Deed of Gift by Sleepless_Malice

Chapter 1

[Beta] – Thank you OohLaGalion for doing such a wonderful job with this story. THANK YOU <3

[Warning] - The alchemy/chemistry in this story is based on an actual chemical experiment. Do not try at home ;)

Read Chapter 1

 

Deed of Gift 

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Actually, the edit is based on gifs. CLICK (edit on tumblr)

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Just as predicted, the rain came, although much heavier than it had been expected, and earlier, too. In afternoon the sun disappeared behind enormous clouds that hung dangerously against the mountains, casting the striving town of Ost-in-Edhil into a freezing shadow, and soon after, rain began to hammer against the brightly colored window panes.

Usually, nights like these were the closest Celebrimbor got to peace, opening the knot of his restless mind — with the window partly open, embracing the chill of night after too many days of hot humidity, his senses came back to normal. What Celebrimbor savored most, though, was the scent that came with the rain: an earthy odor, a particularly vivid smell he had been addicted to since his childhood, although it varied slightly based on location.

Tirion had smelt entirely different than the lands around Lake Mithrim, and Eregion was incomparable to both. From Annatar, the stranger who had appeared several months ago, offering his service to the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Celebrimbor had learned why that was: the raindrops liberated organic molecules from the grooves and porous spaces in the rock. It absolutely made sense, Celebrimbor reflected, stretching against the bed. Tirion, fair and white, built from the finest marble, was so unlike the dusty soil surrounding his grandsire’s encampment in Lake Mithrim, or with the pitch-black rocks from which Eregion was built. Despite the beauty of the soothing night, Celebrimbor cursed the rain, as nothing was as usual today. A clandestine encounter, scheduled for midnight, awaited him.

Although he knew that Annatar was within the walls of Ost-in-Edhil, Celebrimbor had not seen him for days, and if he was honest he had wondered about his whereabouts perhaps a little too much, especially at night when he couldn't sleep. The message he had received, written on clean parchment with a hasty hand, was cryptic, like Annatar himself. Yet deep inside Celebrimbor a strange excitement flared, coiling and twisting so hard and horribly intense that rest, despite exhaustion, would not come to him.

Celebrimbor jumped at the sound of a sudden crash of thunder, not even a second after bright flashes of light had illuminated his room in strange twilight. The storm was right above his head now, he knew without calculating, having learned the way to judge the distance of a thunderstorm from his father during the perilous journey across the raging sea. ‘Count the heartbeats between the lightning flashes and the loud rumble of thunder,’ his father had said, pointing towards the pitch-black sky, ‘then multiply the time with three hundred and thirty; the result is the distance between us and the raging storm.’ Astonishment had flittered across Celebrimbor’s face back then. How did his father know that? There had not been thunderstorms in the lands they had forsaken, for better or for worse, and yet his words proved to be correct.

The storm was still raging outside as Celebrimbor donned his hooded cloak over black doeskin breeches and a plain silver tunic. His hair was freshly combed and braided, two small braids on each side, fixed together at the back of his head so that the strands would not fall into his eyes as he worked. Since the occasion was a private one, his mithril circlet was left lying together with a sapphire ring on the little table besides the mirror. Celebrimbor wasn’t unhappy about it. Foremost he was a hard-working craftsman, then the head of a prospering guild, and only lastly was he ruler — a lord. At least that was how he perceived himself, how he wished to be seen, although Annatar had often told him that it was unwise.

 

*

Sometimes Ost-in-Edhil appeared as if it was haunted. Howling winds raced through the streets, bringing the clashing rain right into Celebrimbor’s face as the hood flapped backwards. Although Celebrimbor realized how ridiculous it was, knowing every stone where people sought their happiness in his striving city, each dark corner seemed to hold mystery and death, the veil of night muffling whispered secrets in the quiet. Lightning arched across the sky, and a pungent, burning odor, faintly resembling the smell of bleach, hung heavy in the night air as Celebrimbor fought his way through the darkness, the little stones of the pavement cracking beneath his boots. He had always mistakenly associated the smell with sulphur, somehow connecting thunderstorms with volcanoes, until one day Annatar told him it was not so — that ozone, an allotrope of simple oxygen was the culprit. Another row of lightning bathed the sleeping city to its roots in its twilight glow, the thunder that followed echoing through the towering walls and the closest peaks as if deep down below, far off from where Celebrimbor stood, a mighty forge sprang to life. A chill shook him to his very bones, and he cursed himself for his stupidity.

With quick steps he bridged the last few meters towards the iron door, which lead to the workshops of the master smiths of the guild, trying to evade the forming puddles, when in truth it would not have made any difference; by then, Celebrimbor was soaking wet, the coat hardly sufficient to shield against the blowing winds. His black curls clung to his cheek and neck, raindrops running down his face, the coat and down his breeches. He must have made quite a miserable sight, Celebrimbor thought when at last he stepped inside the torchlit corridor, shaking his head just the way his uncle’s dog had always done. The warmth inside offered its embrace, wrapping itself tightly about Celebrimbor’s shaking body. 

 

*

Annatar’s workshop was located at the far end of the corridor, small in comparison to Celebrimbor’s own, yet equally well equipped — and what Annatar lacked, more often than not, he built himself. The guild of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain prospered, successfully trading with elves and dwarves alike, and so Ost-in-Edhil thrived and prospered. It attracted new inhabitants on their quest for happiness and fortune.

