What Brings Us Together by Aipilosse

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What Remains

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It took one abandoned drawing, two books picked up and set down repeatedly, and three fires lit and put out before Sauron finally admitted to himself that he was avoiding leaving Celebrimbor’s room. 

He had spent last night split between drawing out the model for Erestor and meditating on the couch. After several hours interrogating him about the physics of Middle-earth following the rounding of Arda, Celebrimbor went to bed shortly after Tilion set, professing weariness. Yet every hour or so, he would stride back into the sitting room to furiously scribble down some notes or bombard Sauron with new questions that had just occurred to him. 

This was a familiar ritual. In Eregion, Sauron would frequently disclose facts that he knew mostly due to his innate knowledge of the nature of the world. This would irritate Celebrimbor without fail, who found Sauron’s access to information that no Elf could possess without centuries of study as endlessly frustrating as it was fascinating. It probably did not help that the disclosures usually came from the desire to disprove one of Celebrimbor’s theories. Celebrimbor would then walk off in a huff, professing to be too tired or busy for further conversation. Yet without fail, a few hours later, he would find Sauron again with a list of questions that he insisted he provide proofs on.

After announcing his ostensible intentions yesterday, Sauron should have hurried off to Sildamo as soon as he could reasonably expect the tailor to be awake. Instead, it was somehow already mid-morning, and at the same time only mid-morning, and he had barely restrained himself from rearranging Celebrimbor’s rooms yet again. Celebrimbor had been remarkably patient with him so far, but Sauron did not want to use up his reserves over something as foolish as furniture placement. 

The idleness was driving him mad, but the idea of leaving the room still weighed on him. Staying in here would not actually prevent the unpleasant future from arriving, but it felt that way.  

And if this is how you feel after one day of inaction, how will an eternity feel?  

“I have been a prisoner before,” he said aloud to this unpleasant thought. 

Not like this you haven’t. Trapped, with no hope for any escape, until time itself ends.

He slammed his head against the couch cushions, as if to drive the insidious voice from his mind. If anything was going to force Sauron out of this room, it should be the knowledge of the limited time he had remaining. After so many wasted years, during which he had been consumed utterly with his desire to get his Ring back, he ought to  have an endless list of things to do and make. For if he had lost most of his spiritual power as well as his innate knowledge of Song and all the ways he could twist it, his current body could act on the world in ways that the cobbled-together shells he had inhabited for most of the Third Age could not. 

Gone. It is gone forever and you shall always be a darkened, empty husk.

“No. I have not been cast out yet. He must see something in me still.” He spoke aloud to make the sentiment more real. Or maybe I speak aloud because there is madness in me still. He could feel it, locked away for now, but not wholly banished.

Tap tap. “Come in,” Sauron called, not bothering to move from the couch. Eventually I should make an effort to not appear pathetic in front of Celebrimbor, he thought. It seemed a little late to do anything about that impression today though.

The steps were too heavy to be Celebrimbor, too heavy to be anyone but one person currently at Ondomar.

“Good morning, Mairon,” Olórin said, coming into his field of vision and peering down at him. “How are you at present?”

“Terrible,” Sauron said.

“Well, you seem a great deal more coherent and much less like a maddened ghost then the last time I saw you, so terrible must be an improvement.” Olórin pulled a chair over to the couch and sat down. “So, our effort to regain your memories is repaid at last, although not precisely how we wanted it to be. I should chastise you for doing what you must have known was against our advice, but in the end it was successful and also quite unpleasant for you, so I find it unnecessary.”

Sauron considered sitting up to speak with Olórin but decided against it. “How kind of you.”

“You are being treated with great kindness and mercy, yes, but as you know, I do have an ulterior motive.”

Sauron realized why Olórin had come to see him. He slowly sat up. “I’m afraid I still don’t have the answers you seek.”

Olórin raised his eyebrows. “Nothing? Truly?”

Sauron shook his head. “I could not tell you where I was, nor how I got there, nor what was being done to me.”

“Do you remember your fall?” Olórin sat forward, his eyes fixed on Sauron.

“Yes.” Sauron frowned, trying to find a way to approach the memory without antagonizing the hissing voice inside him. “I felt Frodo claim the Ring, and I knew where it was, and I was horrified that it was so close without me knowing, as if my own creation betrayed me. I also knew he was no great heir of Númenor like I had feared, or one of the Eldar finally realizing the only way to defeat me, but a creature of small power with a will I could dominate. And then it was gone.” Sauron realized he was on the cusp of rending the fabric from the frame of the couch with his grip and forced his hand to relax, despite the agony of even recalling his loss. “I extended my will to the extent that I could, as if I could still grasp the Ring if I but tried. And then I collapsed. I lost all control of every part of my being, and then all was confusion. When I next became aware, I was suddenly elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“What I told you before. It was small, although how I could know ‘small’ with no physical form I don’t know, and I was watching, but not as I had watched for the past millennia. Now I was forced to watch, unable to rest, I could not choose to do anything else. And now my eyes were someone else’s tool, a vehicle for a greater power.”

Olórin sat back. “This still troubles me. And your escape? Do you still not know how that was engineered?”

