For Godhood is Wrought of Blood by vaecordia

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Of Celebrimbor and Annatar

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I. VALINOR

In the glory days of the Spring of Arda, ere the sundering of the Lamps, the forge of Aulë beat hot as the heart of creation on Arda. For his was the task of creation upon the land, to forge it according to the great Music of Ilúvatar. Under his hands came the continent of Arda into existence, and he wrought the earth into shapes new and staggering: the lands yielded far into great depths, and rose to impressive heights, now cutting dark against the sky. The Lamps Aulë created to light all the work and toil of the Valar upon Arda, and he made them tall and beautiful.

Many Maiar there were that laboured at his side, and one among them, named Mairon for the admiration bestowed upon him for his work, was not least of skill and intellect. For he was a spirit of fire and talented with a hammer, and the liquid flame that ran beneath the earth was his to control. Many ways to wield and shape metal did he create, and he was chief among Aulë’s Maiar. 

Though Mairon was then yet a creature worthy of admiration for these great deeds, it was his tale that became one of caution; for Melkor had utterly corrupted the Maia to his will with the curse of his dark powers. To Mairon’s treason of the Valar’s trust was owed the ruin of the Lamps, as knowledge did he relay over long years to Melkor of their design, and from these Melkor learned much that he cruelly used to his advantage when he marred the new lands. Though Melkor was held to blame for the mightiest Maia’s fall, it was told for many ages of the dangers of pride - for Mairon was not corrupted against his will. It was his hunger to eclipse the place granted to him by Eru Ilúvatar that turned him to Melkor’s service and sundered him from good.

Fëanor Curufinwë was the mightiest of craftsmen among the Children, and so akin to him was his grandson Tyelpërinquar that he, inspired by his forefather yet barely older than a boy, strove to become a great smith himself. He spent many years of his long youth in the forges of Aulë learning the skill of moulding metal to his will, for the forges oft were also quiet places whither he could find peace as he preferred it that else in Valinor was offered not.

It was this tale of warning against the wiles of the Dark and the call of greed that he heard ever and anon in those days, ere the release of Melkor. A reminder it was that Aulë was not wont to allow any to forget, for he had seen in himself what the desire to create could lead to if it fell to rebellion. The fall of the greatest among his Maiar to the hands of darkness was ever on his mind, and he counted it one of his great failures, as he held he should have foreseen the signs in Mairon of his straying in seeking Creation beyond to Ilúvatar’s designs. 

It was this tale that Tyelpërinquar would vow never to forget, for he had borne witness to Fëanor’s folly and the dreadful oath that befell their House in the name of one’s creations. 

It came to pass also that this tale would yet come to be his very downfall, though his best efforts he set to remaining humble and to using his skill for the benefit of all Children. Yet it oft is that the doom most dearly and carefully avoided traps the mind into its inescapable path.

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II. EREGION

After the breaking of Arda and Morgoth’s defeat in the War of Wrath came the Second Age, an era of marked beauty in great kingdoms of rising power. In time, the small and scattered village settlements of Moriquendi found along the Gwathló gave way to the arrival of the Ñoldor, and Ost-in-Edhil became soon the sprawling capital of the new kingdom of Eregion. The realm passed from the hands of the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel to the rule of Celebrimbor Tyelpërinquar, and the might of the kingdom grew fast through the skill of the craft of the Elves and their prosperous trade with the neighbouring Dwarves in the mountains.

The swelling influence of the Elven kindgoms caught thus the notice of one who named himself Annatar, and to Eregion he arrived with little flourish yet with much to give. He came before Celebrimbor, and bowed deep in respect, which impressed the Lord for the humility of one so great as him, as a Maia, as one of the Ainur.

Celebrimbor was also then struck by the fairness of the vision that presented itself before him as announced, for Annatar was akin to Elves yet carried a beauty far more ethereal. Even among the Maiar would he be most bewitching. Celebrimbor was reminded of the Queen Melian, whose name itself held the same significance as Annatar’s for both carried their root in offering and gift. His stature was tall and slender, and his attire though worn from travels across the land still maintained a gentle shine to them. Dust had settled on the hems, yet the humbly ornate robes of jade green shimmered delicately, and his hair was a shade so pale it appeared fine as silver in the morning light. As he lowered his head, it fell in a beautiful cascade of molten metal over his shoulder. Celebrimbor’s eyes followed the glint of many golden rings set on his hands and jewellery adorning the curves of his ears, wrought of fine metal and precious.

When Celebrimbor bade him, he spoke to the Lord before him and his court, praising far the talent of the architects and builders for raising sch as they stood in. His marvel he did not hide at the high-arced ceilings and intricately crafted windows that flooded the room with light. An entire tree stood in the centre of the great room, behind where Celebrimbor held audience with his guest. Annatar wondered at the engineering of maintaining life thus amid stone.

He then spoke at length of his coming to Arda after the War of Wrath and its marring by the Dark Lord, and of his travels across the continent through its great lands, realms and kingdoms. Some he had been welcomed in to witness their magnificence, but he gracefully thanked the mighty and kind Lord he stood before for such a welcome as he had received; for he spoke mournfully of the Elven lords who had so far denied him friendship. 

“Thank us not,” responded Celebrimbor to these words, “for I understand their distrust.” The Lord stood from his seat, and stepped down from his dais to come level with the Maia. He was surprised to find he was only barely taller than Annatar, most often a rare thing to behold. Yet he could not find displeasure in the circumstance. “Though we have no reason to lack faith in thee, Annatar, if sent by the Valar thou truly art — and it comforts us to know the Gods have not abandoned us, despite our great mistakes and failings.”

Annatar smiled, allowing his bronze gaze to dip from whither it had held the Lord’s eyes. Though he knew of the High King’s hesitance at this unbidden visitor, Celebrimbor could not long bring himself to distrust one so fair. 

“We descended upon Arda to bring it glory and allow it to flourish for the sakes of the Children, and of that task we are not sundered. Though the Valar themselves hesitate to interfere, for fear of what it may yield, they allow those of us willing to come and guide as we wish. A great many things I can bring to thee, and thus this name I bear and so present myself to thee. What thou desir’st, I can offer to my best ability.”

