What Brings Us Together by Aipilosse

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The Fait of Traitors

If you couldn't guess already, the  "Torture" tag becomes relevant during this chapter.

Thanks to Visitor (LonelyVisitor on SWG) for Beta-ing this chapter!

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Miaulë was not surprised to see Gandalf sitting by the Mirror when he entered the cellar room, but he still suppressed a shiver of apprehension. He found Gandalf difficult to read and confusing. Below the surface, Miaulë could feel great power within him, yet on the outside he looked old and plain. Maybe his outburst at Galadriel had been unfair yesterday; if he could accuse anyone of hiding the truest culprit was the veiled power before him.

Regardless, Miaulë was still determined to steer the Mirror this morning. A curtain had been lifted, a cypher decoded, and if Gandalf would just let him see what he wanted to see, he knew he could win back Celebrimbor. Once, they had been as close as two people could be, and if that had been true in the past, Miaulë was determined to make it so in the present.

“Did Galadriel tell you what happened yesterday?” Miaulë asked as he sat down.

“Yes. She said you are most desirous to view what you will, with no direction from us.” Gandalf began the familiar motions of filling the basin. He reached out with his mind. If that is what you truly want, I will not hinder you. Look! See what you will.

Miaulë eagerly bent over the mirror. He was disappointed at first to see the familiar spaces of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain’s central workshop, but he shook it off. If the mirror showed him more of what he and Celebrimbor were making, that might also clarify what still remained confused. 

He frowned. There were tables and chairs overturned, ingredients spilled, and sooty marks stained the walls. It didn’t look like the familiar mess of a dozen projects all in progress; it looked like someone had searched through every inch of the room by pulling it apart. 

Miaulë saw himself dumping out a container of powder. Annatar had discarded his white robes for black armor that gleamed at the edges with a fiery light. He quickly ran his fingers through the powder before setting down the container with a sigh. 

“I did not think it would be quite this simple, but I had to make sure.” Annatar’s armored feet crunched through the glass strewn over the floor towards a heap of splintered furniture. A pair of chained feet and a blood-stained leg poked out of the pile.

Oh no, thought Miaulë.

Annatar picked up Celebrimbor, who appeared unconscious. He carefully lowered him into a kneeling position on the ground and surveyed the damage while holding him upright. In addition to the leg injury, another wound seeped blood underneath Celebrimbor’s arm and red marks bloomed along one side of his face. His hands were chained together as well. 

Annatar pulled out a knife, and Miaulë began to panic. Celebrimbor’s eyes snapped open and he suddenly head butted Annatar as hard as he could. Annatar lurched back but didn’t let go of Celebrimbor, more surprised than hurt.

“Calm down,” Annatar said. “And hold still.” He lifted the knife and began slicing the seams of Celebrimbor’s quilted shirt and hose. Finished, he tucked the knife back in his belt. Relief flooded Miaulë. “Was that so bad?” 

Celebrimbor looked at him warily as Annatar peeled down the shirt and placed his hand on the wound. Celebrimbor swore as his face twisted in pain.

“There,” Annatar said, satisfied. “Now your leg.” He parted the fabric by Celebrimbor’s knee.

“Iron hells. What are you doing?” Celebrimbor panted.

“Healing you. I think we need to start fresh.” The wound did seem to be knitting together, although from Celebrimbor’s wild expression it was far from a comfortable experience. “Now, Celebrimbor, please be reasonable. You fought bravely — no one could accuse you of simply turning over the city to me at this point. In fact, I can arrange for some of my men to be captured who can attest to that fact.”

Celebrimbor did not say anything and fixed Annatar with a hard stare.

Annatar leaned in, his hand still on Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “Tell me where the rings are, Brim. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Celebrimbor glared. “You don’t want to hurt me? You stabbed me.”

Annatar smiled. “You did come at me with a sword.”

Celebrimbor did not return the smile. “You came to my city with an army and killed my friends.”

Annatar’s smile vanished. “You thought to deceive me.” He stood, looking down at Celebrimbor, face cold. “Did you think I didn’t know? You tried to hide it from me, but I felt them — Three that we did not make together. You tried to craft them apart from my power, but you failed, for the source of our Art is patterned from my very being.” Annatar stopped for a moment, flexing his hands, and staring at a point just past Celebrimbor. “I was so angry, so very angry when I felt your betrayal.” He turned back to Celebrimbor and smiled, almost tenderly. “But I will forgive you, for I am merciful. Wielding the Rings, there is nothing that can stop us. We could build. I could remake Ost-in-Edhil in a moment, but greater and more beautiful than she was before. We could build cities whose like have never been seen in Middle-earth. And all people within our domain will be able to reach their full potential.”