“No, I was suddenly free. My awareness was limited, and I remember trying to flee as far and fast as possible, but I could not tell you what I was running from or towards. I knew I needed to hide my naked spirit in a body, and the cat must have been the first creature I came upon.” He threaded his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Tell me Olórin, what do you remember of your fall?” He meant the question almost as a jab, a way to visit discomfort on Olórin, but the other Maia took it seriously.

“I died, and died in truth, for my body was real, and could be killed, although I could push it further than any Man with a body of comparable age could. There was darkness, and then pathless emptiness that I traveled through for an age and yet only an instant at the same time. Then I stood before Manwë, and others, and everyone was in a great hurry. After that, I was sent back.”

Gandalf looked at Sauron with consideration. “I said ‘escape’ earlier, when I spoke of your release, but I can’t help but wonder if you were rather let out.”

Sauron frowned. “Who could have done such a thing, and why?”

“I know not, but someone who intentionally released Sauron, who has held such titles as Gorthaur the Cruel and the Dark Lord, known for his torments, his necromancy, and his twisting of the very earth, likely had nothing good in mind. But they also could not have anticipated that you would be given a form such as this, nor that you would be subject to the power of Galadriel’s lens.”

Sauron shifted, suddenly thinking about the effects of unknown magic upon him. He ran his thumb over his absent index finger. “The lens could not heal everything.”

“No! There is likely no power in Arda that could heal the butchery you did to your soul. I am astounded it is still possible to speak with you and not hear an endless litany of snarling, sniveling laments and threats over what you had lost. I had a sample of that before, and I am not eager to hear it again. I do not know, however, how much I credit the lens, and how much I credit your bond with Celebrimbor for your sanity.”

Sauron looked down, a snide remark dying on his lips. “Yes, that does seem to have helped.”

“I find it rather astounding that he’s let you into his bedroom.”

Sauron glared at Olórin. It seemed the conversation had shifted from answers to gossip. He almost laid back down and ignored him, but he also did not want to be alone. “I may be in his room, but things are not as they once were.”

“Ah. Still on the couch in more than one way. Well, I can’t say that’s not deserved.” Olórin settled back, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“What I deserve, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is to be cast into the Void as my former master was, for surely my crimes are as great as his. Some might even say they have exceeded his.”

“A strange boast. But no, I do not agree. Melkor had proved that his bent would always be towards destruction. Indeed, I believe once he had conquered Arda he would have begun to devour his own forces, eventually seeking to destroy even your own being. That was never your impulse.”

“Really. Tell me, what was my impulse?” Sauron asked. Olórin had become significantly more obnoxious than the reserved Maia he remembered from ages past.

“To order, to right the world and smooth away its many hardships for its people. By which you have always meant, order the world as you see best, with life smoothed because there is no option other than following your orders.”

“I’m sure instead we should all listen to you, for you have grown very wise, Olórin; is that right?”

“Listen to me? No! I have no wish to be in charge of anything. Why do you think I’m here, still in mortal form, making myself a nuisance to Lady Nerdanel and Lady Írissë?” Olórin clapped his hands onto his knees. “Well, I shall let you get back to whatever you were doing before this.” He stood. “I must note, I would not recommend casting you out into the Void. But Mairon, I am not sure how much you realize that your fate will be determined by what you do next, not only what you have done previously.” Before he had a chance to respond, Olórin left, and the pounding of his footsteps faded from the hallway.

~

The attic was warm, probably uncomfortably so for most of the inhabitants of Ondomar. The house had well-placed windows and curtains to either let in or shield the house from the sun, all while catching the prevailing winds to move the air inside. At a certain point, though, there was nothing to be done for the fact that heat rises. Sauron stepped through the doorway, hoping only to see Sildamo. He had no idea how the ancient Elf would react to him, but if he must face someone outside of Celebrimbor and Olórin, he thought he preferred someone who had never left Valinor and had no personal encounters with him before his appearance at Ondomar.

Dummies draped with clothes in various states of completion stood about the room. Bolts of fabric were stacked everywhere they could fit, and racks of thread and yarn were along one wall. Several looms were at lower levels of the house, but there was one here as well, the half-woven cloth a mix of blues and greens. 

There were two voices speaking to each other; he would not get his wish to speak with only one other person today.

“I would never have thought a princess would know how to sew so well. Don’t you have tailors aplenty?”

“Of course we do, but when I was younger none of them would listen to me, so I took matters into my own hands.”

“Very fortunate for us! Valar, if it doesn’t seem like everyone has at least one vital piece that needs drastic work for the wedding.”

The two speakers straightened from where they had been pinning a hem. Merillë had re-dyed her hair a startling sky blue color and had it piled high in a braided crown on her head. Her light linen clothes had no padding, but the dress still clung to her and her face had a pink tinge. Sildamo also had his pale gold hair braided up; his dark skin didn’t show a flush, but he looked no more comfortable than Merillë. Both elves had all manner of sewing supplies stuck in their hair — pins, needles, bobbins, shears, and ribbon were trapped in the tight braids. 