“We have seen great loss and war fought among our very kin and against others upon Arda, and yet face times of great recovery and rebuilding,” Celebrimbor said with solemn voice. “It is wherefore in these times that we welcome all who choose to aid this effort, for trust will be our greatest ally and strength in forging these necessary alliances. For this reason I bid thee stay so long as thou mayest so wish, and find these lands to please thee. Thou namest thyself bearer of gifts, and any such thou grantest will surely bless us.”

“These gifts are ones of knowledge,” Annatar stated, “for I have great wisdom in the study of metal, and I have heard tell of the smiths who dwell in this realm. To them I would grant guidance and teachings I have learned from none other than the Valar themselves, and Aulë not the least of my masters.”

“Thus Aulëndil thou art, and with humility alone do we accept these gifts. For thou hast heard right; our best craft lies in metal, and with Dwarves we do much trade — in material as with learning in the works we create.”

“Then it pleases me to know that what I may grant will surely be for the benefit of many peoples, for these I wish to grant in avail of all who dwell upon Middle-earth. And much it seems I have yet to learn from you, for the knowledge I earn hither I must gather with me, to travel onwards and, in the end, return westwards. The Valar durst not yet return, but they much yearns for tidings from hither now that evil has been brought down.”

Celebrimbor swept his hand out, taking Annatar’s between his, fingers curling over Annatar’s long ones in a gesture of truth and friendship betwixt them. 

“All that thou desir’st shall be freely given to thee,  should thou so ask it of us; for what is mine in this realm is also thine.”

Though Annatar bowed so deep as he could, even with Celebrimbor’s sincere assurances such formality was not needed, long did his gaze linger on Celebrimbor ere it finally fled elsewhither. With this the Maia took his leave, and Celebrimbor watched him depart; strangely it seemed to him that the hall dimmed in splendour and brightness after Annatar’s egress.

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Soon were the fruits of the labours wrought by the Gwaith-i-Mírdain renowned across Middle-earth, for Annatar’s ample gifts of knowledge had borne them results. Works of greater skill had seldom been seen, and such talent would never again be seen upon the continent in ages to follow. The Elves’ mastery of metal grew under the guidance of the patient Maia, yielding ever more sturdy, cunning and beautiful works with metal they made malleable and hard as needed. Be they weapon or jewellery, each piece became a unique work of craft of the Elf who thus made it, laden each with their own talents and specialties. 

And with Annatar did Celebrimbor spend much of his time, glad for the companionship offered to him; for the Maia was wise yet witty, knowing much about the evils that had befallen the lost lands of Beleriand. For he had dwelt long in Middle-earth ere the Exile of the Ñoldor, but the great and expanding Darkness from the North had driven his return to Valinor soon after the beginning of the First Age. Only the dawning of a new era had drawn his return to Middle-earth to see its beauty remade and splendour restored.

Thus it was upon the white balconies of Ost-in-Edhil that he spoke to Celebrimbor: “A great shame it is to see Elves so sundered from their own kin, fallen beneath their own glory and allowing themselves to wither so. The Great Evil has been defeated, yet they,” he swept a mournful hand out in reference to the other Elven lords in distant lands, “hoard their grandeur to themselves alone. They share it with none and draw cruel lines to keep others from benefiting from their glory. For Middle-earth cannot raise itself from the darkness that still seeps through the lands, for much was won, but that evil still lurks wherever we may cast our gaze. Is this not injustice of itself, to allow Middle-earth to fall to desolation while their prosperity sits untouched and frozen, theirs only to behold?”

Celebrimbor had seen the great halls of Lindon and the haven of Imladris, agreeing much on the point of their fairness, for fair the lands were. He found himself intrigued by Annatar’s words, for the Maia carried within himself a fervour that none other could he find to match, and there was always a burning desire in Annatar’s words.

“We recover from hard times still,” he said, for Gil-galad was a great King, and Elrond Halfelven remained a steady friend to Eregion. He was unwilling yet to concede on the point that though understand he might the hesitations and watchfulness of the great Lords, he also knew that theirs was not a future of isolation, if a future they desired hither to have. “It is to be forgiven to them that their priorities lay with their own first, yet I would also take care to know that they do not forsake the rest.”

Annatar raised a bejewelled hand, palm upwards, in a gesture of peace. “So it may be, and would not either myself presume to imply the inverse, though an emissary of the Valar they still so coldly dismissed. This I understand not,” Annatar retorted, his fingers returning to trace idly the white stone of the railing against which he leaned. His gaze turned distant, resting on the faraway hill unfurling in waves neath them. Celebrimbor stepped beside Annatar, observing the same landscape as he. There was a longing tone in his voice when he next spoke. “All this could become a new, great kingdom. You have the capacity for trade, and thy smiths have the skill. Could Eregion not shine as a beacon of progress unto Middle-earth? Is the age of Elves already bygone?”

Annatar shifted, his gold-trimmed robe glinting in the setting light of the sun. His hair had caught against his shoulder pieces, curtaining and framing his face delicately in a curious play of shade and shine upon his platinum-shine skin. An air of remoteness remained to his veiled gaze. It caught Celebrimbor off-guard still — though he witnessed the beauty of his lover each day, it surprised him nonetheless each time he beheld its full glory. His fairness was earthly and elven, much as his kinsmen’s, yet it remained ephemeral in a manner he could not place, a reminder of Annatar’s undeniably godly provenance. 

“Thou hast offered us much in the way of knowledge and skill,” Celebrimbor said slowly, observing the way Annatar’s eyes drifted across the landscape, and Celebrimbor knew his mind was at its incessant work as it ever was. “Thou hast now another proposal on that mind of thine that itches to present itself to me, yet here thou comest to hesitate. What is it?”

Annatar turned to him, an amused glint shining in his eye. “Thy presumption is I seek already to offer something.”

Celebrimbor’s lips yielded unbidden to a careful smile he could not resist. “Thy words betray thy intent. It is clear to me thy schemes already are in work as thou speak’st — had thou gotten thy way, a hammer would yet now be in this very hand of thine.”

Annatar stepped away from the balcony and turned to return to the building whither his quarters were. “Come,” he prompted Celebrimbor. “For thou art correct. I have ideas.”