By decree, the city stood open to anybody willing to help it flourish, as did the guild, if certain perquisites were fulfilled. Exceptions were almost never made. Celebrimbor could count them on one hand, and Annatar certainly had been one, although his acceptance had not been unconditional. His contract of acceptance, written on a scroll of parchment, soft and flexible, and sealed with wax thereafter, had been restricted to a year, during which he had to prove himself loyal to the guild and the realm, and worthy of the honor bestowed upon him.

Mistrust had reigned in the minds of Celebrimbor’s fellow smiths, and his decision had been questioned openly, something that had gnawed at Celebrimbor, for although quite familiar with criticism, he did not take it all too well. Nevertheless he had endured it, just as he had vowed to himself that he would, for the sake of Eregion’s open discussion culture, which he had established as soon as the walls were erected. However, his people' worries came as no surprise to him as  he was all too familiar with distrust — a trait he had inherited from his father, along with so many others, no matter how hard he fought against it.

“What you desire above all else is knowledge. I can grant you what you seek: to solve the mysteries of matter, Telperinquar.” With these words, the humble stranger had introduced himself to Celebrimbor after Eregion’s domed hall had emptied itself, after he had offered his service to the guild. A strange suspicion had filled Celebrimbor then. A stranger knowing far too well what he craved in life from its very beginning, was against all odds. Yet a mark was severely hit. Celebrimbor’s striving for knowledge had sprung to life at an age, even his father had told him that he was still too young to use the forge. Oh how disappointed he had been then. Celebrimbor still remembered the cold tears he had shed against his hot cheeks, his body shaking and trembling from exhaustion. The thirst to know and learn was never quenched in Celebrimbor’s heart.

Many months later, even after most his fellow smiths have made their peace with the strange guest — an emissary from the Valar, as Annatar had proclaimed — suspicion still reigned in Celebrimbor’s mind, giving Annatar more attention than perhaps was wise. More often than not he found his eyes glued to the white robes Annatar wore most often, watching every step he took in the strange hope of discovering betrayal or conspiracy sooner or later. It never happened. Instead, Celebrimbor grew amazed at how naturally Annatar adopted the customs of the land he now lived in and abided its laws. An open culture of knowledge was lived by each member of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and much to Celebrimbor’s own amazement, Annatar lived it just as everybody else; he would often stroll through the corridors, each step punctuated with a loud click from his shoes, offering help wherever it was needed, assisting and teaching techniques which were unheard of until then.

Without a doubt, the work of his guild had risen to heights previously unknown under the stranger’s tutelage, so that finally Celebrimbor cast his mistrust aside — or rather, forced himself to. Many a sleepless night came with it, though, the moon waxing and waning in those endless hours during which Celebrimbor cursed his suspicion, until the last doubts vanished as Annatar offered knowledge surpassing Celebrimbor’s wildest dreams. It was there, dangling right before his eyes — all he had to do was to take the bait, accepting what Annatar offered freely.

In the end he did: guidance and counsel, no matter of what sort, was always very welcomed by Celebrimbor. Of late, he was often a guest in Annatar’s workshop, and in return the Maia could often be found sharing the evenings among Ost-in-Edhil’s master smiths. It even went further than that: from time to time he would sit with only Celebrimbor himself in the torchlit hall, sharing food, wine, and laughter, discussing new projects and improvement of old ones until the sun rose yet again. Odd as it may  have appeared, and exactly as Celebrimbor perceived it himself, faint notes of friendship, built on understanding and, yes, trust, began to blossom amidst their arduous activities in the forge.

Why all that came to his mind right then, wandering down the corridor towards where Annatar had promised to await him, Celebrimbor could not say.

‘I summon thee,’ he recalled the words the message had contained with a chill, which he immediately blamed on the cold seeping through his wet clothes, being well aware of the lie he kept telling himself. His father would never have such insolence slip — a lord could hardly be summoned. All the more reason to ignore it, Celebrimbor decided. Yet undeniable was the fact that of late, he had noted a certain kind of strange possessiveness on Annatar’s part. The humble stranger was not so humble anymore; instead, he grew quite demanding in a very odd way, and it made Celebrimbor's skin prickle. At times he did not understand himself anymore. He was nervous around Annatar, intrigued by him, perhaps even charmed by him. To Celebrimbor it felt like a mockery that he, who lacked any experience where love and affection was concerned, with knowledge hardly encompassing more than awkward fumbling under Aman’s unspoilt sky should be interested in another romantically. On so many levels his knowledge continuously grew to heights he had never dared to imagine, yet here, he could not shine. Not that Celebrimbor thought he had any chances with Annatar. Yet new excitement flared nevertheless as he bridged the final steps that led to Annatar’s workshop, half expecting its orange glow to seep into the corridor, its warmth wrapping itself around his shivering form.

It never happened, though. Much to Celebrimbor’s surprise — and annoyance — the door was closed.

