Emotions-- A series of vignettes by MisbehavingMaiar

Second-hand Embarrassment, Exhaustion

Celebrimbor learns a lesson in discretion, and elsewhere a terrible alchemy is wrought; caution in both cases comes too little too late. 

(Shades of shipping: Annatar/Celebrimbor) (Mild sexual content. The mildest.)

SECOND-HAND EMBARRASSMENT:

"There is an outdated belief amongst some elves (perhaps the Sindar; I know not where such backward notions originated— for it cannot be from Aman) that any sort of expenditure of passion leads to a net loss in creative genius, or even in mental clarity. I cannot tell you how far removed from the truth this silliness is.” Annatar laughed brightly. “You should never be afraid, or ashamed to feel your work. Here—” He touched a fingertip to his pupil’s forehead gently, “or here,” he put a hand over his heart, “…or even here.” he smirked, and clutched himself briefly through the fabric of his silver robes. 

Celebrimbor’s throat moved, and he nodded stiffly, pressing his hips against the anvil in a way that suggested he was trying not to draw any attention to his desperation. The fey maia’s mismatched agate eyes slid over him once, knowingly, with cat-like smugness. His student’s longing was as obvious as the attempt to conceal it. 

"I see you have no difficulty summoning ardor for your work.” Annatar smiled with a touch of pity at the jewel smith’s violent blushing. “Shall we proceed with the lesson?” 

EXHAUSTION:

Sauron wades into the volcano’s furnace, a great mountain of gold in his hands. 

Gold from the throne of Utumno. Gold from his Master’s seat.
The mountain’s fire is for him, and not the Work.

He sheds whatever mannish skin he has worn for the benefit of others. He gathers every thread of power to himself; glorious and infernal, born of fires that know no light. With all the force the earth crushing coal into diamond, he squeezes the ingot in his hands— it drips from his fingers and groans as it’s compressed. His back and arms strain, he sweats fire as he forces his will into the precious wheel, and all the while the air shakes and the earth rumbles with the Words.  

As the gold reduces, so does he. 

He feels a tug from his center— a thread spinning out into the wheel, faster and faster— he unravels, and the weight of the ring grows. 

Too much! Too quickly! Turn back! He panics, but holds tight to the Work with every ounce control he can muster. His muscles burn.  The flow is stopped, words of binding limn the metal, and he feels triumph!-- Triumph, and then vertigo; weightlessness followed by nauseating gravity.

 As he falls he sees his life flash through a pinhole of gold. 

They strike the earth together, the ring and the dark lord. 

From molten glory to a slab of pitch in the shape of a man, he picks himself up, dripping, smoking.

His body raises from the ground by inches. It is heavy. He quivers. He breathes like one drowning— choking on the slag of his metamorphosis. 

Blindly he gropes until his blackened hand meets a hard, hollow weight.

He can barely lift it, though it is a small thing. Between his thumb and finger he feels the thrumming promise of its power, and he bears his teeth— metallic, cold, and empty.