What Brings Us Together by Aipilosse

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Enough

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It is truly astounding that the experience of trying to host a huge party is so universal , Frodo thought. He was watching the increasingly frazzled stewards argue over whether or not the wine was supposed to be delivered here or to Áremar. As he listened to their loud quarrel in rolling Quenya, the language still beautiful despite the angry words, he reflected on how his perceptions of so much of the world had changed. Before he had thought of Quenya as the language of lofty ideas and poetry, and would never have been unable to imagine it being spoken in such a mundane setting. Now he knew a litany of curse words and several highly inappropriate songs in the High Tongue.

The Elves were the same. He had known for a while that the air of ancient wisdom could be set aside in an instant for merriment, but it astonished him when he had witnessed those who had held great lordship in Middle-earth begin to act like hobbits in their tweens. He had seen with his own eyes wise, old Elrond leaping into the sea for the express purpose of dousing his wife with water. Galadriel seemed a bit more subdued then when she had first arrived at Ondomar, but just last evening she had been persuaded into a game of javelin throwing. She had cast off an outer robe, clad beneath in light linen underthings that would have shocked Frodo when he first arrived but now seemed quite modest after finding out what exactly elves wore (or didn’t) on their beach holidays. So dressed, she joined in a vigorous contest that involved much shouting, some boasts, and an astounding victory dance when she won.

As he listened to another argument breaking out over things that had been moved to the wrong place at the wrong time, he almost wished he had a part to play in the chaos. Sam had been swept up in an effort to brew enough beer to serve a pint to every one of the hundreds of wedding guests, a  project that was taking up most of his time. Frodo didn’t know how he could help. Besides, he had been feeling tired recently.

Tiredness in the Blessed Realm differed from what he had known in Middle-earth. It was less that his body was weary, and more a weariness of the mind. It was like the ache around the eyes after a long day at a sunny beach, exhausted from all the brightness.

Before Bilbo had died, he had tried to explain it to Frodo. “You see, we’re not like them, able to remember vast ages and still experience each day like a new gift. We’re built differently. Our minds can only contain so much before they weary of the world — even here. Things begin to slip. Not like how I saw the minds of the elderly go back home, but I do feel like I’m beginning to lose some of my me-ness here, like the old hobbit in me is being drained out and replaced by something that doesn’t quite fit.”

Frodo hadn’t understood at the time, but now he was beginning to see what Bilbo meant. He shook away the maudlin thoughts. Someday he would depart the circles of the world and discover what lay beyond, but it wouldn’t be for years to come. Discovery still called to him: all the places to see and people to meet before he could leave in peace. Indeed, he seemed to be in just the right place for some true excitement. Just the other day, he and Sam had travelled to Áremar to meet Fëanor himself. He had seemed as astounded by the hobbits as the hobbits had been by him. As they had shared old customs and stories from the Shire, Fëanor would exclaim “Elmendëa!” and then go down another branch of questions. He had been especially amazed when Sam shared that he had thirteen children, and had immediately demanded details, which Sam had happily provided.

And then there was their other unexpected guest. To Frodo’s surprise, he found he actually liked Sauron — or Miaulë, as he usually called him. Though ancient, he saw the world through fresh eyes, fresher even then Frodo’s at this point. He took nothing for granted and always wanted to help in whatever endeavor Frodo was engaged in. He could be a little thoughtless, though. Sam had once offered him a slice of freshly baked pie, and Sauron had proceeded to eat the entire dish, not once inquiring if anyone else wanted a bite. 

As if conjured by his thought, Frodo saw Sauron leaving the stables. Frodo waved him over. He also liked him simply because he was another person who seemed out of place in the increasing bustle of wedding preparations. Sauron smiled at him half-heartedly and joined Frodo at his place on the front porch.

“I am finding it difficult these days to find a place where I won’t be tripped over,” Frodo said by way of greeting.

“Have you considered putting a bell around your neck? It works wonders for alerting everyone in the area to your presence.”

For a moment Frodo didn’t know if he should laugh, the joke was delivered so dryly. Then he saw a glint in Sauron’s eyes and began to chuckle. 

“I’m afraid I’m not that desperate yet,” Frodo said. Sauron smiled, but it still seemed sad. “Miaulë, you haven’t seemed yourself recently, is something the matter?”