The excitement he had previously felt turned into choking disappointment, which stung so horribly, assisting the cold in shaking poor Celebrimbor’s body in its tremors until it transformed into anger, fierce and boiling, chasing away the cold. When at first Celebrimbor had thought he had been summoned for nothing, realizing that Annatar was inside, given away by the clash of steel against steel, his anger turned into rage. The decree signed by all the master smiths of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, signed by Annatar without question as Celebrimbor vividly recalled, strictly forbade barred doors. Prominent above all else in Celebrimbor’s heart was the wish to create a working environment of open doors, for he believed that combined effort and knowledge was beneficial both for each individual and for the realm itself. Due to abundant trade, the wealth of Eregion grew. Yet there was more to it: His father’s unhealthy tendency towards secrecy and scheming had left its mark on Celebrimbor without a doubt. Over the years Celebrimbor had come to loathe it. He had loathed it both in his sire and grandsire, and so hurtfully he was reminded of it right then. In the end, both had appeared to be driven by a distrust he could not comprehend; a compulsion on the level of premeditation. As a result, old bonds and friendships were broken; alliances lost and never restored.

Celebrimbor's past was his bane and, at the same time, his greatest opportunity. 

The moment he raised his fist to knock against the iron door, demanding immediate entrance, it opened of its own accord with a loud swing, almost crashing right into his body. The heat that escaped the room, sneaking past Annatar’s form, slapped Celebrimbor violently across the face, and the acrid stench of chemicals that followed the wave of heat knocked him almost breathless, wrapping its fingers around his constricting throat. 

“Come in,” said Annatar, ushering him inside with wide gestures. Coughing, without a word of greeting, Celebrimbor followed Annatar’s invitation and stepped inside, trying to keep his emotions at bay — not an easy task, as the entire workshop seemed to have been altered in the days when Annatar hid himself. The room was sparsely lit by firelight alone, glowing orange indeed — but not from the smoldering iron. Where once Annatar’s strange aestheticism had reigned, chaos had taken over. Scrolls of parchment lay scattered across the table, and several more were pinned to the wall, inscribed with formulas and letters Celebrimbor had never seen before. Black sorcery, a voice in his head called out to him, devouring and threatening, speaking to his fears of old; of betrayal and hurt, of empty dreams he had been chasing. Everything he saw in the workshop was so horribly unlike Annatar, Celebrimbor noted, fighting to tear his gaze away from the bubbling and hissing flasks — red, and blue, and green — that were boiling over the little fires, emitting their poisonous fumes into the air.

‘Sorcery. Summoned. Customs. Blood. You are your father’s son.’  And among the riddles of his mind, Annatar’s voice began to mingle. “The reason I —”

Celebrimbor cut him short. “I do not care for what you meant.” This time, he would not be so easily swayed. “The laws forbid —”

“A great many things, yes.” Annatar’s tone was mild. He smiled that persuasive smile of his, placing a bejeweled finger against Celebrimbor’s lips to silence him. “Laws bestowed upon the land by yourself, my lord. Is that not so?”

‘Not quite.’ The masters of the guild had made the rules together. “Yes.” Much to Celebrimbor’s surprise his voice did not waver.

Another smile flashed across Annatar’s face. “I thought as much. Then tell me, does it not tempt to you to break the laws every once in a while? For me…?” Apparently, he made a face, as Annatar paused and then continue with a laugh, shrugging off all accusation off him. “No, no, no, not in such terrible ways as you might immediately think...yet some things must be made in secrecy.”

Celebrimbor dug his nails into his palms. “Sorcery.”

Genuine hurt flickered across Annatar’s face. “You are gravely mistaken,” he said, raising his other hand up towards Celebrimbor’s face, “and I must apologize if I troubled your heart.” Within his palms Annatar held a transparent sphere filled with some kind of clear liquid, lapping around a bit of greyish metal. Narrowing his eyes, Celebrimbor took a closer look. The metal resembled Ost-in-Edhil’s looming towers against the sky with accurate precision. Yet there was more to it still, he realized when Annatar shook the globe lightly and golden crystals began to swirl within, catching and reflecting the light from the dancing fires. Celebrimbor gasped in awe; he had not seen anything so beautiful in many ages. It reminded him of golden snow, flittering through the air as the last rays of sun bathed the city in a surreal golden glow. He could not tear is eyes away as sincere regret upon the harsh accusations he had said before began to bubble inside him. The words of explanation tumbling from Annatar’s lips were lost to him, becoming distant, faint whispers among the rumbling thunder as Celebrimbor watched the swaying flakes sail down. “The other day you said your paperweight shattered and from previous talks I remember well how dear it was to you, my lord. A humble replica I offer you as a gift. Yes, I am aware of that it can never replace the broken original, which was so dear to your heart, but perhaps you might find joyance in it nevertheless. Although, I must confess, such harsh words from my lord’s lips have stung terribly.”

Celebrimbor took the gift with shaking hands, regretting everything he had said before. “Pardon me for my false accusations, I apologize with all my heart,” he said with equally shaking voice as he had never expected such kindness. After a while he asked, still staring at the sphere rather mesmerized, “Is it gold?”

Gold was costly, and despite the beauty of his new paperweight, using it would have been a waste of resources.

Annatar shook his head. “No. Please pardon my choice of words but I would never waste such precious material,” he explained, walking a few steps away from Celebrimbor towards a chair that stood right under the scribbled parchments. “The golden flakes are made from a material that is otherwise entirely without use. Would you want to try it yourself?” The same excitement Celebrimbor felt was audible in Annatar’s voice.

Curiosity lit Celebrimbor’s face. “How?”

With a content sound Annatar sat down in the chair, pointing towards the bench behind Celebrimbor. “I will explain it to you. Everything that is needed still remains from earlier today.”

