the quality of mercy by simaetha

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

You know it's a stupid thing to do. It's just that all of your alternatives seem even worse.

 

 

 

You - haven't exactly told anyone about your plans. In point of fact, you can imagine vividly just what anyone you told them to would say - it's not as if there's any real reason to tell anyone else when you've already had both sides of that argument in your own head, repeatedly, and you know it's a bad idea. You just - can't seem to do anything else.

 

 

 

(You think back to Galadriel's look when you had to tell her about Annatar, and - it wasn't even that she blamed you, so much as the pain clear in her face, the realisation that a world you'd thought you could make better was going to drag her into the same battles all over again.

 

 

 

You can imagine the same tone in her voice, easily, if you told her about this. And Galadriel never actually liked Annatar; whereas you - the fact that you know him doesn't make this seem like a better idea. You were never under any illusion that he was kind.)

 

 

 

So, anyway - you don't try to get away.

 

 

 

You could. You could leave, run for Khazad-dûm or Lindon - nobody's getting into the Dwarrowdelf unless the Dwarves want them to, you and Narvi made sure of that, and unhappy as Gil-galad might be with you right now, he wouldn't turn you away if you went to him for refuge. You wouldn't - you don't want to leave Ost-in-Edhil, but you've seen enough valiant gestures that ended in mud and defeat to realise how rarely bravery is rewarded.

 

 

 

And you know that Annatar wants the Rings.

 

 

 

You know - that much was clear, in that awful moment of realisation, when that shock of power struck through all of your own creations, the One Ring, ash nazg, terrible and compelling; an instant when you tore the Ring you were wearing from your own hand before you could stop and think and be lost, caught by a strength that was at once familiar and like nothing you had ever felt before; that had ultimately only one purpose and one meaning: all this is mine.

 

 

 

The memory still makes you shudder. It would have been so easy to just - give in.

 

 

 

You are not going to just give in. Just because - just because you're making the choices you are doesn't mean you're not angry at Annatar. Talk about stupid decisions; you'd think someone older than the world might have learned to cope with not getting everything his own way in a way that didn't involve creating coercive Works of Power and starting wars.

 

 

 

You still sometimes find the whole thing hard to believe. It's - the armies, the invasion, it's not as if you could manage denial about exactly how bad the situation is. You just still can't - see how you got from here to there, what the steps were that took you from your closest friendship to your creations rendered corrupted and unusable, to war and destruction and ruin.

 

 

 

Whatever happens after this, there are things Annatar has done that are - unforgiveable. People are already dead.

 

 

 

But - you really do know him.

 

 

 

You spent centuries working together. You made the first Rings with him - you couldn't have made them without him, any more than he could have made them without you. You collaborated; you argued; you challenged each other.

 

 

 

You both wanted to help Middle-earth, to take the ruins left behind by the War of Wrath and make something brighter and better, something that was yours - all of yours, for everyone who lived there - and not the undying, unchanging walled gardens of Valinor.

 

 

 

That's not the sort of thing you can just - throw away. And you don't think Annatar can, either. You think he's wrong - you don't think the One Ring can actually be a good way to accomplish anything, not from that brief, unforgettable moment in which its power washed over you - but you don't think he's stopped trying.

 

 

 

You think it's worth making an effort to - to try and trust him; to believe what he says about his intentions.

 

 

 

You're still his friend, even after everything. It didn't just stop being true.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

"But they should be mine, Tyelpe," Annatar says, in the tones of someone being sweetly reasonable in the face of irrational opposition. "You couldn't have made them without me, and I can use them - especially now."

 

 

 

He smiles, brightly, raising a hand to show the Ring on his own finger, glittering in the light, a sun-gold gleam of power that you can feel wearing at the edges of your own mind, an inexorable burning force.

 

 

 

You do your best to ignore it.

 

 

 

It's been a long day. It's still late afternoon, but you've barely slept, not since that first rush of attack that came hours before dawn; the pale sunlight slanting in through the glass-and-leadwork lattice of the window panes seems almost unreal, displaced from some other time and location. You're being kept in an old workshop, not far from where you were taken; you might have called it disused, but you think from the scuff marks on the pale stone of the floor that looted might be a better word.

 

 

 

It still makes you angry. You - might have let yourself be taken (that heart-stopping moment of terror and determination when you met his eyes and, deliberately, dropped your sword) but you didn't let yourself lose the battle. You sold the fall of your city dearly; you - even thought there was a chance you might win, for a while.