Merillë noticed Sauron. “Hello, can we help you?” Her voice sounded cautious. Sildamo stiffened when he saw him.

“Greetings. I’ve realized Tyelperinquar and I are in need of suitable garb for the wedding. I came to ask for your assistance with the matter.” Sauron smiled in what he hoped was a charming manner. Both Elves started back.

“I did tell him he would need something different,” Merillë said, more to Sildamo than to Sauron.

“Now, at the eleventh hour?” Sildamo said with a shake of his head.

“I will help, of course,” Sauron said.

“You can sew?” Sildamo asked with skepticism.

“Of course I can sew,” Sauron replied, affronted.

“Do you know what Tyelperinquar wanted?” Merillë asked.

“Tyelpë and I—“

“‘Tyelpë and I’ — and how do you like that?” Sildamo spoke to Merillë.

She shook her head. “Believe me, I heard it all from my father. He is most conflicted about this turn of events.”

“If you could just point me to the patterns—” Sauron said. From the frightened look the two gave him, his tone must have leaned more towards threatening than he had intended.

“Over there.” Merillë nodded at stacks of brown paper on a table. Sauron walked over and began to sift through the stacks. A sketch of the completed clothing was pinned to each stack of patterns. Behind him the muttered conversation continued.

“I talked to his mother—“

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Maybe Cori—“

“Have we ruled out—“

“—Just saw him a few hours ago.”

Sauron resolutely ignored the conversation. Patterns acquired, he surveyed the available fabric. They would have to make do with something already woven.

“Which of these can I make use of?” he asked.

“Anything to the left of the grey and gold stripe,” Sildamo answered.

Fortunately there was a russet fabric that would look good on Celebrimbor, and a dusty blue-green that would work very well for an undershirt. Sauron thought it best to start with Celebrimbor’s clothing; based on the conversation behind him he wondered if his place at the wedding was all that assured.

He found supplies and a space that would fit the largest panels. He was just considering braiding up his own hair — he did not feel the heat but his current clothing was rather lacking in pockets and he thought it would discomfit Merillë and Sildamo to copy their look — when he sensed someone behind him. He turned with a perfectly normal smile. 

“Are you really going to make the clothes yourself?” Merillë peered at his set up.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” He rolled out the cloth, smoothing the wrinkles and finding the bias of the fabric.

“Where did you learn to sew?’ Merillë asked.

Sauron looked at her with an amused smile. “I understand why you may have forgotten, but I am quite old.”

“Well, yes.” Merillë rolled her eyes. “But didn’t you always have others to do that work for you?”

“No — there have been many times where if I wanted suitable clothing that was not a glamour I needed to make it myself.” Although it had been ages since he had been in that position. He looked up from pinning the paper. “Is there something you need?” He took in Merillë’s pinched eyebrows. “Are you angry with me?”

“No, of course not,” she said. She sounded angry.

Sauron was quickly running out of patience. Their last conversation had been perfectly cordial; in fact, Merillë had been trying to cheer him up with a detailed explanation of the workings of the stringed instrument she was practicing with. Nothing had changed since then, except for the matter of his memory. She had known full well who he was before.

“I’m being irrational,” Merillë said.

Sauron raised one eyebrow and picked up the shears. “Incarnates often are.”

“See! That’s what I was afraid of. It feels a bit — this sounds silly — but it feels a bit like you forcibly replaced my friend Miaulë.”

Sauron continued working. “I’m afraid I’m not a very nice person when it comes down to it. But that shouldn’t be a surprise.” 

“No, it isn’t. But I had thought, if Tyelperinquar took you back so quickly—“

“He has not, precisely, ‘taken me back,’” Sauron said. He had a sudden vision of Celebrimbor tight-lipped with arms crossed. More than likely, he was reacting to his nosy family by refusing all explanations and everyone in turn was jumping to whatever conclusion they thought most likely.

Merillë’s eyebrows lifted. “No? That’s not what they’re saying—“

“I should know, shouldn’t I?”

“I suppose that’s true. A moment.” Merillë left and returned with a dummy draped in a partially finished gown. She began to measure the sleeves. “So, has he not accepted your apology?” she asked. Sauron noticed that she had set the dummy between them, almost as if she still didn’t want to get too close.

Sauron looked at the bent blue head for a moment, toying with the idea of reflecting her initial coldness back. He decided against it. “I have not, precisely, apologized.” He had apologized for Númenor last night, but here in the sweltering attic he realized the absurdity of that as a starting point.

Merillë dropped the measuring tape and peered around the mannequin aghast. “You haven’t apologized?”

“Anything I would say would be inadequate.”

“Stars above!” Sildamo appeared with his own mannequin, also carefully positioned between himself and Sauron. “He hasn’t even apologized,” he said to Merillë. 

“You remember killing him, right?” Merillë asked.

“Of course I do,” Sauron snapped. He banged the sheers down on the table; Merillë hid more of herself behind the dummy. He took a deep breath in through his nose, taking advantage of the calming physiological response that brought, banished the memory of clutching a bloody hand with a weak pulse, and tried instead to appear unconcerned.

