When Annatar handled him a cup of wine, Celebrimbor drank freely from it, and asked for another. Eventually, the strange anxiety faded from his mind entirely…

“Celebrimbor, you’ve been a little careless tonight. No matter, I will see to you,” Annatar said, gently, lovingly, patting his cheek with every show of affection. Celebrimbor was staring at him, wondering why it was that he could not quite believe him. Not that it mattered -- soon his mind whirled and everything came crashing down into darkness.

The next day, Celebrimbor woke with a start.

He was in his own bed, wearing the clothes he had been wearing last night. All of that was all right, but what about Annatar, who was sleeping beside him?

Annatar, who was only pretending to sleep, sat up and stretched, affecting a giant yawn. “You’ve over-extended yourself, dear... I haven’t seen you sleep like that for ages.”

It was true that Celebrimbor still felt strange and over-extended, as if he had been wearing one of the rings Annatar loved crafting so well. A wickedly strong one, at that. Was he wearing a ring? It would explain how off he’d felt last night and this morning. He examined his fingers and toes, but found no new jewelry on any part of him.

When Annatar had first come to him, he had offered up a ring to him, which Celebrimbor had accepted as proof of the Maia’s superior skills. But then, Celebrimbor had been eager to accept him -- all of him. Annatar inflamed his curiosity and inspired him to creative heights. He was beautiful, distracting -- dazzling. He understood Celebrimbor and sympathized with the injustice at always having to apologize for being a Fëanorian and all that entailed.

“Do not take on other people’s guilt on yourself,” he had advised Celebrimbor early on. “You are not the person who made you and you cannot pay for their mistakes.”

“They are gone,” Celebrimbor replied. “I could never reverse the harm they did.”

“Then do not try,” Annatar replied with a smile. As if it was that simple -- but Celebrimbor knew he understood that it wasn’t. Sadly, Annatar said, “It is true, we hang on to those who harm us, long after they themselves have gone.”

“Who could have harmed you?” Celebrimbor asked, curious. He knew Annatar was a Maia and mighty in both strength and knowledge, for all that he appeared before Celebrimbor as an Noldorin Elf -- albeit one who favored Finarfin more than Fëanor.

A bold choice, but Annatar told him that, of all the princes of Noldor, it was Finrod who impressed him the most. This endeared him to Celebrimbor further, for he had always been fond of Finrod himself.

“Never mind that,” Annatar said. He reached out and grasped Celebrimbor’s chin, tilting up his head and examining him critically, like he was an interesting gemstone. “We have only met but I feel as though I know you well, Celebrimbor.”

“I feel it too,” Celebrimbor admitted, drinking in Annatar’s burning gaze. How was it possible that he, who could know someone for for centuries and still not consider them a friend, should feel such swift kinship with a stranger?

Annatar said that he knew him and Celebrimbor believed it. He felt as though he knew Annatar too. They shared common hurts, though Celebrimbor did not know the details of Annatar’s lingering sadness as perfectly as Annatar seemed to know his.

And Celebrimbor was so very lonely. He had been since his friend, Narvi, had died.

How strange it all had been…

“Celebrimbor,” Annatar said, pulling Celebrimbor back to the present. “Stay with me a little longer.”

“I’m needed at the forge.”

“You are always needed. Let me fuss over you a little.” He smiled when Celebrimbor turned toward him, his expression opening up like a flower. It seemed that Annatar had decided on the singularly effective type of attack: affection.

He knew Celebrimbor was weak to it, always had been. When he was a child and knew no better, he would often climb atop his grandfather’s back and demand a ride. He would not do this for his father, who would not suffer such liberties on his person. But Fëanor was different. His grandfather was not afraid to show his love. Celebrimbor had done that for far longer than was seemly for a prince of the realm.

When finally Fëanor had told him to stop, he had known his childhood was over.

So, yes, Celebrimbor was weak to physical acts of affection and love. He was, perhaps, even starved for it.

And Annatar knew that. He cupped Celebrimbor’s face in his hands, his blunt fingertips nonetheless digging into his skin even as he stroked it. Pleasure and pain, mixed.

His words followed suit. “Dearest moon-calf,” he crooned. “Silly boy. Foolish forgemaster. Why do you struggle against me so? Have I not been the best companion to you, in every way? Why do you hold back? Do you not trust me?”

Ordinarily, Celebrimbor would say yes. He would offer reasurrences of his love. People liked that sort of thing. They expected it. Annatar had told him that. If Celebrimbor had known such things earlier, perhaps his life would’ve been different. Perhaps he would’ve been able to woo Galadriel into staying in Eregion or --

With a sigh, Celebrimbor slipped out of Annatar’s caress and out of bed entirely. He avoided looking at Annatar, still resting in bed, his hair mussed around him like a golden storm. An appealing picture, but not --

A real one.

Or rather -- Annatar could be exactly what he said, and yet still not be telling the truth, not really. It was as if he was walking slowly from a long and peculiar dream. He looked over to where Annatar was sitting now, combing out his hair. It was as if his vision had cleared, and he could see Annatar as if for the first time.

Doubts began to rise up in him, questions that he had not allowed himself to think of, slow realizations swiftly becoming convictions. He had been sleeping but now he was awake.

He had awakened to the realization that he was in a horror story.

The one he had loved and trusted --

“What are you thinking about, Celebrimbor?” Annatar asked him, head tilted to the side.

Celebrimbor forced himself to smile. “Just some future projects, dear.”

“Oh? Care to share?”

“No,” Celebrimbor said. He pressed a finger to his lips. “They’re a secret, for now.”