Rising to Meet You by yletylyf

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Fanwork Notes

This is a sequel to A language he speaks, which you could read for badass Celebrian and more background for this fic, but it's not necessary to understand what's going on in this one.

Fanwork Information

Summary: Celebrimbor offers himself to Sauron in exchange for the safety of his city and his people. He is resigned to any number of fates, but what Sauron actually wants from him is a mystery. Major Characters: Celebrimbor, Sauron Major Relationships: Celebrimbor/Sauron Genre: Adventure, Hurt/Comfort, Slash Challenges: Rating: Adult Warnings: Creator Chooses Not to Warn, Sexual Content (Graphic)
Chapters: 1	Word Count: 11, 215
Posted on 10 October 2023	Updated on 10 October 2023
This fanwork is a work in progress.

One

Read One

The letter was unsigned.

Its provenance, however, was clear. It was the eighth such letter Celebrimbor had received since Annatar left Ost-in-Edhil a hundred years in order to forge a master ring, and inadvertently revealed his true nature to Celebrimbor in doing so.

The man who delivered the letter was staring at Celebrimbor, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for a response.

Celebrimbor had interrogated one of Sauron's messengers, once. Although mortal men, they spoke a dialect of Nandorin. They were from somewhere far to the south, away from the sea. They did not know anything about Sauron except that he was a sorcerer. They worshiped the Valar in a loose and confused sense; they believed Morgoth's war was allegorical or mythical; they were at peace and could not conceive of a time when they hadn't been. They were hard to take seriously as a threat.

Celebrimbor never spoke to them now, except to say:

"No answer."

The messenger glared at Celebrimbor. "He insists on an answer."

Celebrimbor turned his back on the man, and placed the letter down on his desk. The guards surged forward and in between the messenger and the lord of their city, ready to bodily eject him as soon as Celebrimbor ordered it.

"No answer," Celebrimbor repeated firmly.

What the hell did Sauron expect an answer to contain, anyway?

Dear Sauron, I've changed my mind, I can't wait to help you enslave or slay my kin. It runs in the family, you know. Love, Fëanor's grandson.

Celebrimbor sighed.

"He will not like that," the man said, and took a step towards Celebrimbor. In response, several of the guards seized him. The messenger attempted to struggle against the guards' hold, and the guards started to wrestle the messenger towards the door.

"Do not hurt him," Celebrimbor ordered the guards in Sindarin. "Show him out of the city and send him on his way."

The guards hauled the man up and away from Celebrimbor's hall, none too gently. Celebrimbor did, however, trust them not to actually hurt the messenger. There was no point. Hurting his servants would not hurt Sauron.

"What will you do about this?" came the measured voice of the lone elf remaining in the room with Celebrimbor.

Celeborn had picked up the letter to read it, and now he was holding the letter distastefully in between the very tips of his fingers, as though he feared it contained a poison beyond the words.

Celebrimbor made a small, distressed sound in his throat. He shook his head.

"You cannot carry on moping over these letters the way you have been for a century," Celeborn said sharply. "You must do something."

"I know," Celebrimbor said tiredly. "I must go see your wife."

"My wife?" Celeborn repeated in surprise, raising both eyebrows. "She will not be happy to see you."

"She certainly will not," Celebrimbor agreed in resignation. "But I cannot think of anyone better suited to help keep the rings beyond his power."

Celeborn glanced briefly down at the letter he was holding. "You believe this, then? He has an army and plans to march on us?"

"It is the first time he has said anything of the kind," Celebrimbor pointed out. "His previous threats have been more... personal."

Sauron had not threatened Ost-in-Edhil before, let alone the whole of Eriador. The list of things he'd said he intended to do to Celebrimbor was colorful, but Celebrimbor had been unwilling to confess the business of the rings to his kin merely for the sake of saving his own skin.

The welfare of his city—and potentially of all the Eldar in Middle-earth—was a far weightier matter.

"Very well," Celeborn said gravely. "Go to Lórinand. I will do what I can to make an army out of our people in the meantime."

"Thank you," Celebrimbor said, and meant it.

He did not deserve to have an ally in Celeborn. Under any other circumstances, he never would have. But Celeborn had trusted Annatar, too. Oh, he had respected Galadriel's opinion—but he thought her concerns mildly unfair, and he had appreciated the way Annatar had mentored his daughter in the crafts she loved. His world had been upended by the revelation of Annatar's true nature, and it had moved him to set aside his differences with Celebrimbor. They would work together now, even if they would never understand or like one another.

Celeborn handed the letter back to Celebrimbor.

Celebrimbor steeled himself and read it again. It was unpleasant, but it was also useful to know Sauron's plans.

Tyelperinquar—

I take your silence as the answer that it is. A complete rejection of myself, everything you promised me, everything we promised each other, and all we built and learned together. I cannot possibly express the extent of my heartbreak that would you throw it all away... and for what?