“What would it mean to be myself, I wonder?” Sauron shook his head. “My past has been lying heavily on me of late.”

“Your past?” Frodo sat up straight, faintly alarmed. “I did not know you regained your memories.”

“No, no, just the past as I view it through the Mirror. Frodo—” He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “We have now spoken many times, always about the present. Yet I am given to understand that you were actually the one to end me at last. I don’t understand how such a thing is possible, and it seems it happened recently enough that I cannot find any sources on the matter.”

Frodo started at the realization that Sauron had gone all this time without discovering the details of his downfall. “It’s a rather long story, and I’m not sure I have the heart for it right now.”

“Never mind then. I’m sure I’ll see it soon enough.” Sauron looked disappointed.

“Perhaps I can tell you a short version.”

Sauron looked up hopefully. “Only if you really want to.”

“Alright then.” Frodo grasped for a place to begin. “It came to pass that I inherited your Ring. You know about the Ring at this point, yes?”

“Yes, I do.” Sauron’s lips thinned with displeasure. “But it seems strange that I could have been parted from it, much less that it would come to one such as yourself.”

“Well, I believe you parted from it quite forcibly, by someone cutting off your finger. And the Ring made its way through the ages to me. I did not know at first that it was an instrument of great power, but Gandalf discovered what it was. I was asked to bring it from my homeland to Rivendell, a place where many of the wise dwelled who could be trusted to know what to do with the Ring.

“However, the Ring… influenced people. Made them want it, made them want to use it, and in so doing made it dangerous for someone with power to hold it, even if they did not intend to use it. Thus, I remained its keeper, having little power and even less desire for power. It was decided that the only thing to be done with the Ring was to destroy it, but that was no simple task. To do so, we had to travel to Mordor itself, a place I knew was dark and fearful even with my limited knowledge, and cast it into the fires of Orodruin, where you originally created it.”

Sauron shuddered at the mention of the crafting of the One. Frodo looked at him closely. 

“And they sent you to do it? Alone?” Sauron asked.

“Not alone. I went with nine companions, so chosen to oppose your nine servants, Men whom you ensnared with the rings you and Celebrimbor created. Gandalf was among my companions, and Sam.” Frodo sighed. “In the end, only Sam was with me. You see, the Ring had already worked upon the heart of one of our party, driving him to try to harm me and take it for himself. I thought it would be better to go alone, but Sam—” Here Frodo smiled. “Well, you know Sam; if he gets an idea into his head there’s no talking him out of it, and he would not be parted from me.” Sauron nodded, a half smile on his face.

“Through much toil and hardship, we succeeded in entering Mordor, but not without the help of a creature called Sméagol. This Sméagol had also been corrupted by the Ring, for he held it for years, and he was drawn to it. He was also something like a hobbit — small in stature, though he had withered into something that looked more like a goblin.”

“It seems my Ring was held by everyone but me,” Sauron said wryly.

“Not quite. The only bearers were Isildur, myself, my Uncle Bilbo, Sméagol, and Sam for a very brief time. But that is more than I can tell this evening.” Frodo took a deep breath and continued to the most difficult part.

“We made it to Orodruin, but barely. I only have jumbled memories of the time. Always, I was aware of the Ring, and it felt like a great weight around my neck. As we drew closer to where it was created, I knew I drew closer to you, and it was terrible. At any moment I thought the Eye would see us, and all would be lost. It was all I could think about; it would consume me in but a little while.” Frodo paused. Even now, healed in mind and body, remembering the burning, grasping desire of Ring would fill him with dread for a moment.

“And you made it into the heart of my realm, beneath my notice. I still don’t understand how you were able to destroy it. That should have been impossible — I think I could never have destroyed it myself.” Sauron looked as if he were not fully present in the fine summer evening with Frodo.

“I did not. I claimed the Ring for myself, there in the heart of Orodruin. Sméagol, knowing what I had done, attacked me and took the ring from me, the very same way it was taken from you.” Frodo held up his four-fingered hand with a wry smile. “He was so overcome with joy at holding the thing which his heart had thirsted after for long years, he stepped too far back, and fell in.”