“I would expect nothing less of thee,” Celebrimbor responded, and followed nonetheless — his inquisitiveness was known to Annatar, and he could not refuse an opportunity to witness and speak of Annatar’s plans and ideas as they formed, for the Maia’s brilliance with innovation was a marvel to behold and exceedingly fascinating. 

Celebrimbor followed him through the darkened corridors and stairwells of the city, swept in the gentle light of the falling evening, and they found their way to Annatar’s quarters. Thither kept he a large desk stacked neatly with design schematics — oft had Celebrimbor seen the strike of inspiration come upon Annatar that had yielded yet another blueprint and an eagerness to see it realised. From these were always visible the skill of creation Annatar beheld and the workings of his mind; large diagrams with descriptions and notes written neatly across them as guidance aplenty, even the most accomplished smiths and engineers in Eregion could hardly resist their marvel beholding these.

Annatar picked up one of his diagrams and brought it over to Celebrimbor, who accepted it and observed it. The design was that of a simple ring, though ornate with beautiful carvings and reliefs, with a great stone embedded in its heart to draw attention.

“Place not thy mind on the design,” Annatar said, his voice gentle and guiding, yet there a shallow tremble, nigh imperceptible and well-concealed though it was, betrayed his emotion and desire to see Celebrimbor’s reaction. Celebrimbor smiled, for he knew that many of their finer works together had begun from discussing the details and aesthetics of their works — Annatar’s comment struck amusement in him. 

“Thou presentest to me jewellery, yet ask I not heed its appearance?” His mirth he allowed to shine through his words, and Annatar did not withhold his laugh.

“These are not mere jewellery, for they can be so much more.” 

Annatar stepped around and came to stand beside Celebrimbor, leading his gaze with his finger to the details of what he had planned. Having pointed these out, he went then to stand beside the fireplace as Celebrimbor read the notes.

“Dwarves and Elves alike are masters of metalworks,” Annatar spoke, “and I have seen your weapons as I have seen theirs. Men’s works do not draw near these. Men can but draw their hatred and anger into weapons — they can tie curse and doom upon their enemies to a blade, and imbue them thus with dark revenge. The weaponry of Elves and Dwarves carry with it many qualities of careful craft of great skill. And yet, Elven weaponry bears within itself a single advantage more.” 

Annatar knelt beside the fire, allowing his hand near the flame. Celebrimbor had long since begun overlook Annatar’s antics, for the spirit was one of fire, and fire was he drawn irrevocably to. The blaze danced and twined between his fingers, and a fire was lighting within Celebrimbor at the talk of invention.

“Elven enchantment upon weaponry, or yet metal of any kind — this is an art. A form of art whither the metal is found to change in itself, the very composition becoming other, becoming more under the magic that is laid upon it. And this can be used. Is it not by thy advice that thy smiths work ever to find new ways to work metal? I have sought to bring more power to the metal and still do more with it, and from Eregion’s smiths have I only now mastered the mechanics of using metal and magic and melding them. As blood belongs in vein, so doth magic belong coursing through blade.”

The passion in Annatar’s voice was unmistakable, and infectious not in small amount. Celebrimbor’s eyes lingered on the runes, finding many different ones in the margins — wards, protective spells, disguise, there were a plethora of uses and magicks Annatar had thought applicable. He could not deny it, nor from himself nor Annatar, Elves had always sought to find ways to bring union to metal and their art of enchantment, yet their success had remained only limited. Annatar’s suggested method of enchanting the metal in the peak of its heat while it blazed still burning could yield results he had only dreamt ere seeing these schematics. Celebrimbor could not tear his gaze from them had he even so desired to, as Annatar’s words sunk and gained root in his mind.

Within his very blood coursed that of his ancestors, and with it came the desire to build and create. Was it not his very grandfather who had made the Silmarils, greatest of the works of the Eldar? Could these not be what brought light to the world once more, hope in the face of a doom in apathy?

Annatar rose and began pacing, and Celebrimbor’s attention now turned to him. “What weighs on thy mind?”

The Ainu paused, gazing once more distantly at the fire in the hearth. “I merely wonder many possibilities, and yet many more failures. There are uncounted applications that I have only begun to consider, but I only fear they may prove risky, or shunned.”

Celebrimbor set the schematics down on the desk and turned fully to face Annatar, who finally returned his gaze. “And hast thou ever yet known me to shun thy ideas, be they brilliant or worrying?”

Annatar smiled. “Thou speak’st true, be my ideas either or both those things in equal measure,” he admitted with light jesting tone. “I have known thee, Tyelpërinquar, more oft than not to encourage even the most unwise ideas of thy smiths, and this is without mentioning what thou dost with any ideas of mine.” He stepped closer to Celebrimbor now, coming to face him, copper eyes shining alike a blaze were lit in them. “Eregion is a powerful realm, as are many around it. Dwarven kingdoms, the sprawling realms of Men to speak nothing even of the glorious Númenor, and I mention not the powerful hearts of Elven cities. With rings as these, gifted to the most noble of thy realms and kindreds, could there not be forged an alliance betwixt these kingdoms as has never been seen before?”

His brows furrowed as hesitance crossed his fair features, and Celebrimbor raised a hand to mellow that worry. He could not prevent himself from wanting to shield the God in his arms from all harm and keep him safe, keep him as his own. The God who was yet alone in keeping apace with him, a Maia who understood his desires, his Annatar who was unflinching beside him.

“Rumours I have heard come from many places of unrest and fear spreading,” he said, and the glint in his eyes grew, “and with these, could there not be protection and resistance unseen ere this age created against such a thing?”

He abruptly stepped away from Celebrimbor, searching hurriedly through his sheaves of paper that held collected his scattered ideas on the desk with a fervour that intended a new revelation, a new clarity in his mind over some topic of his pondering.

“There is no rush, my dear,” Celebrimbor said, “allow me. What is it thou seekest?” he asked as he went beside Annatar and began leafing through the sheets.

“Another of my ring designs, for one of them holds magic as I have yet to show thee, spells of mine own design.”

Celebrimbor showed some designs he had located, and Annatar found from them the one he sought, and laid it unto the desk before them. The candlelight surrounding them cast hovering shadows across the parchment.