Celebrimbor glanced up; he almost looked like he pitied Annatar. “Us? I see but one Ring.” 

“There must be one, indisputable center. All will fall to disarray without it. But I also need a lieutenant, who I trust as much as myself.” Annatar knelt down behind Celebrimbor, still smiling softly, and began to plait the small braids and loose hair into a single tail.

Celebrimbor closed his eyes. “Did you ever know me at all?”

Annatar leaned his forehead against Celebrimbor’s back. “Tell me where the Rings are. Please.” Celebrimbor remained silent. “Why are you choosing this path? It need not be like this.”

“No, it need not. What did you say when you arrived? Now there is no obstacle between us and our vision? If the Ring is truly not just a tool of destruction and mastery, prove it. Leave this place and order your realms. Show the peace and prosperity you promise; then return to me and I will listen.”

“I need the Rings. There is no other option.” Annatar knotted Celebrimbor’s braid into a bun at the base of his neck before standing. Celebrimbor’s hands tensed on his thighs, the only outward sign of his apprehension. Annatar began walking around the workshop, returning with a jar with pale yellow liquid, a chisel, and a hammer. He pulled out the knife he had used earlier. 

“Now, if you will not tell me where you have hidden the Rings, I will give you a second choice.” Miaulë did not understand the offered choice, but he did not like the blank expression on Annatar’s face. “Which will it be, Celebrimbor? I’ll even offer you a fifth option — one of my officers is just outside with a whip.”

Celebrimbor’s hands flexed. “You once told me you loved me.”

“And I am offering you a path back.”

“I cannot deliver to you tools to enslave my people.”

“Enslave!” Annatar’s hand tightened on his knife. “Only someone blind to progress would associate my creation with slavery. I thought you were different, but now you’re parroting the words of your cousins. Choose.”

“The whip,” Celebrimbor said. They stared at each other for a minute.

“Fine.” Annatar helped Celebrimbor stand up, pulled off the rest of his clothing, and walked him over to some empty scaffolding in the corner of the workshop, built to support the occasional massive works the Gwaith-i-Mírdain would make. Annatar separated the chain between Celebrimbor’s wrists like it was paper and rejoined it around a support, then did the same for the chain between his ankles. 

Annatar left and returned with a large man wearing bronze armor. He took a many-tailed whip with metal tips from his belt.

“Give him one hundred lashes. I’ll be back momentarily.” 

“Yes, my lord.” The man bowed. He paced around Celebrimbor a few times before taking  the whip from his belt. His eyes darted over to Annatar, who despite what he had said still stood by watching. The man squared his shoulders. The crack of the whip rang out. Celebrimbor shuddered, and he dug his nails into the wood of the scaffolding.

“Harder,” Annatar snapped. “He’s an Elf, born in the cursed West under light brighter than you can comprehend. He can withstand four times what one of your kind could endure.”

The man shook out his arms, planted his feet, and brought the whip down again. This time Celebrimbor’s whole body jerked. 

Let me leave, Miaulë thought.

“I am not holding you,” Gandalf said aloud.

Miaulë tried to pry himself away, but he couldn’t unwind his fingers from where they clutched the basin. Stop, he thought, when the first line of blood trickled down. For a moment he thought Annatar heard him across the millennia, but no, he was only leaving the workshop at last. Annatar removed his armor in a nearby room and donned red and gold robes. Miaulë became aware of his own loud breathing. It should have moved the water with its force, but the surface of the Mirror remained smooth as glass.

Annatar returned to the workshop, bearing a stack of papers and a quill. He walked back over to Celebrimbor, who sagged against the support, blood running down his back. Annatar surveyed the cuts impassively. He ran his fingers over the damaged skin; his light touch still sending shudders through Celebrimbor.

“How do you feel?” Annatar asked, leaning against the support. Celebrimbor turned his face away. “Where are the Rings?” Celebrimbor remained silent. “If you tell me but a single hiding place, I will not ask Ilînd to continue.”

When Celebrimbor still did not respond, Annatar straightened and nodded at Ilînd. “One hundred more.”

Stop, Miaulë thought, as the whip came down again. Annatar walked over to a nearby table, and began writing something.

“Stop!” Miaulë reeled back from the mirror, his heart racing wildly.

“You saw what you would,” Gandalf said. It would have been easier if he were smug, but Gandalf only looked sad.

“Why?”

“You heard your reasons today. You hurt him for order, for prosperity, and for a better future.”

“How could I think that would work?” Miaulë stood. “I did not think—”

“What do you think was meant when the histories spoke of your ruin and devastation?” 