Sauron’s mouth dropped open. “That’s it? That’s how I was destroyed? After all the power of Men and Elves tried to end me for years, a small, wasted creature destroyed the Ring by accident?”

Frodo smiled. “I think Gandalf would dispute you on the accident part.”

“I’m sure he would,” Sauron grumbled.

Frodo grew serious. “I hate to tell the tale because in the end I failed. There are several here who would say otherwise — perhaps you should ask Sam to tell you his full story, he has a telling that is quite engaging — but it haunts me still that I succumbed to the Ring.”

“You’ve told me little, but it seems amazing to me that you made it as far as you did.” Sauron shook his head. “I have almost given up hope of regaining my memories, and I’m no longer sure I really want to.”

“What are you actually doing with Gandalf, Finrod, and Galadriel? It seems like no small thing; you and the others often leave looking drained and tired.”

“They have fashioned a window into the past, I believe it was mostly Galadriel’s doing, and each day we use it to see a portion of my history.”

“How does it work?” Frodo asked. “Elves are much freer with what I would call magic here than when I knew them in Middle-earth.”

“They have not shared its workings with me,” Sauron said, “but it is fashioned of a silver basin, filled with fresh water from a silver pitcher. No more, no less. I can tell the basin and pitcher are wound round with power though, and it can draw or repel with a strength that seems outside my own.”

“Really?” Frodo sat up. “That sounds much like the Mirror of Galadriel that I gazed into once while I was upon my quest.” He frowned, remembering the lidless eye that had peered back at him through the water. “It seemed like a thing of great power; I’m surprised that three such determined people have not found success.”

Sauron sighed. “It is the same every day. I go there, they fill the basin, we connect our minds, we look at whatever horrors they deem fit to show me, or perhaps those I’ve demanded to see, and we leave.”

“You connect your minds? I know many, perhaps all, elves seem to be able to communicate without words, mind to mind — is it like that?”

“Exactly. With such a connection you only speak what you choose to reveal. It’s not as if they can read my mind in full, nor I theirs, but it allows them to know what I’m seeing.”

Frodo frowned. “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe the preoccupation of knowing that your thoughts are being viewed is holding back old memories that would otherwise surface.”

A look of dawning realization crossed Sauron’s face. “Maybe you’re right. It seems at least that we should try something slightly different, since week after week we do the same thing with no results.”

“You should suggest that to them tomorrow — I know they must be as eager to be finished with this as you are.”

 

~

Miaulë left Frodo with something like hope. It would be wise to follow Frodo’s advice fully: tell the idea to Finrod tomorrow morning and try then. Miaulë did not feel particularly wise this evening.

He waited until most of the inhabitants of Ondomar were in their beds. The house never fully stilled — there was always someone working, a conversation or two, and people outside gazing at the stars — but most went to bed for at least a short rest around midnight. 

Miaulë left his room and tried to walk as if he were upon a normal errand. No one had ever said he must stay in his rooms at night, and in fact he had joined Nerdanel for a very late pottery lesson on more than one occasion. For that matter, no one had ever expressly forbidden him from using the Mirror alone. In spite of all this, he tried to move silently as he approached the cellar door.

No one spotted him as he descended the stairs to the cellar. He filled the pitcher from a tap in one of the workrooms. He thought that there was no greater blessing in the water than that which was innate to it, but he was beginning to realize he had no idea how the Mirror worked. Neither Gandalf nor the elves seemed to speak when using it, and while they poured the water slowly, he had not been able to divine a pattern. 

He returned to the room with the Mirror and softly closed the door behind him. It was very dark. He lit one of the candles with a thought, satisfied that this at least he could do with only the faintest twinge of pain. Several weeks ago that had not been the case.

He extended his awareness around the basin. Something hummed along the edges but it was faint. He began to pour the water in, mimicking as best he could the attitude and posture of his guardians. The basin filled; he reached out again. This time he could feel power licking around the edges, trying to draw him in. He had suspected that whatever spells were wrought here lay dormant until wakened by water, but he had also thought there would be some additional magical guard that would prevent some unwary person from using the Mirror. It seemed that was not the case; if he looked now he would be drawn into the past. He took a deep breath and leaned over the water.

