Shadows by Luxa

Chapter 1

“Who are you, Celebrimbor?”

The question was asked with a twist of soft lips. This Elf was wrong. The air shimmered around him. His skin glowed, but not with the light of the West…but with what light, he could not tell. Perhaps it was something greater, but what could be greater than the light of the Valar?

The light of the Silmarils, a whispering voice in the back of his mind reminded him. He’d seen them once, his grandfather beckoning him close with a soft smile (his eyes hard as he gripped the handsomely carved box tightly, too tightly, but he didn’t like to remember that part) and showing him the gleaming jewels within. You could never forget the Silmarils once you had seen them, and no matter how he labored he knew he’d never even come close to replicating them.

The shadows of his father and grandfather loomed as he picked his words carefully.

“I am a Fëanorian.”

The smile he was given in return did not soothe him, but the sharp pain in his mind made him forget the ache in his chest. It was enough, and he accepted this Elf into his home, his mind ablaze with the possibilities.

“Who are you, Celebrimbor?”

The Elf’s fingers glittered with rings that Celebrimbor had crafted. Every surface in the room was covered in product- no, in his crafts, his art, because while he could never close his fist around the genius of his forefathers he was creating worthwhile things, beautiful things, things that his people would look at and rejoice for, for a new age had begun for them, and all because of this beautiful and dangerous Elf who made his veins fill with a fire unknown to him before.

“I am a smith.”

A hand reached up to brush his cheek, smooth and cold, so cold, against the heat of the forge. He could see little but the red hot forge when those lips grazed his ear, whispering, “You are more than that to me.”

“Who are you, Celebrimbor?”

It took so long for him to realize that Annatar’s mouth spilled little but deceit. Long enough for his country to crumble before his eyes. Long enough for him to lose himself in eyes like the stars and honey-sweet lips so utterly that when he finally woke from his blind stupor it was on the eve of battle. He would find out it was all an illusion in time (and he would pay, oh would he pay), but right then, right there, Tyelpe stood in the gardens as the Deceiver pressed his lips to his and he believed every word ever whispered to him by an Elf whose eyes glowed with either love or hate, he never could tell.

“I am yours.”