Celebrimbor looked over his shoulder, his gaze landing on two jars with white powders, each labeled with letters and numbers that told him exactly nothing, and a flask containing a colorless liquid, before he looked back at Annatar. It was hard to imagine that something so beautiful could come from such ordinary ingredients. Nevertheless, he turned around, awaiting Annatar’s instructions all too eagerly.

Annatar’s voice was calm and assured as he began to instruct Celebrimbor. “Dissolve the content of two spatulas of the powder standing on the right in approximately a hundredth of the same amount of water.”

With insecure hands Celebrimbor took a flask from the shelf above and poured water into it until it was half full before he added to it the white powder, resembling sugar or snow in its crystalline texture. Before he could look twice, was gone, completely dissolved.

“Next take the jar on the left, weighting in one and a half spatulas of the contents, and dissolve it in the water as well,” instructed Annatar, and so Celebrimbor did. It was plainly obvious that Annatar was speaking to him like he would to a child that had not the slightest idea of what it was doing. Perhaps it should have bothered him, Celebrimbor reflected, yet it did not. In fact he was grateful that Annatar avoided the arcane and secretive technical vocabulary he was so overly fond of. Celebrimbor would not have understood a word. The jar in his hand was cryptically labeled Pb(NO3)2, written in Annatar’s unusual handwriting with all of its swirls; he did as he was told.

In contrast to the other powder, the crystals stuck to each other rather heavily as he tried to measure it, giving Celebrimbor a bit of trouble. It also wasn’t as white as the other powder, which struck him. All salts he knew had the same shade of white. Or was he imagining things?  Celebrimbor’s thoughts were reeling, both from what he was doing and also from the fact that Annatar’s eyes seemed to be burning a hole in his back. Nervousness was bad enough, but now, being scrutinized Annatar made him feel very uncomfortable — cold and hot alike, like ice and fire battling in his veins, racing and coiling. Of late it seemed as the fire’s wildness always won. Yet the feeling wasn't entirely unpleasant.

Every now and then a lightning bolt would split the sky in two, and thunder would crackle shortly after, but Celebrimbor paid the storm no mind. Despite the effort and concentration the task at hand demanded, the work was oddly soothing.

Another soft instruction followed. “Now pour a few droplets of the first solution into the second.” And so Celebrimbor did. “Just so,” praised Annatar, prompting a faint blush on Celebrimbor’s cheeks, but the latter did not even notice it, enthralled as he was to observe how the colorless solution began to transform into a yellowish cloud.

“You are doing admirably well,” Annatar told him.

Admirably.

The words washed down Celebrimbor’s heated skin like sweet summer wine. They coiled in his mind, bringing forth memories of daydreams so vivid that they put everything to shame. In those dreams, which always seemed to come out of nowhere, Annatar had already told him so — while restraints of leather had adorned his wrists and silken cloth had veiled his vision. Gold, copper and silver, Celebrimbor thought, firelight glinting off Annatar’s hair and his calloused fingers, calloused from hard work, itch to tease through it, to test the strands between them whilst the storm still raged outside, threatening to swallow the entire world. And yet it did not matter. All that mattered were Annatar’s hands, his lips, his uneven breathing against Celebrimbor’s ear as he tangled his fingers in his hair, his body pressed against his own.

Over the rim of his cup Annatar watched him, golden eyes glittering in the orange glow of the candles, answering all of Celebrimbor’s doubts and regrets. Barely contained excitement flitted across his face as Annatar smiled brightly — that smile that made his stomach twist and his innards burn.

“Now add the rest,” said Annatar, bringing Celebrimbor back to bleak reality.

With one hasty movement, Celebrimbor poured the solution into the other, forcing his fantasies to the back of his mind. There was no place for them, he decided, there never was, although his urge had become quite desperate.

A yellow slur began to form immediately inside the flask, bright like the sunflowers outside the city’s walls, wafting and dancing in the water as the flowers swayed in the gentle breeze.

Celebrimbor almost dropped the flask. “How?” he gasped in sheer astonishment.

With his knowledge he couldn’t explain what he saw; it didn’t make sense, none of it. How was it possible to change two colorless and clear solutions into a yellow precipitate, like golden rain, by means other than magic?

Smiling broadly, Annatar began to explain in a way that made Celebrimbor cling to his silky-smooth voice. “A simple transformation of chemical elements and compounds, dissociation of crystal structures and recombination of ions.”

With that, he pointed towards the scribbles on the wall behind him where it cryptically read:

‘2KI + Pb(NO3)2 +  H2O     - - >      2K+ / 2I- / 2NO3- / Pb2+      - - >      PbI2(ins.)   +   2K+   +   2NO3-‘

Celebrimbor saw, but did not comprehend, so Annatar went on. “The yellow color derives from lead iodide, which is, compared to the rest of salts in there, rather insoluble at the present temperatures and therefore precipices oh-so-beautifully. You see, it is not sorcery, but rather, ordinary chemistry.”

‘Ordinary, perhaps, yet no less intriguing or beautiful.’ Celebrimbor’s gaze shifted from the parchment back to the yellow color in his flask, lifting it in front of his face as he wondered if that is truly what swirled like snowflakes within the glass sphere. Annatar had implied that, but it did not look like it at all. The bright yellow precipitate was far from crystalline.

“It appears differently, I know,” whispered Annatar, his voice suddenly close, too close, to Celebrimbor’s ear. In his effort to understand he had never noticed that Annatar had risen from the chair and now stood right behind him, one hand placed on his shoulder. “Although it is the same substance you saw in the globe, it hardly looks similar, and yet it is.”