It remained dark for a long while. Then a red light appeared in the distance. It bobbed up and down, slowly getting closer. He blinked and he realized he’d been watching the light from the perspective of someone else. “Better have a look at the worst,” someone muttered and suddenly Sam appeared — much younger, thinner, and more frightened than Miaulë had ever seen him. He tried to notice more details but the scene was already changing. The Mirror would show him what it wished without a stronger will to guide it.

There was another hobbit, one he did not recognize, his face as fearful as Sam’s had been. He began to run, barely visible in the dark. “What have I, I wonder?” he asked, and then vanished as a hissing noise began.

The water shifted and Frodo appeared. His gaunt face and filthy garments spoke of great hardship, but his eyes shone with purpose and he seemed filled with golden light. “The Ring is mine!” His voice rang out amid the thundering noise of the stone chamber he stood in. Then he vanished as well.

Miaulë glimpsed himself in the same stone chamber, wreathed in flame, staring at something in his hand with an all-consuming hunger. The vision shifted and he stood on a hill, golden and glorious, his armies below him fighting with fervor for their god-king. A ripple, and now he was looking at bowed heads as a priest garbed in red plunged a knife into the chest of a prisoner on an altar. The water began to churn and swallowed the vision in depths far greater than the shallow basin Miaulë gazed into.

A Man appeared, his face noble, though stained with soot and dirt. His eyes held the echo of something familiar. Tears cleared tracks down his cheeks, but his expression shifted from sorrow to wonder to desire as he stared down at something in his hand.

The face changed: the eyes bulged, the cheeks sunk, and the hair dissolved into wisps. The mostly toothless mouth opened and began to shriek. “Precious, precious, precious!” the creature wailed.  “Thief, thief, thief! We hates it, we hates it, we hates it forever!” The wailing went on and on, full of horrible, unbearable loss. The face shifted again, and became even more terrible as the skin shriveled like that of a dead thing, and the eyes merged into a single glazed Eye. The Eye rolled from side to side, ever searching, its hue a sickly yellow with a pupil that opened like an abyss into nothingness. The endless lament did not cease, an anguished litany of hate that made Miaulë’s head hurt and set his teeth on edge. 

Lost . The thought echoed in his mind and rattled him to his core. It was as if he had been staring outwards all this time standing on the edge of a pit, completely unaware of the gaping hole behind him. Where once had been vitality and power now was a profound absence. The Precious is gone. He was It and It was he and he was gone — he would never be whole again. Rage began to grow. He had been robbed, betrayed, by stinking thieves who would accuse him of their own crimes. He hated them — Baggins, Isildur, Celebrimbor — the architects of his loss.

As the shrieking voice threatened to consume him, the rest of his memories came rushing back. Ages of striving, ages of loneliness, ages of trying and failing to right a warped world. He tried to pull the edges of his being back together, attempting to be whole again, able to see and act in the world as he once had at the height of his power, but instead a bone-deep pain wracked him. The wailing would not stop. He tried to summon enough will to stop the screaming, but it only hurt worse. I cannot even stop that pathetic monster . He tried again to close the void within, but could not; the effort only made the shrieking louder. I am trapped! I will go mad again if I cannot stop this endless noise, he thought before white-hot agony enveloped him once more, 

~

“I think I shall become nocturnal,” Coroniel announced. “It’s much quieter; I can actually focus for once.”

Celebrimbor didn’t look up from his etching. They were sitting at opposite corners of Coroniel’s desk, engaged in a familiar ritual of working and complaining together. Celebrimbor was not particularly tired tonight and was glad to have the company. His last conversation with Annatar still played endlessly in his mind. They had greeted each other briefly in the workshop and when they saw each other in the hall, but Annatar was clearly reluctant to do more than say hello. Celebrimbor was trying to give him space, but the awareness that they would have to make a decision regarding him soon plagued him, and he as of yet didn’t know what the right decision was. 

“The additional staff are going to be arriving soon. I don’t even know where they’re all going to stay.”

“I suspect I’ll be asked to share a room,” Coroniel said glumly.

“Move into mine, that way Nerdanel can’t install someone more annoying there first.”