“Think of these, Tyelpë, and think of what thou canst bring to this world we tread. Sinking power into rings as these can bring such sheer strength as has never been witnessed nor known ere now. The great Kings in all realms would see their people flourish and their borders safe, is that not the dream that has been hoped for since the end of the War that broke the World? Wouldst thou not see it done, thy brilliance leading a new Age for us from darkness?”

Celebrimbor admired the designs, the runes, all wrapped neatly together under Annatar’s neat script. “These could indeed change all Middle-earth,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The crackling of the fire, a log snapping under the heat, there was tension in the air, Celebrimbor’s very own mind beginning to create ideas from what Annatar had sown within him. “Hast thou considered…?” he began, considering the designs himself.

Annatar observed him curiously. “Have I considered what? Hast thou found issue with these?”

“No, for there is none. My mere question was about the limits. If the metal is enchanted while hot, could that magic not be bound by the engraving of the very runes unto the metal? Would this not strengthen their force, not only imbuing them with magic but turning the metal itself into something new, something enchanted?”

Celebrimbor picked up a quill, hastily drawing another illustration of a ring, and on the inner face of the ring drawing runes of the kind Annatar had laid out in his designs. “Betwixt skin and metal, could these not act as conduit of the magic of the bearer?” And now, he drew the same on the ring’s outer face. “And here — a projection, for the metal gathers the magic and may yet focus it, and thus not merely concentrate it as desired, but amplify it?”

Annatar’s eyes were wide, tracing every detail of the sketch, before turning to Celebrimbor — and perhaps there was adoration in his voice, or something akin to it, when he spoke his words. 

“Thou art brilliant, more brilliant than any of the Eldar I have ever encountered — these could become tools, tools of great power, tools of great peace, of a grand union between the kindreds. With these, could we not correct every wrong as we wish?” Annatar asked, his hand rising to Celebrimbor’s cheek, who in turned kissed gently his pale wrist. Annatar drew him into a feverish kiss that Celebrimbor eagerly reciprocated, for the brilliance of Annatar shone before him and under his hands and within him, and he drove ever closer to it, yearning always for more. “Have we not suffered enough? We can reshape Middle-earth.”

Annatar the Golden, Annatar the Bringer of Gifts, a gift of his own to hold and behold, for Celebrimbor had the pleasure of both, and found he desired no escape from what pushed him ever forth in his work with Annatar, brilliant and divine as he was. Annatar who ever supported his ideas and let him in on his works as if secrets shared alone betwixt themselves ere sharing them with Eregion’s other smiths. For the Lord Smith he was, and love of metal was his blood, and Annatar was forged of fire and cast of metals precious and yet unknown.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, we can.”

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As Annatar had promised, the day came of his leaving Eregion behind, and wandering ever on to Valinor, his work done as the Rings he had created. Rings for Men and for Dwarves, each more beautiful than the previous and each wrought with a gift of magic that would only enhance the qualities of its wearer. Though Celebrimbor had known such separation would come between them, a mournful parting it had been for both, and the longing he felt for the Maia came ever stronger as the days passed.

Yet it was years later that the Shadow pressed ever on Celebrimbor’s mind, for too quiet it had lain for long and the peace upon Middle-earth remained yet shallow. And he had found not inspiration in lesser works, but still the Rings ever haunted him in a whisper that drove his desire — a hunger, an itch he could not remedy, that yet demanded he create what he was destined for, that which could lay down into eternity the brilliance of the works of Annatar and what he had brought to Celebrimbor’s life. 

It was under the dark heart of night that Celebrimbor yet wrought his masterwork, and be it for paranoia or caution that urged him to do this in secret was not clear even to him; but thus he did, and created the Three Rings. Three Rings for the mightiest of the Elves, of the Ñoldor the noblest; Three for the Silmarils of hallowed light that rested past any their earth-bound reach; Three for the elements protected by the great Valar that yet watched them every beyond the Sea. Three Rings much as the Nine of Men and Seven of Dwarves he had watched his smiths craft under the guidance of Annatar, Three Rings that could unite and protect the Elven realms so long as Eldar dwelt in Middle-earth.

Laid with stones that shone bright yet gentle in the smoulder of the forge were they. Narya, ring of gold given a stone as of the sun, red and burning akin to flame; Nenya, a ring of mithril with a stone clear as water and radiant as the Star of Eärendil itself; and Vilya, the final ring of gold made white, a stone blue and dark as the sea, modest yet rich with depth untold. These rings he held aloft, the very same pride of Fëanor himself coursing through him as he beheld them alike his forefather had beheld his creations.

All Rings of Power were granted strength and magic from the craft that had created them, woven into their material in the flame and forge itself as Annatar had taught them; but these Celebrimbor had granted his own power to suit his artistry, different in kind to the sixteen that had been gifted unto other races, which he had only influenced, yet not made himself. As he slid his ring onto his finger he felt the true meaning of the power of the Eldar in his hand and through his very being, and knew these Rings were the work of his life, such works as one could only accomplish once, and once only. As the Silmarils to Fëanor were these rings to Celebrimbor, and he knew this in his heart. Never would from his hands again come such creations as these nor such magic as he had given them. 

Thus he took one of the Rings, and the two others were safely travelled to farther lands of the Elves, great in might and secure in their dwellings. Those Two other Rings he gave to Gil-galad and Galadriel. And as Annatar’s departure drifted further into memory did Eregion’s smiths proceed much in the same manner as they ever had before.

Yet it came to pass that an abrupt halt to this life of peace would befall Eregion upon the event of a great doom of Sauron’s own making. Forged in secret the knowledge of the Three had not come to Sauron’s knowledge nor dark reach, and he knew not of their existence. 

And so felt Celebrimbor suddenly his mind turned and torn from where he had stood in his halls in Eregion into the depths of the dark lands of Mordor — through the great blackness of the faraway tower into the very heart of the darkness that seeped from the realm. There did he see the scene before him vivid as the burn of a blaze on his hand yet blurred and distant, a dream-like vision as if stemmed from a deadly fever he fought to understand. 