Celebrimbor nodded, fighting against the feelings Annatar’s closeness provoked.

Annatar’s golden eyes sparked in obvious satisfaction, his voice ringing with obvious excitement. “Heat is all that is necessary. The warmer temperature of the water leads to a better solubility of lead iodide, and the slow cooling allows the finest crystal to form directly from the solution. The entire process is called recrystallization.”

Once more, Celebrimbor nodded, directing his attention towards his experiment. Under Annatar’s watchful gaze he performed the last step of the experiment, heating the flask until the yellow disappeared to faintness and then to nonexistence. Celebrimbor stared at it with wide eyes, then at Annatar who kept watching him with an expression Celebrimbor could not quite classify, prying at his thoughts.

Something about Annatar’s demeanor changed, so suddenly that Celebrimbor had barely time to understand what was happening. The touch against his shoulder had become fierce, demanding, sending wave after wave of heat through him. 

The hand began to wander, from Celebrimbor’s shoulder towards the small of his back. “It is past time, would you not agree?” Annatar cooed, setting down his glass so that his face was no longer hidden. In response, Celebrimbor found  himself smiling back at him — although he did not quite understand the cryptic suggestion — not half as intrigued as before, yet honest and obviously excited.

Placing the flask with the clear liquid on the table, Celebrimbor feebly asked, “Time for what?”

“I think you know very well what for,” said Annatar, smoothing the damp fabric of Celebrimbor’s tunic, causing excitement and dismay alike. “I can give you what your sire could never accomplish in life: the power to shape the history of Middle Earth.”

The open confrontation sparked defiance in Celebrimbor. “My grand-sire did.”

Fey laughter pierced the silence. “What came of it, I ask you?” questioned Annatar, mockery lacing his words. “He brought death and ruin upon his people, slew his own kin for the sake of his own will. What I offer you is far greater than anything the great Fëanáro ever created.”

Celebrimbor hesitated, strangely intrigued. “Greater than the Silmarils?” he asked in wonder and disbelief.

Annatar nodded. “Indeed.”

The game he was engaging in appeared quite dangerous to Celebrimbor. It had little chance of success, he understood that well enough. But that did not stop him from wanting to play, nor did it hinder his barely concealed excitement from sparking.

“How so?” he asked, voice trembling with curiosity.

Annatar inclined his head in consideration, glittering eyes boring right into Celebrimbor’s soul. “There are metals, disguised as ore,” Annatar began, saying the words slowly and carefully to make sure Celebrimbor understood. “They are hidden deep below the earth, beneath the mountains. Gems — some as pure as starlight whilst others sparkle in the color of the bluest sky — slumbering in the lands since its awakening. They are mined already. You yourself have extracted the metal from the ore and wrought it afterwards. Yet it appeared ordinary to you, as its life was lost the moment your — I beg to pardon — lackwits laid their hands upon them. The time for mining was not right then, nor were their words, cruel jests that despoiled the innocent beauty.”

Excitement and fear battled in Celebrimbor’s heart. “A spell.”

“Not necessarily so.” Annatar rubbed his chin, the jewels on his finger sparkling in the glow of the fire. “Rather, words to appreciate what is taken from the earth, never to return.  Knowledge as old as the world itself, yet lost to most who roam it now.”

Celebrimbor was not so easily tricked, and so he asked, “Why would you share your knowledge with me?”

Like a gentle breeze Annatar’s words cocooned Celebrimbor’s mind. “For your potential, Celebrimbor. No smith alive is more skilled than you, no smith who ever lived either, perhaps. What I could teach you would raise you far above all others, higher than your forefathers. To waste such incredible potential would not only be a pity but true brutality. Did you know that the kings of old knew and used the words, made sacrifices to the earth?”

Feebly, Celebrimbor shook his head, disappointment and anger blossoming amidst all the other emotions already blurring his judgment.

Like honey the words dripped from Annatar’s lips, and Celebrimbor found himself glued to them. “I thought as much. Some tribes still do, those who have refuse to ever leave these lands. What I intend to give and teach you is not sorcery or magic, Telperinquar; it is your peoples’ knowledge. All you are concerned about is your realm, the safety and well-being of your people, is that not so? Your realm would prosper and flourish, ensuring peace for many ages, whilst beyond lay the world with all its dangers and possibilities. The world has suffered enough peril, drowning in sorrow and war. You have suffered enough hardship, even from those who should never have caused you pain. Would you truly refuse to put an end to the spoils and bloodshed of war if you could? Sacrifice your own people, who cannot defend themselves, to endure hardship and death for the sake of your pride? Enslaved and murdered —”

“Enough!” Although the answer was plainly obvious, Celebrimbor hesitated, a furrow in his brow. “What do you ask of me?”

The smile Annatar gave him was one of reassurance, of trust. “Only what you would ask of me yourself and gain in return: truth and knowledge, the quenching of your insatiable thirst, a lasting friendship. And perhaps more, happiness and peace of mind. How does that sound? However, the question at hand is not an easy one. How much are you willing to sacrifice? Beyond darkness lies beauty, and beyond superstition, truth. Is that not what you have always sought, Tyelpe?”

Without a doubt it was.

“So will you accept my offer?” Annatar asked, cutting Celebrimbor’s thoughts short.

Not everything in his life was tragedy and failure. “I shall.”