“I did not think—” Yet Gandalf’s solemn face was unbearable. Miaulë ran from the room.

~

 

Merillë peered into the kitchen. It was oddly empty; someone stood at a table canning, and Ornéliel had notes spread out before her as she ate from a plate of fruit and cheese.

“Ornéliel, have you seen Miaulë?” 

Ornéliel looked up and puckered her lips like the cheese had turned sour. “Do you mean Sauron?”

“Well, yes, but it feels strange to call him that.” Merillë also found she could not call him a name that he clearly hated, but she doubted Ornéliel would be sympathetic to that.

“It feels strange that we’re entertaining my son’s murderer, but here we are. Why are you looking for him?” Ornéliel had not been spending much time at Ondomar recently, staying instead with Írissë. Merillë began to suspect that it was not a coincidence.

“Well.” Merillë anticipated a less than pleased reaction from Ornéliel. “Well, we’re discussing a book this afternoon.” At Ornéliel’s incredulous look, Merillë hastily added, “I’ve studied Middle-earth all my life; if I didn’t talk to him at least a little bit, I think I would regret it forever.”

“Your family is far too curious for your own good.” Merillë didn’t know if Ornéliel meant Finrod or the whole house of Finwë. She gave Merillë a sidelong glance. “I saw him going out back not too long ago. Be careful, child.”

“I am.” Merillë mustered up her sweetest smile, internally bristling. She was one of the youngest elves here, but she was an accomplished scholar and a pioneer in her own way, and she didn’t appreciate the condescension that she encountered all too often. Maybe that was what drew her to Miaulë, who seemed to be one of the few people who did not treat her like she was young, and even sought her out for guidance.

She didn’t see Miaulë in their regular meeting place. She walked along the winding back porch until she spotted a familiar golden head facing north.

“Miaulë, I thought we were going to discuss Varyar’s works.” She stopped short. Miaulë was always disconcertingly beautiful, beyond even what life in the courts of Tirion had inured her to, but now his anguished expression stole her attention instead. “What’s wrong?”

“I have done terrible things.” He spoke barely above a whisper.

Merillë glanced around. She could see Sam working in a small garden along the side of the house, but no one else was near. “Yes, so I’ve gathered,” she said, trying to figure out what brought about this statement of the obvious.

“I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

“Who?” Merillë asked, feeling quite out of her depth.

“Celebrimbor.”

“Oh well, I don’t know about that.”

“He will never forgive me, and I will live forever with an absence in my soul.” Miaulë’s voice tightened at the end.

“Oh.” Merillë was beginning to understand.

“Is everything alright?” Sam peered up at them from beneath a wide straw hat, a basket of vegetables at his hip.

“Nothing will ever be alright again,” Miaulë said.

“Oh my,” Sam said, looking at Merillë with concern. 

“He is lovelorn,” Merillë explained.

“Oh?” Sam still looked puzzled. “I was not aware you had a, erm, sweetheart.”

“Yes, and he’s lost forever.”

“It’s Celebrimbor,” Merillë said, trying to communicate to Sam with her eyes that she also had no idea what was the true cause of Miaulë’s grief.

Sam scratched his nose, still quite puzzled. “It was my understanding that you’ve been separated for quite some time. Ages, in fact.”

“I only understood my heart a few days ago.” Distress crumpled his lovely face. “You wish to discuss Varyar? It is as he said: ‘I would open my soul and bury you so deeply that we may never be parted.’”

“Ah, it’s like that.” Understanding dawned on Sam’s face. “I suppose it would feel quite fresh to you.” He motioned to them. “Follow me.”

Sam led them both to the kitchen. Thankfully Ornéliel had left, and Merillë did not have to explain why she was following a hobbit with a devastated Maia in tow. Sam dropped off his vegetables at the canning table, grabbed a towel-wrapped bundle, and looked around. “Let’s find some place out of the way.”

They ended up back outside, but this time on the second floor, squeezed onto a makeshift balcony that Merillë suspected was actually just a wide flower box. Merillë and Miaulë sat with their knees drawn up, their backs to the balcony as Sam uncovered his bundle. 

“Here, have a biscuit.” He passed them both a golden wafer and pulled out one for himself.

“I could not eat,” Miaulë said.

“Just a few bites. It will help,” Sam encouraged. Miaulë tentatively nibbled on the biscuit. “Why don’t you tell us what’s the matter?”

“Celebrimbor will never love me.”

“Ah, because of the murder?” Merillë appreciated that Sam did not dance around the subject.

“I hurt him very badly.” 