For before him unfolded the betrayal of Annatar, and Celebrimbor saw his lover’s beautiful form thus wan and sullen as he had never witnessed it before. Faded was he alike one who had suffered a great endeavour that had stolen their very strength, leaving naught but Annatar appearing as from under a grey veil laid on his skin. Yet his face was marred by a most terrible smile, terrifying in its delight as he spoke words in the Black Speech used only by the servants of the dark land. His words were not such that Celebrimbor could make them out, lest it were the few long-forgotten hallowed words distorted and now unrecognisable; yet the feeling of his own ring fighting against its bearer’s will and seeking to fall under the insistent claim of the burning Dark Ring on Annatar’s hand was enough to strike fear and understanding to his heart, much as alike an arrow had pierced it. Horror drew upon him with the understanding of what Annatar had done; for Celebrimbor’s suggestions he had taken for his own, and engraved his black magic unto the Ring.

He watched as the ring glowed white-hot on Annatar’s hand, and Celebrimbor was yet terrified that even his being a Maia may not be enough to contain the blaze; but Annatar’s gaze was turned adoringly to it, a haunting obsession dark in his eyes as he brought his hand close to himself. It was carved with molten letters that at his distance Celebrimbor could not read, yet thus he knew he had been betrayed by the man he had let into his kingdom, his forge, his bed and worst still; his very heart. He now grew aware he had been tricked not by Annatar Aulëndil, a Maia of kindness and gift that came as blessing upon them, but instead the vanished servant of Morgoth, Sauron, now become a Dark Lord of his own right. As the burning brightness of the scene soon settled into an ember-like glow around the Maia, Sauron too became aware of the presence in his lonesome forge, wedged into the heart of his mountain of death.

Celebrimbor saw him turn, dread casting an aura upon his face, yet overshadowed by the anger of incomprehension. Celebrimbor saw his fair features marred by something hateful and corrupted, darkness veiled unto them. And Sauron now finally seemed to find Celebrimbor with him, and his face twisted, a terrible emotion flashing across it.

“What power is this thou wieldest?” Sauron demanded. “What brings thee here, where none can ever step without my knowledge?” He raised his hands to gather the power of the fire surrounding him, yet stayed himself from acting ere he received a response. “You have betrayed me!” he cried, and it was the cruel farce of the situation that made Celebrimbor laugh bitterly in return.

“Werest thou not the one who has now betrayed me from the beginning?” Celebrimbor answered, anger turning his voice as alike to stone. “A disguise thou wielded to hide behind, that had me open the doors of mine own kingdom to thee in naught but kindness, and hither thou revealest thy dark trickery now!” 

A change overcame him now suddenly, and once more did Celebrimbor now behold the glorious form of Annatar, unmarred by his very own dark will, in all its splendour — if only dimmed by the drain of power he had poured in his Ring. A tender smile, if Celebrimbor dared call it despite his knowledge of Sauron’s cunning and deception, graced Annatar’s lips.

“Come now, my dear,” Annatar said, his steps taking him carefully closer to Celebrimbor, “for thou knowest yourself that truth evades thy cruel words — my knowledge and talent I learned from Aulë first, and gave to thee without expectation of naught in return.”

“How canst thou be trusted?”

“Did I not teach my craft to your willing smiths, and did they not desire to forge the Rings I designed and asked for; and did they not do all this without hesitance, for their own desire blinded them to what concerns they may have held? Didst thou not thyself encourage they hearken my words? Thou layest now the blame at my feet, but is it truly any fault of mine thy kinsmen are so prideful as to forget all caution?”

Celebrimbor bristled at the words, for their tone of deceptive tenderness sent an unforgiving chill scurrying down his spine. Yet though he knew their design was to force him to yield, he could not evade the truth behind them; for they reminded him of long nights spent between silken sheets and silver whispers of ideas and creations, these nights that had betrayed him in a familiarity snaring him into the trap of comfort.

“Shame be upon me for believing thy words, Sauron, but shame be upon thee first for thy crimes, trickery of these not the least,” Celebrimbor answered, but knew his arrogance and desire for Annatar had left them careless, too enamoured with their own hands to examine his intentions. Fear of insulting the Maia and his many gifts, freely offered to their people in knowledge and craft, had kept them from questioning him much at all. 

“It is not too late for thee yet, melindo,” Annatar coaxed, voice smooth and a delicate hand — not the one that bore the still-blazing ring — outstretched towards Celebrimbor as he took another step closer. “I see in thee the makings of greatness yet, for upon this world thy talents have no equal. Even I, though great I may be and far more so than any of the Elvenkind, recognise that thy presence at my side and thy allyship I should cherish dearly. The fear of the High King has left thy kin weakened and divided, yet they do not understand and so fear that freedom which I offer. The same as I dost thou hunger for knowledge and power, and these I can grant thee.”

“Endearments you let fall from your cursed tongue, yet hollow they now ring in the wake of your violation!” Celebrimbor spat back and narrowed his eyes, dreading the curiosity he found in himself at the sweet words Annatar offered him. Was it his doom to be enticed so by the treachery of a man borne only of his desire to love? “You offer naught but destruction and would see all Middle-earth enslaved to your whims. Who would allow themselves to fall prey to your schemes, when made aware of them? You shall yet meet the same defeat as your master did, for the Void shall beckon your name until it finds you.”

Annatar flared at the words, yet kept a restraint on his rage. Celebrimbor saw as it seemed his very being began to light aflame, eyes burning into his, a flame kept under dome. “Ilúvatar it was who made me and a being of order I have always been — order it is that I shall bring to this world he has forsook many Ages ago, and order I will create. For was it not I who built these very lands?”

“So it may have been, yet not alone did you achieve that; for it was Aulë’s work chiefly that created all that we see.” Annatar’s face grew angry, and sparks flew at the edges of his hair at the mention of Aulë. A rage fuelled by many ages of memories he desired forgot resurfaced. “You are not master of this land, nor shall you ever be.”

Annatar closed the distance between them and grasped Celebrimbor by the throat, though not enough to choke him — yet enough it was to strike terror into him, for the feeling was so real that Celebrimbor feared he had truly passed in his distraction into Sauron’s realm across hundreds of leagues of land. The ring burnt against the skin of his throat, a searing sensation, yet also frozen as if from the depths of Helcaraxë itself. 