‘I thought as much,’ was what the smile told Celebrimbor. “Blood can seal the pact, a deed of gift written in your own blood. Or…”

Celebrimbor’s voice shook. “Or?”

And then the stranger’s hands were upon him, his silken lips, warm and smooth, pressed against his own. A kiss like fire; a touch like the cure for all the years lost to him, lingering in the shades of his mighty forefathers. Annatar’s smooth hands clamped around his throat for a second, hard and terrifying, such that Celebrimbor thought he would be strangled though he was not. Hazy orange flooded his vision just before he closed his eyes, yielding to Annatar’s kiss, his touch, with sparks and flares dancing against his eyelids in a way he had never felt before. How should he have known the sensation, though? Celebrimbor had never kissed a man before, had not even considered it before Annatar had stepped into his life, twisting his mind to concoct such filthy fantasies.

“Admirably.” There it was again, the moment Annatar’s hand slipped between their bodies, palming Celebrimbor through his damp breeches. He was harder than he had ever been in his life. “So you prefer this over blood, I take it?”

Celebrimbor’s breathing took an uneven stumble. “Aye,” he said, nervousness lacing his answer as a strange fear battled against the swelling desire.

The distress he was facing must have been plainly obvious. “Worry not, Tyelpe,” Annatar cooed, so softly that Celebrimbor found himself shivering yet again. “I will guide and cherish you, embrace and catch you whenever you may fall.” And as he said so, he began to undo the lacings of Celebrimbor’s tunic, which Celebrimbor pulled above his head all too willingly.

In frantic haste, all doubts momentarily swept from Celebrimbor’s mind, his breeches followed, along with the Maia’s robes. He had never seen Annatar in his glorious nudity. He'd seen him shirtless on several occasions in the forge, although the laws of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain forbade such behavior for safety reasons. Not quite selflessly, Celebrimbor had always let the matter slip, staring at the exquisitely sculpted abdominals until shame forced him to look hastily away. Each and every movement of Annatar's was poetry, speaking to Celebrimbor in the most sinuous way.

More than willingly he followed Annatar’s silent command, or what he had interpreted as such, sinking down to the floor until a soft voice told him otherwise. “The floor, dirty and harsh, is hardly befitting -- neither for lords nor for smiths.” Instead, Annatar guided him towards the corner where the massive anvil stood, large enough for Celebrimbor to lie down with his upper body, but not overly comfortable. Celebrimbor could not care less – not when Annatar kissed him so…possessively.

He imagined he must have looked like a living sacrifice, lying splayed out on the anvil in such an obscene way — wanton and willing, his hair fanned out like a halo  above his head — and for a second a feeling of distress washed over him before his attention was diverted by Annatar’s fingers.

Annatar wasn’t skilled only in the forge, it appeared. Celebrimbor arched his back as he surrendered to the confident and precise movements of his hands, questing and exploring, relentless in their quest. Wind and rain battered against the windows, chasing whispers through the streets, yet Celebrimbor was far beyond paying it any mind.

Annatar shifted down his body, abandoning his face to leave kisses that were like little electric shocks along his skin, fingers tracing his lips, and Celebrimbor felt the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rise again. Celebrimbor had never felt so consumed in his life, yet the ferocity of his feelings shook his body as if he gave the last breath of life.  The concept of what would happen next was not entirely foreign to Celebrimbor, although he had doubted he would ever experience it himself unless it was in his delirious dreaming.

A strange affection for Annatar had begun to grow, but Celebrimbor never showed any hint of affection when he feared it was unwanted, so all he had were those dark nights in which he dreamt and touched and imagined his hand wasn’t his own. He knew of passion, lust, and of everything that came with it, but not until then he has truly understood, never truly felt was it meant to be set on fire.

There was no evil nor sorcery in the way Annatar touched him, at least not in the usual sense; only splendid glory and pleasure burning as brightly as the flashing lights outside. Celebrimbor realized that never in his entire life had he wanted to be anywhere else as much as in Annatar’s arms, fighting the demons of his past, which had left its mark on him. Still it was moments like these that scared Celebrimbor, not knowing what to expect, how to react to Annatar’s sensual advances.

Before Celebrimbor could understand or even question Annatar’s intentions, no matter how exquisite they might be, he practically came undone as he felt soft lips straining against his cock, his tongue lapping against its tip.

Shame tinted his cheeks pink. How could it be so wrong, yet at the same time feel so good, so right?

Under his hitching breath Celebrimbor tried to force out some words, anything, but it wouldn’t come to him. Instead his hips bucked of their own accord, pressing his cock deeper into Annatar’s mouth, much to Annatar’s delight. A laugh filled the air, vibrating so sensually against his erection in a torturous sensation that his hips bucked anew and he came with a low groan.

Celebrimbor felt like crying, tears of disappointment beginning to well in the corner of his eyes. Coming early — in his case coming before it had even begun — had always made for great japes on Nargothrond’s long table when both Celegorm and Curufin had been too deep in their cups. It was those words he heard then, echoing back and forth in his mind.

Annatar narrowed his eyes, looking down at Celebrimbor before he smiled at him. “Worry not, Tyelpe. There is no time for disappointment, as this is exactly what I had in mind to melt away the tension from your bones.”

Celebrimbor did not quite believe him, and many persuasive touches were needed to sweep the last of his doubts from his mind, though the insecurity persisted. How he hated himself for it: A noble lord, a surviving descendant of the greatest family of elves, proven in battle and in war, and now master smith of the prospering guild — and yet here he was, drowning in a fit of anxiety. He might have fled if Annatar had not been pinning his body down with all his might.