Merillë remembered a particularly awful sculpture she had seen in Tol Eressëa. Now that Celebrimbor was widely known to have returned from Mandos, it was considered in poor taste to depict his corpse in quite so much detail, but there had been a time it had been a frequent subject for heartsore and traumatized immigrants from Middle-earth trying to make sense of all they had lost amidst the bliss of Valinor.  

“I’m sorry, Miaulë, but didn’t you know that? Coroniel gave you those books—”

“Reading is very different from seeing.” Miaulë finished the biscuit. Sam wordlessly handed him a second one.

“I imagine so,” Merillë said.

“And I had begun to think that the histories were mistaken somehow. Not completely, but in some way. The people who wrote them weren’t there, after all. I don’t think anyone could have truly known what happened.”

“They do sometimes get things wrong,” Sam said. “Leastways hobbit histories do.”

“But they are not wrong, at least not how I wanted them to be. Instead, it is like I forgot everything I loved about him. How could I have thought I would bring him to my side through destroying the city he helped build?”

“That does seem like a exceptionally bad way to try to patch up a relationship.” Merillë patted Miaulë’s knee awkwardly. “Sometimes the problems remain insurmountable, but—”

“Is that true? There are problems that cannot be solved?” Merillë’s stomach lurched at the naivety of the question. 

“Yes, sometimes you both change too much, and you separate, and it needn’t be anyone’s fault.” In Miaulë’s case, the fault lay clearly with one party, but Merillë thought acceptance would work better than blame. “I once had a lover, and we meshed together so well. He loved all the same things I did, he was so driven and passionate, and he was beautiful besides.”

Miaulë started his third biscuit. “And what happened?”

“He wanted me to be someone I’m not. Or rather, he did not see the person I always was, and could not comprehend why I insisted on being that person, even when it was very hard. I think in the end, he just wasn’t able to understand me.”

“I think it is much the same with me.” Miaulë pressed his face against his knees. Sam and Merillë shared a look.

“Listen, Miaulë, or rather, Sauron.” Sam set aside his plate so that he could lean towards him. “You know you hurt me some and someone I love even more. Yet, I’m here with you sharing some freshly made biscuits.”

“Why? Why would you share biscuits with one such as I?” Miaulë’s knees muffled his voice.

“In truth, it is because it is a bit hard to connect you with the enemy I fought. He was — you were — quite dark,” Sam said. Merillë agreed, Miaulë shared very little with the lidless burning eye, the sleepless malice, or the brooding dark that she had read in accounts of the Third Age and heard from those who had lived it. But then again, they also told tales of the disguises he wore. She suppressed a shiver despite the warm afternoon. 

“But it’s also because I’ve learned something about second chances,” Sam continued. “I gave quite a few people that chance back home, and I did not regret a single one. And if all these Elf Lords, and Gandalf too, are willing to let you stay for a time, who am I to refuse you a chance?” Sam patted his jacket and pulled out a clean handkerchief and handed it to Miaulë. “It also seems to me that you may have seen some nasty stuff today, but Celebrimbor remembers it too, and he’s still willing to speak to you. I’ve seen you two talking recently, so it seems to me he’d like to be friendly at least.”

“That’s true.” Miaulë dabbed at his eyes and sniffed.

“Maybe you should just try to be friends again, and then see what happens?” Merillë suggested. “This is all very new for you, but for him it all happened a long time ago.”

“I suppose I could try that. I don’t think I could look at him today. I would only see the way he looked at me in the Mirror.” Miaulë let out a shaky breath. “How can I look tomorrow, knowing what I might see?”

“Maybe try to think of happy things?” Sam suggested. “I looked into a similar Mirror once, and it showed me what I had been thinking of.”

Merillë quickly grabbed the last biscuit before Miaulë could get to it. “And think, you saw something awful today, but from what you told me, the Mirror does not repeat its visions. What are the chances it shows you something worse tomorrow?”

~

 

The Mirror showed Miaulë something much worse the next day.

Finrod gave him every opportunity to avoid seeing where his thoughts inevitably traveled, offering to guide the Mirror himself, perhaps to the First or Third Age. Miaulë had stubbornly insisted on steering as he had yesterday, even though he knew more or less what it would show him, whatever Merillë said. Perhaps just one more day and he would understand what had changed. The gleam of gold on his finger in the mirror made his skin prickle and his thoughts feel like they itched in his head.

And so he watched Celebrimbor bleed and scream for several hours, as he knit him together and ripped him apart again. The next day, he and Gandalf saw much of the same, although they also saw a short conversation about provisions with some captains that provided some relief for them both. Annatar might have been relieved as well, but Miaulë was most likely projecting. Celebrimbor, hanging from shattered arms, was probably not relieved, but they had moved far enough away that he couldn’t be heard. 