“You know,” Merillë said. “My mother wouldn’t let me hear a detailed account of the fall of Eregion until I was thirty. Now, I think she was being overprotective—“

“No, that’s quite reasonable,” Sildamo said, still not talking to Sauron. “When I came here the first time, several years after Nerdanel founded the guild, I was quite excited to work with a few of the weavers, tailors, and embroiderers from Middle-earth who I knew were staying here. I really hadn’t had much opportunity in Valmar, but I had friends who had, and they found the exchange enlightening. And of course it’s a beautiful house, ensconced in the mountains, lots of opportunity to take inspiration from the natural world, and so forth.” Sildamo talked with his hands, but still somehow seemed to be making astounding progress on the sleeve he was stitching. 

“I and Tepindë — Tepindë is my wife,” Sildamo explained as an aside to Sauron, who nodded as if the tailor hadn’t been ignoring him until that point. “We arrived, it was all very nice, I was able to meet Tyelperinquar, and so many others who were born in Middle-earth or had spent most of their lives there, and then we were given a room, a lovely room on the south end of the house, and we were so excited planning our projects, and then—“ Sildamo paused dramatically. 

“And then?” asked Merillë around a mouthful of pins.

“And then we were woken by screaming every single night for months.”

“What?” Merillë looked around the dummy at Sildamo. “Tyelpë told me when he was reembodied he was completely fine. I asked because I knew my father had quite a few difficulties himself.”

“He was, at first! Apparently the nightmares and so forth had started right before we arrived.”

“What did you do?”

“We? What could we do, we just met the man! We cheerily greeted each other every morning and despaired behind closed doors. His mother finally, finally convinced him to go to Lórien. Ornéliel pretends to be very tough, doesn’t need anything from anyone, so I think some tears on her part worked. All that to say—” Sildamo tugged on the fabric and the bell sleeve flared out to the floor. “You haven’t apologized?” At last he looked at Sauron, outraged.

“I will!” Sauron said defensively. “But it’s important. I would like to find the right words.”

“Find the right words!” Sildamo exclaimed. He waved his shears towards Sauron. “And what words do you think you can say?”

None at all, that’s why I haven’t said anything . “I’m working on it.”

Merillë returned from fetching some gold thread. “That reminds me, I had not known — there were rumors of course, but I did not take them seriously — but it’s true, isn’t it? You were together. Married.”

“In a way, I suppose.” 

“What do you mean, ‘in a way’?’” Sildamo asked, still incensed. “You’re either married or you’re not — there is no half-way state.”

“It was an eternal promise, and a spiritual bond, but we discarded most of the rest of the traditions. And I am not one of the Firstborn.”

“But surely Tyelperinquar severed it?” Sildamo said

“We would have heard about it if he had; that’s not the kind of thing you can keep secret,” Merillë pointed out. “Oh. Which was likely why Tyelpë didn’t do anything about it.”

Sauron froze, suddenly realizing he had built a good portion of his confidence in Celebrimbor’s continued interest because of the unbroken bond. But Merillë was right — the workings of oaths on the soul were obscured even to him, and Celebrimbor would certainly have needed to go to Mandos to sever their bond. Such a petition would quickly become common knowledge. Likely  the only reason they were still spiritually connected was Celebrimbor’s wish for privacy and his trust in the fences of Aman. Something hissed in the back of his mind.

“Yes, that is probably the only reason why.” Sauron’s hands stilled completely.

“Well, I am glad to hear you two are not as cozy as everyone seems to think,” Sildamo said as he finished a cuff, his hands moving with preternatural speed. “I do hope Tyelperinquar is planning on taking some time for himself after this ordeal. Perhaps I could suggest some locations for a holiday.”

“He would hate that; he clears his mind by working through other problems.” Sauron said this absently, still running through every interaction with Celebrimbor from the past couple days. He almost added several promising conversations they had had when Sauron had no memory of who he was, but he discarded the idea. As Merillë had said, memory changed a person, and if Celebrimbor had seemed to warm up to Miaulë, that meant very little now.

He glanced down, startled that he had stopped work on the shirt. 

Merillë had also stopped working. “Would you actually like to be with him?”

“I suppose,” Sauron said, remembering the next piece he meant to cut.

“You suppose!” Merillë stepped out from behind her dummy. “You cannot go about winning him back with an ‘I suppose!’” She walked over and placed a hand on the fabric. “Stop. Listen to me. Why do you want Celebrimbor to take you back? Because it seems to me that your heart is not really in it.” Sauron glared at her. Merillë balked for a moment before glaring right back, leaning harder on the fabric. 

“Of course I want him to return to me,” Sauron said.

“Fine then. Why?”

Sauron set the shears down hard. The table made a concerning cracking noise, but he refused to look down. Merillë was still leaning forward with narrowed eyes, but he could sense her nervousness. “Because he is very intelligent and skilled and we work together very well,” he said smoothly.

“What!” Sildamo was not quite bold enough to lean on the table, but he had ventured in front of his dummy and waved a needle and thread as he spoke. “That is why you hire an apprentice! Not reembark upon an eternal journey of love!”

Sauron looked between them, anger growing. “Neither of you has any idea what we shared.”