Coroniel opened her mouth to respond when a shriek echoed through the house. Celebrimbor dropped his stylus, his heart gripped with fear. He thought he knew that voice, no matter the distortion. For the second time, he opened the bond he shared with Annatar. A wave of fear, hate, and loss washed over him. 

“Annatar.” And then he was running, throwing himself around corners as he tried to reach where the screams originated. He tried to break through the wall of emotion that radiated from Annatar’s mind. You are not lost , he tried to imprint as Annatar fought for some kind of hold in the maelstrom. 

Just as he reached the cellar steps, Annatar seemed to recognize him. Traitor! We hate you! The thought knifed through him, as sharp as the cries coming from the room. Celebrimbor half-fell down the steps, clutching the wall, fear coursing through him as the last time he had heard those words came rushing back to him. 

I loved you. He gripped the silver bracelet, trying to anchor himself to something real, to not lose himself to the emptiness that echoed through their bond. For a moment the cries stopped. Celebrimbor tried to conjure up every new memory he had made with Annatar: the spoons, the bracelet, reading together, small moments Celebrimbor had realized he missed. He did not think it was love, not yet, but there was companionship, the beginnings of friendship, and something to stand against the absence that clawed at Annatar’s mind. 

Celebrimbor took a steadying breath before opening the door. He had faced worse things and hadn’t lost himself. He could face whatever Annatar was becoming in that room, even if it was that spirit of malice he had long feared would be his fate, and still remain whole himself.

Annatar crouched on the ground, his hands clawed and clutching the floor. His breath came in harsh pants, and Celebrimbor could sense another shriek rising. Smoke was coming from somewhere. He ran over and knelt next to him. Annatar reared up and stared at him, his face contorting between loathing, fear, and something he could not place. 

“Annatar, it’s me.” Celebrimbor did not let his own fear show. “Miaulë,” he tried when Annatar did not respond. He had no grand insight, no way to repair a soul in an instant that had eroded for millennia. 

“There is more.” Celebrimbor tried to convey with every scrap of his being how much more there was, even at the end of everything once hoped for. The future could not be the shape of the past, for that was gone forever. They would never be able to live unshadowed from the pain Annatar had wrought, but that didn’t mean what could be was worthless.

I can’t stop it . Annatar looked up and reached out a hand; his eyes seemed to plead for help. Then his hand tensed and the fear morphed into anger. “You thief!” 

Celebrimbor dodged as Annatar half lunged, half fell, towards him, but grabbed his hand anyway. “It is gone! You cannot have it and it cannot have you.”

Annatar bared his teeth, and Celebrimbor prepared to ward him off with his other arm. A green light flashed in his eyes as Annatar warred with himself. Celebrimbor could see the duality through their bond, parts that had been sliced apart and sundered for ages. There was a single ragged breath.

I’m so tired.

I know.

“It is gone. There is nothing to grasp any longer,” Celebrimbor said. “You have already survived the loss; there is more left than you think.”

“It is enough!” Annatar cried, his voice rough. He collapsed forward onto Celebrimbor. For an instant Celebrimbor didn’t know if he meant to strangle him or embrace him, but as his body sagged against his own, the conflict within Annatar settled; he ceased trying to recreate the loss of being that could never be wholly assuaged. Annatar’s eyes dimmed and his anger dissolved into grief. 

Celebrimbor wrapped his arms around him and looked up. Coroniel stood in the doorway, a candlestick clutched like a club in her hand. Nerdanel loomed behind her in a dressing gown, and behind her were several other Nerdanelië in various states of undress. He smiled. “The worst has been averted.”

“What happened?” Nerdanel asked, still alarmed.

“He remembers. And now, I think we should save the rest of the questions until the morning.” Celebrimbor reached up to loosen the arms around his neck, but Annatar only tightened his hold. He tried to stand, but Annatar remained a dead weight, pulling him towards the ground. Finally, fully aware of the many eyes on him, he threaded an arm underneath Annatar’s knees and picked him up, his weight lighter than the vise-like grip would suggest. Annatar did not protest, his face still buried in Celebrimbor’s neck. 

“You can talk with him tomorrow,” Celebrimbor told the still-shocked crowd, and carried Annatar to his room.

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Chapter End Notes

Thanks you to Visitor for adding clarity to the writing and reassurance to the author!