As the days passed, Miaulë learned exactly how Annatar had planned to use the knife, the hammer, the acid and the chisel, and hated his new found knowledge. There was a pattern. First, Annatar would break Celebrimbor down until between the pain and blood loss he could barely respond. Then he would put him back together and leave him for a few days chained to the large bellows frame in the corner, before repeating the cycle. It was shocking how quickly Celebrimbor shifted from angry defiance to bitter endurance to a cringing shadow. Yet some spark of resistance must have still been buried deep. He remained silent in regards to the Rings and would sometimes still plead with Annatar to remember their former shared ambitions — when Annatar had spoken of repair instead of mastery.

The third time Miaulë sat down with Finrod he couldn’t help but say, “He must die soon.” He had no idea how much time had passed in the nightmare the Mirror took them to daily, but it seemed like weeks at the very least.

“I’m afraid I don’t know. I was reincarnated in Valinor by this point, but I had no idea what was happening in Middle-earth. You could ask someone. My sister knows exactly how long you held Celebrimbor, as do many others who live here.” 

Miaulë pressed his lips together. He somehow doubted that conversation would go well. 

“Anyway, he eventually told you where to find many of the Rings you created together, only keeping the Three hidden until the end. I don’t think we’ve seen you recover a single Ring, so I’m sure there’s quite a bit more.” Finrod paused, frowning. “You know Gor—, Miaul—, Annatar, if seeing this has brought up no new memories, I’m not sure more of the same will help. I believe you even made that argument in the past.”

Miaulë pursed his lips. He did not like that Finrod had landed on the name that Celebrimbor still sometimes called him in the mirror. The name reminded him that no matter the face he wore, nor how he acted, the past would cling to him like a poisonous film.

“Even if I cannot remember anything, it seems I will know more this way than what books will tell me.”

Finrod sighed. “Very well.”

Miaulë bent back over the mirror. For a moment, he thought Sauron held Celebrimbor’s hand across the table. Relief flooded him, despite the chains on Celebrimbor and his slumped form. Then he noticed the crooked shape and discoloration. Sauron pushed on something in Celebrimbor’s hand, a look of fierce concentration on his face. 

Celebrimbor cried out. “I told you,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “Where to find them.”

“I know. And that’s why you get your hands back.” Sauron fiddled with a finger. Celebrimbor gasped. Miaulë thought the finger still looked wrong. “Besides, you know that wasn’t all I asked you.”

He tried to lay the hand flat on the table. Celebrimbor began making a horrible coughing sound. Sauron looked up, alarmed. Miaulë suddenly realized Celebrimbor was laughing.

“You can’t—” Celebrimbor squeezed his eyes shut, overcome by the agony of bones grinding against each other. “You can’t heal it.”

“Of course I can.”

“No, you can’t.” Celebrimbor almost smiled. “All the threads you gathered, all the words you wove in that—“ another gasp “That thing, they were all for the purpose of power and domination. Did you even identify a single Song of healing? Maybe you can preserve me like some dead thing is embalmed, perhaps you can even keep me here forever, but you have reached the end of its restoration.”

“My Ring is more powerful than anything we ever created together.” The fury in Sauron’s eyes belied his level voice. 

Celebrimbor shook his head back and forth. “You never listen to me. I told you it was a bad idea. I told you.” The heaving laugh started again. “And now you can’t undo what you’ve done.”

Sauron went still. Miaulë didn’t think he drew breath for several moments. “It matters not.” He picked up the hammer. A riveting hammer, Miaulë thought. Celebrimbor had taught him that a week ago. That end can be used to texturize metal. 

“As you say, there is nothing you can do to escape.” Sauron took hold of Celebrimbor’s wrist and firmly held his hand as flat as it could go against the table. “You will tell me what I wish to know eventually, I needn’t bargain. And I can make anything you can, in fact, my skill is greater than yours. And so—“ The hammer struck the outside metacarpal. Sauron didn’t seem to use much force, but it was enough. Celebrimbor had stopped laughing. Again, the hammer came down and the next bone shattered. Celebrimbor did not exactly scream, but the ragged sound was still horrible. The mirror began to ripple, darkness encroaching around the edges. Miaulë looked up blankly. 

“I think that’s enough,” Finrod said.

“I’m not doing anything else today.”

Finrod sighed heavily. “Perhaps what I meant was that’s enough for me.”

“You said you’d help me remember.” Miaulë’s head spun as it never had before. Maybe he was about to recover his memories.

Finrod took in the mulish set of his mouth. He grimaced. “Fine. Look again.”