Possessive.

On any other occasion, Celebrimbor’s senses would have bidden him to run, and perhaps they even then spoke faintly to him now. But Celebrimbor never listened. Instead he savored the irresistible kiss, the feeling of Annatar’s skin against his own; the heat of it, muscles flexing beneath it. No, he would not fight, having fought too many battles throughout his life. And so he didn’t — not as his legs were pushed apart or as an oiled jeweled finger began to dip between his buttocks, seeking entrance to what nobody, not even Celebrimbor himself, had ever touched before. Amidst his anxiety a wave of maddening desire rose within him, in which he nearly drowned, as Annatar kissed him so perfectly, exploring and challenging, guiding him to a world he only knew from what his mind had allowed him to see.

With a sharp intake of breath, eyes closed to fight against the pain, Celebrimbor let his head fall backwards, telling himself to be strong and brave, hating the words as soon as he thought them. But damn, he wanted this, wanted this so badly — more than he had ever want anything in in his life.

Who would be ever interested in a coward?

Annatar was gentle with him, as gentle as anyone could ever be, yet it did not seem to make any difference. He gritted his teeth, bit the insides of his cheeks to divert the pain, yet to no avail. It stung terrible for a long while, without the faintest hope of getting better. Neither the shushing whispers, nor the kisses against his throat, nor the touch against his flaccid cock, which he had craved throughout so many a night, brought Celebrimbor any ease. Yet a bolt of lust struck Celebrimbor as he realized how many nights he had spent chasing a dream he thought he could never have. He drew Annatar’s face towards his own, kissing him with all the emotions bottled up inside of him for far too many years. Although Annatar gave in, allowed Celebrimbor to take control for a few seconds, afterwards he appeared to be lightly annoyed but mostly amused by that sudden boldness, misjudging it for what it certainly was not: Celebrimbor telling him to go on.

With a last kiss, strange and hot and possessive, Annatar withdrew his fingers from his entrance, replacing them with his erection, hard and slick with oil. Celebrimbor’s throat constricted at the sheer size of it against his untried entrance, whimpering before he even was being touched.

‘Craven.’

He felt panicked, as if he wanted nothing more than to stop and escape, and perhaps that was truly what he felt, needing all of his willpower and Annatar’s dazzling smile of encouragement not to capitulate to his fears and run.

‘Admirable. You are doing so well,’ it echoed through Celebrimbor’s head as vividly as if Annatar were indeed speaking to him, which he surely was not, as he was kissing him instead. Yet Celebrimbor wished for nothing more than to hear the words again, so he smiled back right into their kiss, reaching up to run a hand through golden hair and along Annatar's throat before he nodded.

There was pain and Celebrimbor gasped at it. An intrusion, so much more awkward than Annatar’s fingers had been, a feeling as if he were being split in half. Whimpering in response, suppressing the shriek that formed in his throat, was all Celebrimbor managed to do as Annatar forced himself inside him, observing him closely before he dipped his head down for biting kisses along Celebrimbor’s throat.

It felt glorious — that part at least — whilst the rest persistently did not. He knew it had to be so, being untouched still, and perhaps Annatar suspected as much because he did not do what Celebrimbor half-expected.

He wasn’t forceful, nor was he hasty or possessive; instead, he gave him all the time he ever needed, although that meant dragging out the sweet torture, innumerable heartbeats of agony as his body fought against the invasion. The realization of it warmed Celebrimbor’s heart. Diverting his mind from misery had never come easily to Celebrimbor, which didn't meant that he did not try, right now being no exception as he focused on the press of Annatar’s thighs against his own; the nails digging into his upper arms so hard that it almost hurt; the smell clinging to Annatar’s skin, a strange combination of sweetness and poisonous fumes.

“Breathe,” he heard the words without being able to react to them, writhing beneath Annatar’s body, embracing him at the same time, whispering to him not to stop. Never in his life had he wanted anything as much as this without having even known that it was this he wanted, coiling and tickling his innards. It was incredible just how many different nuances of silent whims and moans his mouth could produce, Celebrimbor thought, having never realized it before -- well, never having  had the chance to realize it, was the more like it.

“Breathe.” This time, Celebrimbor did obey Annatar’s command, forcing oxygen into his lungs the moment Annatar was finally fully inside of him. “I will not tolerate closed eyes.”

Celebrimbor was half-excited, half-worried what would come next. Annatar truly was relentless in the attention he bestowed upon Celebrimbor’s body along with his shallow thrusts, so exquisite that in the end the pain yielded to something greater, something far more pleasurable. Hesitantly Celebrimbor wrapped his arms around Annatar’s back, reveling in the sensation of how his skin felt beneath his fingertips, taut muscles flexing beneath smooth skin. He truly savored the intensity of the moment, tried to etch each emotion into his mind so that he would never forget the beauty of it as long as he lived.