“I offer you nothing but glory, yet you choose the weakness of your kind and its putrid folly instead! You have created these precious Rings of yours you thought to harbour from knowledge using my very designs, and I can sense three. Hide them as you will!” Annatar smiled, hand relaxing its grip and raising instead to Celebrimbor’s chin with a firm grasp of slender fingers. “For I will find them, and bring all thus under my rule.” 

Ere Annatar could utter another word from his silver tongue that bode doom, Celebrimbor tore the Ring from his hand, the scene of the Dark Tower and its Lord at once vanishing, dissipating as mist to thin air. It was Annatar’s face in the moment of his realisation that Celebrimbor and his Ring had slipped from his grasp that haunted him perhaps most, anger and despair intermingled unforgivingly. He thus led to send warning to those who bore the other Rings, for there would be little time to act; the fury of Mordor would be swift and merciless.

His own Ring he dared not bear himself anymore, for Sauron would think that he would not surrender it. Thus might he buy some time for the others to prepare, and do what he could not. He resolved to send his to Gil-galad, to be done with as he saw fit, whose warnings and doubt of Annatar had in the end proven dismayingly correct.

Celebrimbor found now that six of the Seven had been taken by Annatar, and Celebrimbor feared they had been given to Dwarf lords that may have yet remained unaware of their true purpose. But the most powerful of the Seven he found and send to Durin, King of Khazad-dûm, mightiest of the lords with knowledge of the burden he was now gifted. The Nine’s fate he knew not, but the tales of swelling influence of Men and their corrupt lords drove Celebrimbor to guess these Nine had fallen already into the hands of Men, and ones that Sauron could foresee bending to his own will.

Eregion would fall and Celebrimbor knew his doom was nigh; yet he swore to himself that Middle-earth would not meet its end now, and not for him.

---

III. BARAD-DÛR

The slender fingers of a fair hand sifted through his hair, a caress tender as a light breeze, a memory of a time bygone that had proven his very doom, and for that very reason a kindness almost that  sufficed not to allow Celebrimbor to forget whither he stood. Forlorn in the dark heart of the lands of Mordor was he, at Sauron’s cruel and pitiless mercy. The grip tightened, nails digging into his scalp and hair pulled taut, as Sauron forced Celebrimbor’s face towards him.

“You resist for naught,” said Sauron with a voice hard as steel. Gone were the gentle words and honeyed tones he soothed entire kingdoms with, replaced by a coldness with tendrils reaching deep into the Celebrimbor’s very bones. 

His gaze drifted across the face before him; familiar yet foreign, a terrible beauty to behold — in his eyes a storm of molten gold blazed bright, and the hair that had been as threads of silver was now a copper red, yet streaked with grey strands, as if the very colour was draining from him as his power became entangled with the Ring. For Celebrimbor now could see his magic was tied into the Ring, unlike any ere him had ever risked to do. He saw now Annatar was a form not different from Sauron, hardly distinct from the true form that lurked beneath his disguise. Only his true power had been concealed and the fire of his being dimmed into a deceiving, tender and kind ember. Yet embers burned as vicious against skin as open flame did, and now did Celebrimbor see the mistake he had so carelessly made. 

“Surrender the Rings, and ye shall stand by me. All that you desire shall you have, and no equal to you shall there be upon this earth. You would have everything that is your wish — you need only name it.

“You will never find the Rings,” Celebrimbor said, his voice rough and tired, as though sand were passed through it endlessly. 

His breathing came heavy, weighed both by the thick heat of the air surrounding him and the exhaustion he had endured. Though they were yet far from Orodruin, the Mountain of Sauron’s forge and of Middle-earth’s doom, the burning volcanic core spread throughout the land of Mordor thus bringing its scorch even into the Black Tower. His arms ached from behind held up by the shackles that chained him to the wall, and all blood hand long since drained from them and left them numb and spasming. The metal whither his wrists were caught dug into his bones, straining the skin red and raw.

Sauron released Celebrimbor’s hair, stepping back with arms outspread, an invitation. 

“The Valar have forsaken you!” 

And Celebrimbor watched as the red volcanic glow cast its hard light into the tower through the lone window and ignited upon him the ephemeral glare of a flame, the smell of sulphur heavy in the air; now truly did he see the mightiest of the Maiar, Gorthaur the Cruel, Lieutenant of Morgoth before him, and in Bauglir’s defeat had turned all that power away from servitude to his own devices and taken the throne of darkness upon Middle-earth as his own. 

“Middle-earth has been long forgotten by the Valar, for their battles lay with Morgoth and find now nothing but their own corner of feast and glory of interest. They have forgotten you! Now is Middle-earth mine to take as I will — be there any who can stop me?” His words resonated, as if spoken by a thousand voices at once, his very being larger than before as he said this. “Who have the power to do so, when the very earth breaks under my hands and their wills turn to mine?” 

Celebrimbor said nothing. The cold laugh Sauron gave drove knives into his skin, and there was a terrifying sense of death within it — not merely the impending doom Celebrimbor knew hung just before him, but the sense that there was something frozen, something that had rotted within Sauron, something that in him was no longer alive; what had once been beauty had turned charred and black within him. Though perhaps Maiar could never be truly considered alive for their godhood, Celebrimbor had known Maiar with beauty enough to stun, healing with words and soothing with glances as the Queen Melian herself had done in love and life; but of Sauron there remained nothing but shards, shattered over ages of misuse and evil deeds of his power.

Sauron dropped his hands, allowing the dreadful light surrounding him to dim, returning more to the tower wherein they stood. His eyes cast about, before landing on Celebrimbor’s forlorn sword, torn from him at the doors of Eregion by Sauron’s forces and now lying prisoner in the same room he did. 

Drawing the blade, Sauron held it aloft, eyes tracing the intricate smithing of it and its runes, a work of art of the Elves of the West ere their coming even to Beleriand. Light glinted and scattered from it upon the walls, blood-red upon the black stone. Sauron finally brought the blade down, fingers tracing along its steel, as if daring it to slice his skin — yet naught happened, and no injury did he sustain, for a Maia he remained. Only one blade had ever pierced an Ainu, and Fingolfin’s ire had driven it so, yet no hand now wielded Celebrimbor’s blade, and Sauron’s malicious smile spread across his lips. And passing his hand over the metal he swung then once, ere striking straight downwards into the dark stone of the floor; and the sword shattered, the blade cracking under the force and hatred of the Maia that wielded it now. And Sauron laughed cruelly at the broken blade, another trace of the Ñoldor he so loathed now once more destroyed.