Nine Rings lay on a table. The gemstones and bands on each Ring were unique; amethyst, emerald, garnet, and topaz set on twisting bands of mithril and gold. Sauron gazed down at his own hand and the gold Ring that adorned it.

“You are right, at this range I can feel the Nine. If the Seven are in the city, I can likely find them unaided.” Sauron seemed to speak to his Ring, musing aloud. He moved his hand closer to the Rings. “Yes, the tuning between them is perfect; they will work exactly as intended.” He sat down at the table and drummed his fingers on it. “As you say, the thief is no obstacle, but I am beginning to realize it is not the theft that angers me most.”

He looked up. “Brim, we should talk.” There was an unintelligible sound, and Sauron cocked his head as if trying to decipher the words. “You’re not making any sense.” As Sauron walked over, Miaulë saw Celebrimbor’s slumped figure on the floor, propped against some cabinets and the wall. Sauron picked him up, cradling him in his arms as he walked back over to the table. Celebrimbor might have said something like ‘please,’ or maybe it was ‘dear,’ or ‘blood,’ but it was too faint to make out. Sauron set him on a chair at the table, and swept the Rings into a pocket.

“No.” Then a whimper, as raw wounds rubbed against the wood as he slid down. Sauron frowned at him before crossing Celebrimbor’s arms on the table and leaning him forward until his head rested on them. Sauron pressed against two spots on his back. Celebrimbor stirred and mumbled, “Stop.”

“Shh — you need at least one functioning kidney.” Sauron frowned, but then his face smoothed. “Really, I think most of the damage can still be fixed. You’ll be fine.” He moved his hands a half an inch upward and pressed lightly. Celebrimbor sat upright with a scream, hands spasming on the table and eyes wide. He looked down at himself and began to hyperventilate, horrified at all the parts that should be hidden but were instead exposed — muscle and sinew and blood.

“You’re going to pass out,” Sauron scolded. He lifted his hands to Celebrimbor’s temples and pressed again. Celebrimbor’s breathing slowed, and he began to cry, gasping sobs that seemed to cause him even more pain.

Sauron sat down across from him and waited. It took a long time, but eventually Celebrimbor stopped crying and sat still, eyes fixed on the center of the table.

“Now that I’ve found the first series of rings, I’ve realized that I will likely be able to find the rest without your help — if they are in the city, that is.” Sauron tapped on the table. “Brim, look at me. I want to talk.” Celebrimbor slowly raised his red-rimmed eyes, his face expressionless.

“I now see that this setback, this theft of yours, is temporary, but even with the goal so near I am not happy. Even with the original wrong righted, the lies you told cannot be unsaid.”

“Lies?” Celebrimbor asked in a rough voice. He blinked as if to clear his vision.

“Yes, you lied to me.” Sauron leaned towards him. “You promised to live in truth with me. You said you gave me your hands and your heart. You pledged your love.” He motioned at the makeshift torture chamber. “Yet you’ve stolen my works, hoarded your skill and knowledge, and rejected me at every turn.”

“Lies,” Celebrimbor repeated.

“Lies! Lie after lie. And that is what hurts me more than trying to hide the rings. I will find the rings with or without your help, although of course it would be better if you told me.” Sauron paused for a moment, waiting for a response for Celebrimbor. When no answer came he continued. “Nonetheless, what I want most is for you to apologize.”

“For what?” 

“For swearing yourself to me falsely! I thought we were joining our lives together, but at the first setback you rescind your love. That is the lie at the root of your deception over our rings.”

“I am the liar?” Celebrimbor had shed his confusion, but Miaulë couldn’t tell if he was moving towards fury or panic.

Sauron seemed to recognize the look. “Brim, be reasonable. I am only asking for words acknowledging the hurt you did me. And then—“ Sauron’s voice grew softer. “And then, I will bring you water, feed you, heal you, clean you. I will get your favorite robe from your room and give it to you, and then you can rest as long as you’d like. Only, apologize.”

“Liar. Liar!” Celebrimbor’s ragged voice broke as he leaned forward, furious. “You lied to me from the instant we first met. You have done nothing but lie for centuries. You say I swore falsely? I meant every word, but it was a promise to someone who never existed. I cannot be held to a vow given to a phantom. And even if I had known in full who you were, now there is another, brought in without my consent. Your lies render our bond void, as does your corruption of yourself. I will have no part of you.” Celebrimbor’s chest heaved, his sunken eyes shining with rage, useless hands shaking on the table. “And I will never apologize.”

“Very well, I see you are beyond reason.” The façade of calm fell suddenly. “False friend! Traitor! How could you? How could you?” The light in Sauron’s eyes seemed to shift, gold spoiling into chartreuse. Celebrimbor’s entire body now shook, but he had set his mouth in a tight, stubborn line. 