Reality blended into the imaginings of his mind, Annatar’s thrusts meeting the staccato of the thunder outside, sinuous and steady, lightning flashing, shining brightly against the golden skin as Celebrimbor whimpered and bucked beneath him. Memories flooded Celebrimbor: of a life so carefree he had thought it would never end; of the sweet smell of dew on the blades of grass outside Tirion; of the heat he had felt when, for the first time, the sun crawled its way across the horizon and fright overcame his people. But that was not Annatar, not how Celebrimbor perceived him; not what Annatar provoked deep inside of him. Aye, Celebrimbor felt heat against his skin, but a heat entirely different than the warm rays of sun: fierce and searing, consuming, devouring him alive, he thought as his head tipped backwards against the cold tiles of the floor. Droplets of sweat coalesced on their bodies and in between them, the air heavy and filled with myriad smells, heated from the burning fires — yet nothing ever burned so brightly as the pleasure Celebrimbor felt, stroking, clinging, contorting and swelling, robbing him of all senses. Sparks tingled down his spine, straight into his cock, which was trapped between their slick bodies so that each time Annatar moved above him, the most exquisite jolts soared through him. As a result, he grew more confident in his own touches, moving to meet Annatar’s thrusts, weaving his hands into his golden hair. It felt so wonderful between his fingers, more silken and softer than he had imagined it in his wildest dreams. What Celebrimbor never did do, however, was speak his affection out loud, as all too easily whispered words of affection could become lies, withering and waning like the flowers in his mother’s garden, which he had loved so much, destroyed by the one he loved most. Why now, of all times, such vile memories flittered through his mind, Celebrimbor could not understand, nor could he fight them.

“Let go of the banes that haunt your days and nights,” whispered Annatar against Celebrimbor’s lips. “Am I not enough distraction for your mind to focus on? Or do you need … more?”

Apologetic twinges of regret showed clearly upon Celebrimbor’s face, his blue eyes meeting Annatar’s golden ones.

“You are.” He wasn’t lying, as Annatar had given him enough distraction to feast upon for many years. The last addition, though, would give him new dreams to explore when he was lonely at night, his bed deserted.

How eagerly their bodies locked, fitted together as their flames and spirits molded in temptation and became one, just as their bodies were, connected in the most intimate of ways. Flesh against flesh, lips against lips, thrusts met with vigor, kindling a fire that would never be extinguished, forcing his banes into fetters.

Celebrimbor found himself staring at the way Annatar’s biceps flexed and bulged with the effort of holding himself upright as he thrust into Celebrimbor’s body, adorned by beads of sweat crawling down his bronzed skin. Darkness lingered on the Annatar’s skin, with shadows dancing across it as he moved up and down Celebrimbor’s body as he writhed weakly under him, a golden halo like flames around his body, changing to a reddish glow. Celebrimbor was too blind to see. Blinded by golden hair spilling down on him like golden rain, deafened by the voice, thick and heavy with desire as he whispered words in a language that hadn’t been uttered for thousands of years, terrifying and alluring at the same time; swallowed and drowned by strange emotions he was unable to control. He knew he was close, just at the brink of oblivion, no matter how hard he intended to fight against it with all his remaining strength.

Annatar’s breath fell against his lips, his thrusts becoming faster and faster as Celebrimbor relished in the exquisite sensation filling his body. An ordinary table might have given way under such frenzy, but the anvil prevailed against the relentless assaults, until all of a sudden his rhythm faltered, giving way for tightness coiling and tickling and spinning inside of him until he could not fight the sensation anymore, slicking their already slick bodies all the more. With eyes closed he sank into a sea of oblivion, detached from his body, floating and soaring, only faintly aware the warmth that flooded him.

In the aftermath, thunder still cracking outside, Annatar played with Celebrimbor’s fingers, linking their hands together. It was a gesture so small and yet of utter importance, warming Celebrimbor’s heart. For long moments silence reigned, no worries or cares or obligations, only Annatar beside him, his ragged breathing and sweaty skin. It was all that mattered now, everything Celebrimbor hoped would matter for all the years to come. Never before had Annatar looked more beautiful than in the orange glow, high cheek bones flushed crimson and pale skin glowing beneath the layer of sweet. Sometimes, he thought, looking right into the stormy golden eyes, happiness was to be found at the most unlikely places.

Annatar’s finger traced Celebrimbor’s brow. “Is this regret I see?”

All too eagerly, Celebrimbor shook his head. “There is only one thing I regret: having waited for so long.”

“Was that an invitation?” The laughter falling from Annatar’s lips was like music to Celebrimbor’s ear — soft and gentle, mellifluous, enchanting him as if he had not already been enchanted long ago.

Although it was not, Celebrimbor liked the prospect of it. “Perhaps.”

 

*

Later that night, securely tucked away together in Celebrimbor’s spacious bed, Annatar’s voice, quiet and deep and foreign in the silence of Celebrimbor’s hazy mind, spoke to him, accompanied by strong arms, which slipped around his shivering form. Far too relaxed and too exhausted to fight, or even to respond at all, Celebrimbor let it happen with closed eyes, even if the embrace soon began to feel like choking hands wrapped about his throat, rendering him docile, malleable. Helpless. Helplessness was a feeling he was quite familiar with, yet one he abhorred. But then Celebrimbor’s gaze fell on the paperweight he had placed on the nightstand, the precious gift made by Annatar’s own hands, watching as golden flitters still sailed down to its bottom — and Celebrimbor smiled, ignoring the voice snarling at him.

 

*

 

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Chapter End Notes

The experiment performed in this story is called 'Golden Rain' and in my opinion, it's one of the most beautiful experiments and mesmerizing to watch. It's incredibly beautiful but also toxic, just like Celebrimbor's and Annatar's relationship. You can watch the experiment being performed on youtube: Golden Rain