Merillë raised an eyebrow. “Do you really remember what you shared? Because as you said, Tyelpë is smart and talented, and most people feel like they work very well with him.”

“Of course they say that — he makes everything better.” Sauron began to cut along the pattern again, weaving under Merillë’s arms. “The only time I began to even approach doing lasting good in the world was when he was working through me.” Merillë lifted her arms, but remained standing next to him. “And now, now? He is the only light in my darkness; the only thing I have left.” He looked up at Merillë. “I think it may be mostly due to him that I have any part of me left that is not consumed by want for my Ring. I owe him so much, and I already should have been condemned for eternity for what I did to him.”

“Hmph, now this is a beginning,” Sildamo said.

Merillë looked at him for a moment, conflicted. “That is a good start, I suppose. You’re beginning to show some vulnerability.”

“Beginning? I am incredibly vulnerable! I have never been so powerless and yet surrounded by people who hate me. I have nothing to offer him or anyone.” He glanced down, wishing for something to do with his hands, but he had finished cutting the pattern.

“What would you offer Tyelpë?” Merillë asked, curious.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I have offered him everything he could ever want on previous occasions and he turned that down.”

“Tyelperinquar does not seem to me to be someone who would want to be given everything — he’s gone out of the way many times to put himself in a position where he has to do everything for himself, despite his family,” Sildamo pointed out.

“I know that!” That these two would presume to lecture him on what Celebrimbor wanted showed how badly he was expressing himself. His eloquence had vanished with all the rest of his power.

“Well, what does he want?” Sildamo asked.

“He hasn’t told me what he wants,” Sauron said. Sildamo raised an eyebrow. Sauron huffed. “He likely wants me to apologize, not just for what I did to him, but everything. And he probably wants me to be truly repentant.”

“And are you sorry?” Merillë asked.

“For many things! But for everything? I don’t think I was entirely wrong in my aims, even if by the end I had forgotten why I started.”

“I don’t think Tyelpë is going to be the only one who is going to ask for an apology,” said Merillë.

“I know that as well.” Sauron began to regret leaving Celebrimbor’s room as Merillë invited reality into the attic with them. “The thought that I still had Tyelperinquar was the only thing that made the future bearable. I would endure any indignity for him. Anything.” 

“Then you will need a better apology,” Merillë said.

Sauron laughed mirthlessly. “I think I will need much more than an apology. As you pointed out, the only reason he did not sever our bond was because of how harrowing that process would likely be. I am sure he wants no part of me.”

“Hmm, I am not so sure about that. He has let you hide in his room; that’s not the action of someone who doesn’t care.”

“Perhaps.” Sauron gathered up the pieces of cloth, not meeting Merillë’s eyes.

“You can’t have given up!”

“Well then, tell me, Merillë, since you seem to have been granted the wisdom to solve my impossible situation — what should I do?”

“Apologize!” Merillë exclaimed. “As we said in the beginning. And I make no claim to being able to solve this terrible plight you’re in — that is entirely your fault, by the way — but even if he rejects you, surely you know you must apologize.”

“If only it were that easy. But yes, you are right, even if I had even less hope I should still apologize. But where can I even begin?”

Merille straightened and surveyed Sauron like she had previously been surveying the gown. “One moment, let’s find you some thread so you can make progress on the shirt. Then, you can practice with me.”

~

The same fruitless thoughts chased through Celebrimbor’s head over and over. On one hand, Annatar seemed to feel genuine remorse for some of his actions. He had admitted to making mistakes — miraculous in and of itself. On the other, he still had not truly apologized. What exactly did Annatar think his mistakes were? Killing him? It would have been worse if Celebrimbor had been kept alive and forced to witness what Sauron would become. Creating the Ring? While certainly a mistake, if he regretted it only for the weakness it engendered in him that was also ultimately unsatisfying. 

Wisdom would tell him to wash his hands of Annatar — he had after all thought they had been separated permanently before, and he had been fine. But then he thought about the glimpse of the changed Arda Annatar had shown him: phenomena that had barely been studied, folds in the fabric of the universe, systems spinning through Ëa centered on points that had nothing to do with any of Ilúvatar’s children. The discomfort from the night before remained, but now he could feel his curiosity growing. If there was vastness beyond what he had imagined, the possibilities of what lay among the stars expanded. He also desperately wanted to see the real heavens. Would they be more magical knowing the pin pricks of light were from unfathomable distances away? Or would they feel cold and uncaring, a strange sky that had never looked down on the Quendi waking in awe?

Even if there were no observable differences, he knew exactly who he wanted by his side as he dug for answers. And then he was right back to where he started, wondering what remained of Annatar and if they could truly regrow their love after so much destruction.

He was temporarily dragged out of his circuitous thoughts by Sam and the momentous occasion of moving the finished beer to Áremar. A few others had been conscripted as well, and together they brought barrel after barrel up from the cellar. When the last barrel was loaded, he stood in the courtyard watching the cart rumble off. 

“You must be tired.”

“What?” Celebrimbor was startled out of his reverie by a voice at his elbow.

“I said, you must be tired,” Sam repeated.