The shattered blade he let clatter to the floor, its pieces glittering dimly across the stone. Burning eyes examined him now instead, no longer mirthful — if mirth what he had shown in his earlier cruelty could be called.

“It does not matter. The doom of Middle-earth hast thou, Tyelpërinquar, laid before you. It is now clear these Rings will fall into my hands, whether it take me a year or a thousand, I shall have them. Thy smiths, equal in hunger, drove to this, and you the worst of them all — seest thou not how the end of an era has come, and thy downfall is only the beginning?”

Sauron now paced before him, raising a hand that traced against the skin of his torso, riddled with welts and red marks as was his back. Some scarring already and turning to scabs that made his skin crawl with itch, others fresh and still beading crimson from the brutality inflicted upon him by Sauron. Celebrimbor saw him now unsheathe a dagger from his belt, no doubt one of his own craft — a knife of steel it was, yet blackness had seeped into the very metal and into the runes engraved upon its blade that caught the dim lights. One hand still tracing an unrecognisable pattern upon his skin, the other now tilted the blade curiously from one side to another, as if debating his next act.

Finally, he placed the tip of the blade against skin, and without allowing Celebrimbor to find a moment of peace within this torment, he sliced skin and dragged the blade across in many sweeps, curves and lines, each sending endless agony through Celebrimbor. 

“A thousand deaths can one die without leaving this realm,” Sauron said, his voice one of contemplation; one of long-forlorn memory, almost, and for but a moment Celebrimbor watched as it was now Annatar who spoke to him through the confusion and pain of the dagger. “Such pain and suffering have thy kin wrought on this world, in forms that have left my work and darkness shadowed by the horror of your own hands — for is slaying thy kin for an oath of pride not such a thing? Slaughter as cruel as any Morgoth brought upon this world, for the Elves it was as almost destroyed their kin were it not for one foolhardy enough to cross the Seas. It bears almost not thinking of these too long, lest one desire lose their hope.”

He finished with his diagram and drew away, watching as crimson stained and ran from his blade to the handle. A grin sprawled across his lips, unbecoming of the fair features he yet wore. Annatar was once more cast to the shadows beneath Sauron, yet Annatar was also the form he only saw; Annatar’s cruelty was in the respite he offered Celebrimbor, creating a safety as treacherous and cold as any, yet enticing enough for Celebrimbor to wish for it once again after it had gone, knowing it was but a trap.

“Death I bring is in scale impressive, and of that I have made sure! But bringing suffering is not a luxury afforded to me often, for a great loss of time it is; to concentrate upon the suffering of the one serves naught. But your resistance now tastes sweet.”

The knife came to rest against Celebrimbor’s throat, and he felt the cold edge of the metal against his overheated skin. He chanced a glance down his body — and there, carved into his brown skin was a red Eye, a symbol he knew, a symbol he had heard rumoured in the First Age, a rumour that had once again begun appearing; a threat, the terror of one Watching them all. Annatar’s breath ghosted close to his face, hot and scalding. 

“A thousand deaths can one die thus, and perhaps you yet shall come to meet many of them — though time was limited, it was once the pleasure of my hands to serve as torturer of Angband,” Sauron smiled. “As perhaps you may know from your very uncle. Maedhros, was it?” Celebrimbor shivered at Annatar’s words, cutting deeper than the blade did as it drew yet another trail of red from him. Annatar whispered close to his ear, dread sent coursing through him. “Surrender the whereabouts of the Rings thou forged in thy betrayal, and all shall yet be forgiven for thee.”

“You hope for naught,” Celebrimbor spoke, his voice still weakened by disuses and abuse, yet Annatar’s motions stopped at their surety. He did not draw back. “I have made mistakes, many that I now repent dearly. For all that I suffer now in your hands, I earned through my arrogance and folly that very same as led my forefathers down the wrong path; and through my trust that fell into the wrong hands. But one alike me can I see in you, and worse yet than I or any I have known; for you are cold and heartless, and even those horrors wrought by my forebears were wrought from misguidance, not hatred. The Rings you shall not obtain — not through me.” 

Presently, Sauron did step back from him. There was an unreadable moment within his face — devoid of all emotion and taunt, a darkness came upon it. Yet that darkness was that of a deep, incurable sorrow, rather than the violent hatred of Annatar’s fury.

He did not step further, and his eyes traced Celebrimbor as if remembering their long shared days and evenings together. Days in gilded Eregion, now laid to ruin by Annatar’s fires.

“Was all our time meaningless to you?” Celebrimbor asked. Annatar’s gaze seemed to falter — withdrawn, distant for a moment. “Art thou truly now heartless, naught but a ghost of deceit where once was one of the beautiful Ainur?”

“What matter be that of thine?” Annatar snarled as a beast caged and cornered, though the chains were not upon him. 

“I ask of thee, who now hold me captive and violated, for one truth among a thousand lies; is that not a small mercy for me to ask?” he responded in a voice that yielded such evenness it hardly carried the tiredness he felt. “Canst thou truly care nevermore for another?”

Annatar turned from him, dagger still dripping red in hand, eyes cast  to the side — not looking at his prisoner, yet neither could he fully glance away. 

“It is for that thou art hither,” he said, and Celebrimbor was surprised at the way he believed Annatar’s words.

Though he well knew the Maia was a liar, in that moment there was something else that oscillated fragile and tender between them.

“The Rings I will find with ease when I so desire,” Annatar continued. “For they are Rings of Power, and whether made by my hand or not, they will all yield to me.” His voice was hard yet laced with melancholy. “Would that I could have you as mine, for I could keep you by my side.”

Celebrimbor watched Annatar carefully as presently the other turned back to him, yet eyes avoided him desperately.

“Dost thou not see?” Annatar asked. “Dost thou not yet understand? I could have what I want by merely wishing it — I would find myself at the gates of any of thy kin’s realms and burn them to the ground until those Rings fall to my hands. I need thee not, and thy death—” he fell silent, and perhaps Celebrimbor imagined the vulnerability in the words.