The fell mood left Sauron as quickly as it had come. “I will leave you for today.  Perhaps a few days apart will help. I wish you would see reason.” As Celebrimbor descended back into incoherence, he blocked Celebrimbor’s ears with wax, blindfolded him, and stood him up in one of the supply cabinets.

“And now I am finished,” Finrod said, the Mirror quickly darkening in response to his will.

Miaulë slowly raised his head. “One more.”

“No.” Finrod’s voice held a note of warning, and his warm expression had become dark. “You may have forgotten, but I too have loved Celebrimbor for many ages, and to watch what you do to him is like a knife carving my own flesh.”

“Then let me look without you!”

“No! Given who you are, the latent memories within, and the power of the Mirror, it would be most unwise for you to attempt looking alone. Why do you want to continue immersing yourself in this horror? You have seen enough to know who you were and what you chose.”

“But I still seem to care, in a way.” Miaulë’s excuse sounded weak in his own ears. Yes, Sauron still did seem to care, but what remained of his love was monstrous.

Finrod stared at him for a long moment. “Very well. One last vision.” His mind touched Miaulë’s. Try to find a moment of kindness.

This time Miaulë’s stomach remained in knots despite no immediately visible blood. The workshop had been put together, but now it was too neat. If he had traveled further back in time, the containers would be open, tools would be out, and the light coming in through the tall windows would not be dimmed by smoke.

Sauron’s hands brushed lightly over Celebrimbor’s head in his lap, a blanket draped over him. Celebrimbor’s matted hair would have also given away that all was not right, as would his sunken eyes and misshapen mouth, too many teeth missing to hold its usual shape. Yet  Miaulë first noticed his own immobile face, the mask returned.

“You’re doing the right thing. Your only mistake was giving one to Durin. It will not go well for him, for I doubt he will part with his treasure willingly. Perhaps you can convince him that the fight is pointless.”

“No.” Celebrimbor’s voice was hardly audible.

“The Khazad respect you, it’s one of the many reasons you’re going to be so helpful. I find the Men insult them easily; they do not care to notice the significance of patterns, jewelry, and beards. If they just paid attention, they would be less offensive. I’m sure you can teach them.”

“No.”

“You will like many of the Men though. There are many primitive ways I am trying to correct, but the Adgî have very interesting weapons. Their swords are almost Sindarin, curved, made for quick cuts, and almost as sharp as your kind can make them.

“And the food of the I'ni reminds me of Gondolin dishes as you made for me, but with a wider array of ingredients. Of course, it cannot be made here, but when we travel east you will like it.”

“No.”

Sauron looked down, still impassive. “Yes, you will.” 

Two men entered the room, and knelt, heads lowered.

“Rise,” Sauron commanded.

“We have enemy movement to report. If you would follow us—”

Sauron cut him off. “Anything you can say to me you can say to him.”

The man blinked once, but continued. “The north-east and north-west hills each hold several thousand troops. When we give chase they vanish.”

“There are caves. Collapse them and they will find it harder to flee.”

“No.”

The response from Celebrimbor startled the man, and he glanced nervously at him, afraid to let his eyes alight for more than a second. “Should we not—” But his voice died as Sauron stared at him.

“It will be done, my lord.” The first man knelt again, and the second hurriedly followed.

“Dismissed.” They both hurried out. “A moment, Captain Nisha.” Nisha returned, back straight, his left hand only shaking slightly. Sauron flicked a hand preventing more kneeling. “Captain Suldos is not up to the task. Take care of it.” 

Nisha’s eyes hardened. “It will be done.”

Sauron’s hand dropped back to Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “Some of them are very capable, as you well know.” 

Miaulë could not look at his own frozen face a moment longer. He fought to untangle his mind from the pull of the Mirror. Finrod suppressed the strange draw the water had and Miaulë sat up, his stomach lurching from distress, dizziness or both.

“Now are you finished?”

Miaulë only nodded.

~

 

The next day, Galadriel was sitting in front of the Mirror instead of Finrod or Gandalf. Apprehension crept over Miaule.

“Finrod told me this matter was too close to you,” he said.

“You seem to know what we shall see already. That is surprising. The Mirror cannot be completely controlled even by one with greater skill and practice than you.”

Miaulë sat down. “I only suspect, for I know what occupies my thoughts.”

“It is in my thoughts as well. If avoidance does nothing, staying away has no purpose.” They stared at each other for a minute. “Very well, let us begin.” Galadriel picked up the pitcher and poured.