Celebrimbor looked down at Sam, who was holding a collection of empty mugs. “I'm sorry, I thought you said the remaining barrels will stay here.”

Sam pushed his wide-brimmed hat back. “So, you’re not tired then?”

“Not particularly. Do I look tired?”

“A bit, and well, I only figured that since you were reunited with your husband, properly now, you’d have a lot of catching up to do.”

“We’re not reunited.” Celebrimbor suddenly realized that he was very likely the primary topic of gossip throughout the household, and the gossip had apparently concluded that he had reunited with his ex before he was anywhere close to making up his mind.

“No?” Sam raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t he still in your room?”

“Yes.”

“And wasn’t he in your room last night? b”

“Yes, but not like that.”

“And wasn’t he in your room the night before too?”

“Nothing has happened!”

“Ah! And that’s a problem?”

“No, it’s exactly what I want.”

Sam gave him a look that clearly said he did appear to be a man getting exactly what he wanted. “Let me pour you a beer; let’s take a break from the preparations.”

Celebrimbor found himself following Sam to the brightly painted wooden seats on the porch, despite not actually wanting to have the conversation Sam seemed bent on having.

The hobbit left and returned with two mugs of beer, tapped from some of the kegs that remained at Ondomar. Celebrimbor drank, pleasantly surprised by the light malty flavor. 

“Not bad, if I do say so myself. Of course, I’ve been regularly sampling,” Sam said with a wink.

“This is good. I’ve found the beer in Valinor lacking. There are excellent wines and liquors, but no one has really invested their time into beer.”

“I’ve always thought of wine as the elven drink myself. Well, that and miruvor.”

“I can’t speak to later ages, but I didn’t start regularly drinking wine until Ost-in-Edhil had been settled for several centuries. Grapes take a long time to establish, and the soil and climate of Beleriand were largely not conducive to wine. But once Ost-in-Edhil was at its height, you could get anything you wished there.”

“The tales are never quite as you imagine them,” Sam said meditatively. He sat in silence for several long minutes, content to listen to the buzzing insects and feel the warm summer breeze. The sounds of laughter, conversation, and arguments spilled out from Ondomar’s open windows and workshops. 

“So, when you met Sauron, you didn’t know him as Sauron, but instead this Annatar fellow. You did a bit of work together, and fell in love, and decided to marry.” Sam waved away Celebrimbor’s protest as he dove back into the matter at hand. “Pledge yourselves to each other for eternity, and do whatever elf magic happens that creates a bond between you.”

“You can actually create such a bond between friends, it so happens, it’s just more common, and gains certain immutable qualities in marriage,” Celebrimbor cut in.

“Ah.” Sam paused for a moment. “Did you create the friend bond or the marriage bond?”

The conversation suddenly reminded Celebrimbor of speaking with High King Finarfin. He had the same uncanny ability of making you feel dense even while explaining something to him. 

“The marriage bond.”

“I had it right then. Anyway, you create this marriage bond, but you don’t tell anyone else, even though you have many shared friends and you’re the Lord of your Elf city.”

“ A lord—”

“ A lord of your Elf city. Meanwhile he hasn’t told you he’s Sauron, and has done all sort of nasty things like orc-making and general enslaving and killing, but you somehow find out—”

“He told me.”

“He told you! Well now. I take it that it didn't help much after withholding the information for so long.” Celebrimbor shook his head. “So he leaves, and you’re broken up, and probably quite sad. And you both happen to do some ring-making to make yourselves feel better.”

“That’s not quite how I’d put it. I’d say I crafted my rings to help stand against him, as I’d feared he’d return to conquer us.” 

“Right, and you were correct, his Ring was all about conquering everything, and making it exactly as the Ring-bearer would like.” Sam, after all, did know a little bit about what the Ring’s purpose was. In a way, he knew more than Celebrimbor about the true nature of the Ring — theoretical knowledge and experience were vastly different. 

Sam continued, “So, he does exactly what you thought he’d do. Seems you did know him a bit after all! And then he conquerors your city, and kills you after a great deal of nastiness, and puts your body on a pole.” Sam paused. “I have given advice on all kinds of matters of the heart in my day, but this really is the real prize pumpkin.”

“Mhm.” Celebrimbor had lost where Sam was going with this retelling, but he was becoming invested in the destination.

“Now you’re dead for a bit, and Sauron continues to get worse and worse as he becomes more powerful, although he has some setbacks here and there. And then we come to my and Frodo’s bit, and we end him for good, or so we thought. Or wait, you come back to life here first, but don’t know the happenings from Valinor, so it’s a bit besides the point. Anyway, it’s been a great deal of time for you, and then hello! Your husband is back, looking like he did when you were first married, and seemingly no longer fussed about the business with the rings, and he’d like to get back together. Do I have that all right?”

“Just about.” He really couldn’t critique any part of Sam’s retelling, although he had hand waved away several millennia. 

“I suppose it all comes down to what you want. I’ve never heard of anyone making up after one kills the other, but I suppose that’s the nature of being mortal.”

“No, I haven’t heard of anyone else either.” That made his indecision seem even more ridiculous; how could there be any future for them?