 

 

 

Still. You - accept that the fact Annatar himself so clearly wanted very badly to capture you alive is at best only a faint, tenuous sign of hope; the point at which you're relieved by anything that involved your home being invaded first is clearly the point at which you've lost sight of any actual reason to be optimistic.

 

 

 

You certainly wouldn't have chosen to have your first real discussion with Annatar in almost two centuries while tied to a chair. But under the circumstances, you'll take what you can get.

 

 

 

"I can't actually tell if you've convinced yourself you're telling the truth or not," you say, "but just because I learned from you really doesn't mean that everything I make in future is yours. Not unless you're willing to give me the same benefit - in which case, fine, hand that over and I'll tell you anything you want to know about the Three."

 

 

 

Annatar narrows his eyes.

 

 

 

"The Ring," he says firmly, "is mine. But - listen, Tyelpe, this doesn't have to be difficult; do you think I haven't thought this through? If you give me the Three, I can fix everything - isn't that what you always wanted? To use them to heal this world, after everything that's happened?" He - half-smiles, ironic. "I accept this probably doesn't look like a promising start, but I can still make it all work, you know."

 

 

 

"It doesn't look like - " You pause, reining yourself in, trying to shove down the surge of rage and grief that threatens to overtake your words. "Annatar, you can't bring back the dead. It's - are you not listening to yourself? It's gone too far. You can't - this isn't the way to help anything, not anymore."

 

 

 

"I am going to fix everything -"

 

 

 

"I know - I know." You meet his gaze with your own; his face looks - set, intent, eyes the same bright glittering gold as his Ring. "Annatar, it's - I know you meant well. That - that you do mean well. But this isn't the right way. And you can - it doesn't have to be like this," you say. "I can't believe I have to have this conversation with you while I'm tied to a chair, can you not see that there's something wrong here?"

 

 

 

"...I accept this isn't really the situation I'd imagined meeting you in again," Annatar says, a faint rueful smile flickering across his face; and for a moment you - could almost forget all the reasons you have to be angry with him, all the reasons you can't just fall back at once into your old easy companionship, the rest set aside. "Look, there's an easy way to sort all this out, Tyelpe. If you agree to help me, we can go forward from there; but I do need you to give me that much first."

 

 

 

"I - fine," you say. "I will help, actually. Let me up and we can both work out how to contact people about making a truce; I know that - that we started preparing for war as well, it wasn't just you." You do think there's a considerable difference, in fact, between preparing for the worst and actually invading, but - this isn't the moment. "You can still stop this, Annatar. It's not - I'm not going to pretend I'm happy with you right now, but -"

 

 

 

You hesitate, but it's still true, despite everything, no matter what Annatar's done.

 

 

 

"We're friends, aren't we?" you say. "Annatar, this - this doesn't go anywhere good. Let me help you get out of this."

 

 

 

You meet his gaze again, as he looks back at you, and - it is unhappiness you can see in his face, you think; it's not as if he wanted to end up here, either.

 

 

 

The moment stretches out between you, a precarious balance that could tip either way, and you - find yourself holding your breath, hoping beyond everything that he listens to you, that you can still reach him, that out of all this waste there's still something between you that hasn't been lost -

 

 

 

Something - firms, in his expression; you can see him steeling himself.

 

 

 

"If you were really my friend," Annatar says, "you'd want to help me win."

 

 

 

He - runs a hand through his hair; takes a step back, in an instant of quick, restless motion.

 

 

 

"And - the thing is, Tyelpe, I really need the Three. So you're going to have to tell me, before anything else."

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

You - genuinely don't understand how this is happening.

 

 

 

You're not delusional, you know this is real, but the situation feels - like a nightmare; like a bad dream you're caught inside and can't seem to wake out of; you never thought -

 

 

 

Surely Annatar can't - wouldn't -

 

 

 

The first cut really does feel unreal, for a moment, until the pain starts.

 

 

 

You need to think sensibly, you manage to think, fighting against the rage and horror that threaten to take you over - and, beneath them, a cold current of sick fear. If you can still talk him round - you need to think about what might be effective -

 

 

 

"Just tell me, Tyelpe," Annatar says, almost sympathetically, watching your reactions. A thin line of blood traces its way down from the knife-blade and across his hand; he doesn't seem to notice. "It's not as if I want to have to do this."

 

 

 

"The hell with that," you snap. "Just don't do it, then. You are literally unbelievable, do you actually listen to any of the words that come out of your mouth or is the concept of actual communication too difficult for you? Do I need to use fewer syllables? At some point in the last couple of centuries, did you just forget how to speak Quenya - "

 

 

 

"Well, just tell me where the Rings are, then! I don't - why can't you just - "

 

 

 

"Right, because you're being so persuasive about your good intentions right now, what an excellent idea this looks like, Annatar, what are you going to do if I don't tell you, do you actually have a plan here at all - "

 

 

 

You stop, panting for breath as you glare at Annatar.