When Miaulë looked into the mirror, at first the scene seemed mundane. Sauron seemed to be cleaning, picking up tools one by one, cleaning them of dried debris with a gesture and hanging them on the wall. From the armor he wore, and the otherwise empty workshop, he knew he was not further in the past than he had anticipated. 

“I cannot believe what a waste this was.” Miaulë thought Sauron might be talking to the Ring again. “I have wasted months here when I could have begun besieging Khazad-dûm. One of the Rings is undoubtedly with that interfering cunt.” A flare of appreciation reached Miaulë from Galadriel’s otherwise troubled mind. “The other is with the king, and once I have two, the third will prove no obstacle.”

The last table cleaned, Sauron sharply turned. “All your resistance for nought. We could have done so much together; I could have given you everything you ever wanted. But you chose treachery and stubbornness, and now, you have nothing left to give me. Your beauty is gone, your mind is gone, your skill is gone — all to delay me, and in the end I will win. It is inevitable.” Sauron shouted the last word, as his facade of calm fell and his eyes blazed with fury.

As he spoke, Miaulë finally saw Celebrimbor’s body. His crumpled form was hardly recognizable, misshapen and shrunken as it was. His hands and feet were mangled beyond recognition as appendages. His eyes had been gouged out and the bones of his face broken. Despite the horror of what he had done, Miaulë sagged with relief. It was over; Celebrimbor was dead, beyond Sauron’s reach.

“Are your troops assembled?” Sauron called. A man walked in and knelt. Sauron motioned for him to rise

“They are. We have three battalions ready to strike the north eastern camp from the south, and two mixed battalions of foot and archers ready to approach from the west. The orc troops outside the city are prepared for battle as well.”

“Good. It is finally time to show them the consequences of resistance.” Sauron glanced around. “There is nothing remaining here of worth.”

“Shall I dispose of the body?”

Sauron glanced over at Celebrimbor. “He’s not dead. I will know when he dies,” he said dismissively. The captain swallowed, but otherwise remained impassive.

Sauron abruptly stopped and smiled, becoming visibly more radiant. “In fact, I think he can serve a last purpose. Chain his body to a banner pole and raise it in the central courtyard. I will be down soon.”

Sauron spent a last moment cleaning the blood from where Celebrimbor had been lying, and neatly winding a length of chain on the ground. He glanced around. His fingers brushed over the tools hung on the wall. His hand hesitated over a hammer, about to grasp it, but the Ring caught his attention instead, and he held his hand up to a smoky beam of light. He stared at the gleaming gold, still smiling to himself.

A bolt of anger shot through Miaulë. Why didn’t you do anything?

Galadriel’s rage swept over him. Why didn’t I do anything? I fought you for millennia, trying to prevent your destruction, your corruption, your foul presence from overrunning the world! 

You didn’t save Celebrimbor. The water in the basin churned, obscuring Sauron making his way to the courtyard.

“I tried!” Galadriel’s mind recoiled from his own. “You will never understand how much I tried.” She seemed too stunned by his accusation to say any more.

“He gave you a Ring! Did you even use it?”

“Ignorant fool, did you think Celebrimbor’s rings were anything like your own? He didn’t make me a weapon; his goal was not to obliterate you, make you bend to our will! He made what you talked about but failed to create. Tools to preserve the world, though you would have stamped out all beauty in the name of order. A way to heal, though the wounds were grievous. And still you don’t understand.” 

Miaulë fell silent in the face of Galadriel’s incandescent rage. “Did he die? That day, I mean.”

“Look.” At Galadriel’s command Miaulë was drawn to the mirror, as if a string pulled his face towards the surface. The disrupted water smoothed with unnatural speed.

Amidst the shattered walls, ruined mosaics, and silent fountains, ranks of soldiers stood. As he walked, Sauron seemed to shine more than usual, a brighter beacon than the smoke covered sun. He stopped next to the body on the pole and glanced up. Celebrimbor’s head moved slightly. 

He stepped to the side and motioned to three soldiers. “Shoot him.”

Black-feathered shafts hit their target. Celebrimbor’s head stilled. 

Sauron froze for a moment before his brows drew together. “You have missed every vital organ. He’s not dead. Shoot again!”

The arrows hit their target. Sauron’s face smoothed. “Now we shall show the foul magicians, the evil elves, the fate of traitors!” he cried. “Prepare to march.” His captains approached. “As discussed. When the time comes to strike, you will know.”

Darkness encroached on the Mirror. 

“Are you happy? Do you remember? Do you understand?” Galadriel’s low voice sent shivers of dread up Miaulë’s spine.

“No.” 

“Then let me be rid of your presence for today at least.”

Miaulë left silently.