Sam hummed to himself. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, but I understand why you’d want to be careful.”

Celebrimbor bit down on a finger as he imagined informing his friends and family that he was back with his husband, torture and death firmly behind them, because ‘there’s a first time for everything.’

“Hearing it put so succinctly makes me look rather foolish for even considering an option other than rejection.”

“I would have agreed with you at one time, but I’ve forgiven a bit more than I thought possible, and I’m just beginning to get a handle on how long forever is.” Sam jabbed a finger at him. “But all this to say, you should have a few rules if you’re considering such a thing! In the Shire, we’d make sure there was extensive paperwork.”

Celebrimbor let his head rest on the back of the chair, looking up at the eaves of the porch. “Valar. I would be happy if I just heard a sincere apology from him.”

“You asked and he still hasn’t apologized? That’s a very bad sign.”

“I haven’t, precisely, asked.”

“You should tell him. He can’t read your mind.” Sam cocked his head. “Well, I think with you folk he actually can, but you’d have to let him!”

“Sam, this is all very sensible advice.” Celebrimbor imagined for a moment telling Annatar exactly what he needed to hear from him.

Sam settled back, a look of satisfaction on his face. “It’s no trouble. It’s all second nature after the tenth child or so. Although that bit about the rules is important, too. Some folk—” Sam paused and frowned. “Some folk don’t stop and think about people other than themselves. You need to stop them yourself.”

“That is easier said than done.” Annatar had always been demanding. Of his time, his attention, and his mind. Celebrimbor tried to remember the difference between the times Annatar had pushed him to go beyond the limits he had set for himself and he had ultimately been happy, and when the pressure had left him angry or adrift. All of his memories were overcast by what happened afterwards; he remembered clearly the projects they had undertaken, the things that they made, and the questions they answered, but how he felt about each occasion was murky.

“I won’t argue with you about that! Love is difficult even when there isn’t any murder to contend with, and you’re of the same kind.”

Celebrimbor realized he had been twisting the silver bracelet Annatar had made him over and over around his wrist. He forced the compulsive motion to stop by taking another drink. He looked down at the polished stones and the neat but simple craftsmanship. Sam was right — they at least needed to have a conversation about where Annatar stood. 

~

Celebrimbor’s hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment; this time he had no dinner to hide behind. The thought passed through his mind that Annatar might have left the room. Celebrimbor could reach out with his mind easily enough, but he decided against it and opened the door without knocking.

Annatar was sitting on the couch in the exact position he had left him this morning, eyes fixed on the empty fireplace. 

“Have you moved at all today?” Celebrimbor asked. It seemed like a bad sign that Annatar had stayed here after saying he would venture out. Annatar didn’t react. Celebrimbor glared at him before taking a deep breath. “Perhaps we should talk.” 

He sat down next to Annatar, annoyed at the lack of reaction. “At least acknowledge my presence. You have a perfectly good room downstairs if you don’t wish to talk.”

Annatar finally looked at him, the familiar searing gaze troubled. His lips parted, but he did not speak, only continued to stare at Celebrimbor with the same stricken expression.

“What?” Celebrimbor had thought he had become accustomed to Annatar behaving in ways that would have been unimaginable in the other life they had spent together, but the speechlessness unnerved him.

“I—“ Annatar began. “I—” Still the words would not come. He slid off the couch as if his muteness had settled in his bones.

“Annatar, what is going on?” Celebrimbor asked, exasperated.

Annatar shifted from where he sat on the floor and rested his head against Celebrimbor’s knees. “I am sorry.” His voice was quiet, but still audible. 

Now Celebrimbor had no excuse to avoid responding. Annatar remembered everything. Celebrimbor had demanded nothing and there were no threatened consequences if an apology were not forthcoming. 

“About what?” The question came out sharper than he intended. If this were another apology for Númenor he was throwing Annatar out.

“For many, many things.”

Celebrimbor could have easily said something biting in return, but he held his tongue.

Annatar moved so that he knelt, his gaze still fixed on Celebrimbor’s knees. “I have not said anything thus far, because anything I said would be inadequate, but—” He finally looked up, uncanny gold eyes robbed of their usual hooded superiority. “But you deserve something, even if it comes nowhere close to redressing the wrong I have done you.

“I am sorry—” Annatar looked away for just a moment. “I am sorry for lying to you. You were right to be angry that I built so much on a lie for all that I—” He pursed his lips, and declined to go into well-tread excuses.

“I am sorry I took a craft we shared and made it something I alone controlled. And for betraying our vision. Your vision. No, our vision. We both knew greatness could still be built from the ashes of Middle-earth. I knew that before I met you, but it was you who saw that it could still be beautiful. When I left Middle-earth I had failed to make real any part of our dream. Ash and dust — that was my kingdom.

“I am sorry for destroying the place that even now you think of as home. Once I did that, we could never go back to how we were.”

“No,” Celebrimbor broke in. “No, we could never go back as soon as you created the Ring.”

Annatar’s jaw worked. “It was perfect.”

“It destroyed you. From the start. How could it be perfect? It is no accident your kingdom ended up a bleak, dead place. You stripped the art from your soul, and took out any room for error.”