 

 

 

"If you want me to be helpful then you are going about this the wrong way," you say. "I can't believe I have to explain this to you."

 

 

 

Annatar - glares back, the light from the window catching in his hair and glinting back from the knife in his hand, mirror-bright steel stained thinly with red; the sun has started to sink lower towards the horizon now, casting angled rays across the bare floor.

 

 

 

"You haven't exactly been giving me much choice, Tyelpe," he says. "I tried persuading you - I don't understand why you won't just listen to me, you say you - that you still believe in everything we were trying to achieve together, but now that I'm making it happen you don't seem to want anything to do with it. Well, I'm going to make it work, whether you believe me or not."

 

 

 

"Annatar," you say, "can you not see that this is just not the way to achieve anything? If you - if we still want the same things - "

 

 

 

You pause, trying to swallow back something you refuse to acknowledge as grief.

 

 

 

"If we still want the same things," you say, "then you can't get them this way. This is wrong."

 

 

 

And -

 

 

 

You can see Annatar's eyes softening as he looks at you; the thing is that - that he really does look as if he - as if he -

 

 

 

He raises the hand that isn't holding the knife to cup the side of your face in his hand, the touch gentle, and you can't stop yourself from leaning into it, just a little, closing your eyes for a moment at the warmth of his palm against your skin.

 

 

 

Because you did miss him, these past centuries; because what you wanted wasn't just to stop him, but to find out what went wrong, to try and mend everything broken and ruined that lay between you; to have your friend back, the person you thought you knew almost as well as you knew yourself, the fellow-craftsman you worked together with for so long and so well; the one person you liked better, while it lasted, than anyone else you have ever known.

 

 

 

His loss is something you can still scarcely acknowledge to yourself as having taken place; as a disaster that is still happening to you, that keeps happening, terrible and incomprehensible; that you still cannot understand, cannot reconcile with all that came before it.

 

 

 

"Just - don't do this," you say, softly. "Annatar. Please."

 

 

 

"I - Tyelpe," Annatar says, his voice catching on your name. "I wish we were still friends. I wish you weren't making me hurt you."

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

There are some things no love or friendship or affection can survive.

 

 

 

You try every way you can to - to not think about it, disassociate yourself from the things that are happening to your body; to think of it as your body, as a thing separate from you, that - that terrible things are happening to, while you yourself are elsewhere -

 

 

 

You can't - how long can you keep doing this? You want it to end, but you can't - it would be so easy to just say it, you want to tell him, you're so tired and it hurts, you can hardly think of anything except how much it hurts -

 

 

 

The One Ring burns on his hand, a bright stab of agony behind your eyes every time you catch sight of it in the corner of your vision.

 

 

 

You don't know how long it takes.

 

 

 

"The Rings, Tyelpe," Annatar is saying insistently. "Just tell me where they are and we can set it all right, I promise, I won't have to do this anymore."

 

 

 

You - swallow, your mouth wet with the taste of your own blood.

 

 

 

"Set it right?" you spit out, your words slurred with exhaustion. "You can't - you can't set anything right, Sauron, of course you - of course you haven't changed -"

 

 

 

"Tyelpe -"

 

 

 

"All you can do," you say, "is ruin everything, you're destroying everything we worked for, you stupid, selfish - "

 

 

 

"You - I'm ruining things?" Annatar snaps, and it's finally rage you see on his face, at the last. "I'm the only person who's even trying - I'm going to - "

 

 

 

And how can he pretend that - that -

 

 

 

"You're going to - what? What do you think you can achieve?" you ask. "You're not going to get anything you wanted from this - Abhorred One, Lord of Wolves, I hope you like what you end up with. Everything you touch turns to blood and ashes. I hope you find that out. I hope you learn that lesson and choke on it."

 

 

 

"How dare you - "

 

 

 

"What else can you do to me?" you ask. Something in your chest hurts when you laugh, a wet grinding pain that makes your vision grey out at the edges.

 

 

 

And what else is there - what else can he take from you, when he's already thrown away everything you ever shared, when Ost-in-Edhil lies in smoking rubble around you, when he took your creations from you and twisted them without ever laying a hand upon them, when everything that lay between you is shattered and ruined, love and friendship made into this futile, broken waste -

 

 

 

"I think," says Annatar, his voice cold and clipped with fury, "that you're going to find out."