Finally he met Celebrimbor’s gaze again, and of all the declarations of love Annatar had given him over their many shared years, it was perhaps this one that Celebrimbor knew came deepest in meaning, if not from a place of understanding. He had not truly understood the Elf he had shared his days with; that much was clear yet to both. 

But Celebrimbor realised with Annatar’s claim that this torture was not a prolonging of life with suffering, as Sauron may have been wont to do in his cruelty. It was a delaying of his death, for Annatar in his own way could not yet bear to lose him.

“Thou had me once; yet that time has long gone. Thou shalst not have me.”

Annatar watched him for a moment before stepping once more close to Celebrimbor, and in the darkness his eyes shone almost wraith-like, glimmering yet never quite there. A moment later, the knife in his hand was embedded deep into Celebrimbor’s gut, Annatar’s hand curled around it as the other came to rise upon his cheek.

There was utter silence, no sound of the outside reaching them beyond the thick walls of the Dark Tower. The room was overcast in shadow deeper than night despite the few weak torches lit along the walls, but the darkness was so pervasive those had little effect. All seemed dimmed past the immediate sight of Annatar, whose eyes had not left Celebrimbor and had held his face through the gasps of shock and pain that spread through him. 

Blood now trickled onto Annatar’s pallid hand, red trails against a ghostly white, and dripped from the handle onto a stain on the stone floor — a stream of crimson now draining his life. Celebrimbor fell slack as Annatar released his bonds, his weak weight leaning heavy against his captor and murderer; though still he was lowered gently onto the ground, onto Annatar’s knees with the Maia folded over him.

“Oh, Tyelpërinquar… Thou dost not understand; thou canst not,” Annatar said, speaking of Celebrimbor, yet appearing to speak only to himself. His voice was leagues away, or perhaps ages away.

Celebrimbor gave now a weak laugh. “Perhaps I understand better than thou imagin’st — thou art not so indecipherable nor so different, for thou art made of the same being as us. And perhaps that is what makes you so dangerous and so frightening,” Celebrimbor said amid shallow breaths. Annatar’s lips thinned, but no response did he give. “Perhaps it is yet the reason I fell so carelessly for thee, for thou art real, thou art flame, and thou art. Hast always been, and yet will go on; and how terrible thy beauty may be, it is yet a divine beauty, laid now thus to ruin.”

“Had thou the chance to do aught different, woudlst thou?”

“I do not know whether I would; nor whether I even could.”

Perhaps that was what their love had come to mean; ruination of one another, each in their own part. This was not Gorthaur the Cruel, for in taking the form of Annatar, a piece of Annatar had become Sauron — and yet this altogether was the very same cruel and ruthless Maia as had laid families to utter destruction, yet he was know knelt before an Elf he could not leave to die.

“Poor decisions from both of us,” Celebrimbor gasped out.

“What poor decision have I—”

Celebrimbor interrupted him, hand rising to hold the wound at his gut, only to find Annatar’s bloodied hand already there — not pressing, not helping, but holding. A cold comfort. 

“Thou knowest not whither the Three dwell, yet to your heart my death is upon me a mercy; for my kin expect my torment hither, and would not trust me — not after my failures. We both know this, and that is what they await. My death or my return as thrall, and of those thou seest a kindness within one and not the other.”

Annatar’s beauty only swelled in the dim and darkening light, so close and kind with him, and so true in a way Celebrimbor knew Annatar himself feared within him. 

“Thou art dangerous to me, Tyelpë, dangerous far more than I even knew; for thou ever didst understand me as few ever have, it is clear,” he said softly, his voice shaking. 

There were no tears from him, and Celebrimbor guessed Annatar was perhaps no longer capable of such earthly displays as sorrow. Yet he knew the grief lay deep, and would wound as the knife had wounded him. 

“Yet I mistook thee,” Annatar said.

“Love and loss,” Celebrimbor said, repeating words he had once long ago heard spoken — he now could not remember who had spoken them, nor of what purpose, but the words lay before him as fitting as ever. “And we have known both. Thou hath known love, as you have known loss — and perhaps these are one and the same.” 

It was an understanding that dawned upon him, an observation he now found so easily with strange clarity. For he recalled the tales of the Chaining of Melkor and Sauron lost to the depths of his fortress; and he remembered the end of Morgoth — never had he given consideration yet to the one left behind in Morgoth’s wake.

“Love is not without pain, and thy pain you feed with flame as won’t dim. Love thou keepest as a wound, and so blind thyself to all else, and let it burn thee from within. A metal forged of suffering thou art, including thy very own.”

“Dost thou now claim I do not love thee, Tyelpërinquar?”

“The opposite, Annatar of mine; I doubt not that thou lovest me,” Celebrimbor admitted, meeting the grim eyes aimed at him. “For thou shalt lose me, and to thee that is all the love thou has known. But thou keepest thyself in a prison of your own making with it, and I allowed myself to fall to that very same trap thou hast built. For the beauty of that guilded cage thou wearest is great, and thy fall thou hast given unto me — and I followed it gladly.”

He felt his sight dim, and though Annatar had always been a furnace, burning hot and bright against him, he felt now no warmth that could reach him. His very doom he knew now had come upon his first hearing the story of the great smith Mairon, one whose desire was creation as no other. So tragic to him was his sympathy at the time for the ruin of a golden being for naught but pride in the work of his hands; yet in that very same way did he find himself at the door of Mandos now.

“May the Void take us both,” was all he finally said, feeling the world grow dark before his eyes til he saw ever nothing else but the sight of Annatar in all his golden glory above him upon his death, a cold statue of beauty.

For a moment, there was peace — there as yet silence, undisturbed, even in the ever-dangerous lands of Mordor all had grown still. And finally the scream that carried Sauron’s anguish was heard across many leagues. Power tore from him bearing shadow and destruction which now sunk into the very ground even beyond the limits of the mountains of Mordor; yet the one he cried for heard it not.

And thus ended the sorrowful tale of Celebrimbor, and with him had in its own way Annatar’s own death come too. Sauron it was as went on in the same rage against his enemies and lust for control as before, yet some piece had been now torn from him with the death of Tyelpërinquar. What that death wrought to the mind of the Dark Lord, this tale does not allude; and neither can we ever but guess.