Annatar frowned. “Yes, it was perfect.”

Celebrimbor clenched his hands. “How could anything new be made when you close the circle of possibility so small that only what you command can happen? You could do nothing but decline from that point. How many times has the stronger material been created when what was intended was more flexibility? Or what started as a tool for war became a tool for creation? Power is only power — you were never going to create something beautiful, or novel, or good. Not after you wove yourself into that thing.”

“And you could never love someone who did not have the possibility of beauty, novelty, or goodness.” Realization dawned in Annatar’s face. “That was what you were supposed to provide, but that isn’t what you agreed to join yourself to.”

“No it wasn’t.” Celebrimbor hesitated for a moment, and then opened their bond.

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me . Annatar cried out with the words he could not bring himself to say.

Only in a place beyond words could Celebrimbor communicate the duality of his heart. I can never forgive you and I forgave you so long ago .

“I am sorry I hurt you. I am sorry I killed you. It is my worst mistake in a life full of errors.”

Celebrimbor flinched back from the stinging sincerity. “Until Arda is broken and remade I will live with the hurt you dealt me. And there are whole peoples, even the land itself, who could say the same.”

I know. I know! Annatar’s burning rage washed over them both, but this time the target was Annatar himself. “Shall I apologize for all the dead heaped at my feet from ages of war? Or the millions of lives twisted from their natural path? Or all those enslaved on my orders? I will do it, every detail I can remember, if that is what you wish.”

“That is not what I am owed. I won’t demand for myself what you owe countless others.” He did not want to talk of the evils piled at Annatar’s feet. Celebrimbor found himself reaching for Annatar’s face, unable to resist touching something so perfectly wrought, even with lines of regret written across it. Annatar turned his head and pressed a kiss into his palm. His lips were warm, but the sensation burned all the way up Celebrimbor’s arm and into his center. He let his hand drop. “Why? Why apologize now?”

“I know.” Annatar clenched his fists. “I know I should not even ask for your forgiveness, but when I was with you I was balanced and whole, the only time I have ever felt that way, and I would do anything to return to that — to return to you. I sang the Music of Arda long ages past, and crafted pieces of this earth myself, but only through you did I understand the full breadth of beauty and life that was possible in the world. It would be just for me to be cast out, to end my part in this world impotent and alone, but there is a chance to try again, so I will. I have spent millennia doing nothing of worth, spinning up a self-serving machine that created nothing, and left everything I touched withered and spent. I have wasted so much time. Please. If I can have any part of you, for any length of time, I could be happy and know that it was not all for nought.” 

“You had me. You had me and did not even try to do anything other than win me back by force. And then. And then—” Celebrimbor shook his head. They both knew what had happened next. “Why is this time any different?”

“Because I love you.”

“No, for you said as much last time, and still, still you threw it all away. No, even worse, you decided the only acceptable version of me was the one that bent to your will and you would break me to that form by any means necessary. And I had given you everything! My heart, my city, my life, every good thing I had dreamed, everything but the very future of my people, and it was not enough. And you—” Celebrimbor had to look away as the sincerity in Annatar’s face twisted and he recalled when that same face had begged him for what he would never give.

“And you hurt me in ways I can never forget, in ways that can never be undone. I have been granted a new body, but there are nights I will wake screaming for the rest of my life. You are a wound on my soul. And nothing you do, or say, will take that away. We can never go back to how we were; there is an immutable barrier that you raised, and neither of us can cross back to that time again.” Celebrimbor sucked in a breath, as thoughts long denied spilled from him. That he had thought they could somehow start over, both untouched by history, even when Annatar had remembered none of it, showed itself for the hollow lie it had ever been. “You say you love me, but that is not enough. It is not enough to carry us forward, it is barely enough to begin.”

“If there is anything I can give you—”

“What you can give me? What I should demand is gone forever; you can never give me my home back, nor the bright future that was torn into war and grief by you.” He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, his right hand still echoing with Annatar’s touch. “And that you should ask me now, when we both know you may very well vanish at any time.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then you will be taken! And I have lost you again all the same! How can you ask me to tear my heart out again for only a glimpse of happiness?”

“Because I am a monster! Is that what you would have me say?” As Annatar spoke, the air buzzed in a way that made Celebrimbor grit his jaw. When he blinked, the outline of Annatar kneeling on the ground seemed lined with red light. “Even my love hurts you it seems. But yes, I would ask that. I have very little to give, but you can have what remains.”

“I have no answer for you.” Something was rising in him, and he didn’t want Annatar to be here when it broke. “Leave.”

Something wild passed across Annatar’s face, but he rose, his movements controlled.

“Just — leave my room. Not the house. I cannot promise I will have an answer tomorrow, but I will speak to you tomorrow.” The only thing worse than being faced with this impossible choice would be to have it snatched away from through misunderstanding. 

Annatar stared at him, his jaw shifting. Then with a nod, he left.

Celebrimbor stood for a long time, thinking of nothing. Then he screamed into his pillow until his throat ached.

---

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Visitor for beta-ing this chapter!