Since you will not answer me, I can only begin to guess. Old prejudices. Ancient enmities. Things in past ages that should have been left to lie in the past. They need not have haunted us to the present day. You needn't have made it so, you needn't have—

But I digress. I will endure. I do not know how, but I will prevail and you will—

I would do anything to return to a world where you trusted me, where you loved me, where I loved you—anything for a world in which we belonged to one another and shared our vision for beauty, flourishing civilizations, great kingdoms that would never fall—no slave to the Powers, we! It was all spread out gloriously before us, and

The rings are mine. Do not think I have forgotten. You would have gotten nowhere without me, <strike>and I would be nowhere without you</strike> and you know it. I would do anything for you, if only you would tell me what it is. It is not even the rings incarnate I care for—it is the potential—we had so much. Will you not come back to me? Is there no hope for us, no hope for forgiveness? I could bear your betrayal if there were hope—I could bear anything if there were hope—forgiveness, I once believed, is but an illusion. Bait for a trap. Impossible, ephemeral. The scars of the past are long, and they are not so easily set aside. I never understood, before I met you, how anyone could... or to what depths one would have to travel in order to

But I know, I see it now, you do not want to hear any of this. Very well. I shall speak plainly. You are mine. The rings are mine. I do not forget that which is mine. Everything that is precious to you—your city, so exposed, without walls—your beloved guild—the people who have followed you from the First Age to the Second—those holly trees you are so fond of—your beloved Hadhodrim—your crafts, everything your hands have wrought and your mind has dreamed—I am coming for it. I am coming for you. I will destroy you utterly, you and everyone and everything you hold dear, as you are determined to exclude me from that set. Eriador will burn. I am coming. You know what I am capable of, you have guessed what tools I have and what armies I can raise—I will come for them. The rings. <strike>Our</strike> My rings. I will have them, I will have your flesh, and you will suffer for a thousand years and it will not nearly be enough to repay your debt to me. I will baptize my new lands in your blood and hang your body from a pole when I march on your people.

You will all die.

Shivers ran up and down Celebrimbor's spine. He avoided looking at Celeborn and poured himself a drink. He could not keep ignoring his problems. It was time to face his mistakes.

Celebrimbor traveled to Lórinand, where he gave Galadriel custody of the Three Rings, and where he encountered Celebrían, who insisted on mustering an army to stand against Sauron. Celebrimbor would not have asked for such help, but he could not dissuade her.

She was so successful that when Celebrimbor returned from Lórinand, he gave Celeborn the news that several armies were on the way: from Lórinand and Hadhodrond; from Lindon; and from Vinyalondë. Within a week or two, they mustered so many in the city that they could protect it from all sides—lining the river and the hills.

Celeborn was impressed, and said so.

"Oh, it's all thanks to your daughter," Celebrimbor said tiredly. "I would never have been able to make this happen."

"You do not believe in yourself anymore," Celeborn said.

"Yes," Celebrimbor agreed. "Isn't that the only reason you talk to me now?"

Celeborn looked at him steadily, without blinking, his face unreadable.

"My daughter loves this city passionately," Celeborn said eventually, not taking the bait. "You two have that in common."

"Yes," Celebrimbor said again. "I think I would do very unwise things to save it."

Celeborn raised an eyebrow. "Such as... treat with Sauron?"

"If he could be treated with," Celebrimbor said, his heart in his throat. He wished desperately to believe that Sauron was capable of listening to him, but he also told himself—over and over—that he knew better than to fall for his tricks again.

"Hmph," Celeborn said disdainfully, and that was the end of that conversation.

Celebrían's muster was so successful that the Eldar and the Edain actually outnumbered Sauron's orcs, when they arrived. And they were on their own turf, fighting for their home and their lands and their people—Celebrimbor was not particularly worried that they would lose this battle.

But he had also not prepared himself to have to see Sauron.

The night the orcs grew close enough to offer battle, the captains of the alliance of elves and men gathered on a hill to watch the orcs' camps for any signs of treachery.

Unannounced and uninvited, a mysterious figure appeared out of the trees in the midst of this gathering, hooded and cloaked, lurking in the shadows.

Celebrimbor froze. His veins turned to ice and his stomach fell out from under him. He knew who this was. He did not want to think about how well he knew this mysterious stranger who radiated power and glory even while draped in darkness.

"Don't mind me," Sauron said. His tone and his manner were extremely casual. It was eerie and chilling and Celebrimbor did not like it. "I was just doing a little spying."

The dwarf prince hefted a weapon, but no one else moved.

Celebrimbor felt paralyzed. Sauron wore Annatar's shape still, which was unfair and cruel. He was so beautiful. His delicate face, his shining hair, the way he moved and the way he spoke—he was full of promises, as precious as ever, burning brightly and more intensely than anything Celebrimbor had ever seen before in his life.

And he was still wearing in his hair the ribbons of pure gold that Celebrimbor had crafted for him.

"Lovely armor," Sauron added to Celebrían with a knowing smile.

Of course. Annatar had helped her craft it.

"Thank you," Celebrían said, her voice somehow coming out normal. "Someone who was once a good friend of mine helped me make it."

Sauron smiled more broadly, showing all his teeth. Celebrimbor's stomach flipped over.

"You are much better prepared than I expected," Sauron continued, still as though it were perfectly normal that they were all holding this conversation here and now. "I do not expect my forces will prevail against yours."

"Then you should leave," Elrond said, stern and fearless. Celebrimbor loved him in that moment with all his heart.

"I suppose I will," Sauron said mildly. "I have never been one to throw myself into a hopeless fight against the odds."

A beat of silence. Then—"Just like that?" Prince Amroth asked, sounding like he could not decide whether he was bewildered or angry.

Sauron made a noncommittal sound, and tilted his head. His eyes left Celebrían and went to Celebrimbor.

It hurt.

Love and hate and anger and terror warred inside Celebrimbor and he did not know what to do or say.

"I am sorry about that last letter," Sauron said to Celebrimbor, his tone very light. His voice was a caress, and entirely unchanged from last time they spoke, more than a hundred years ago. "Well, I am not sorry for writing it, it was cathartic, but I am sorry for sending it. It was not very diplomatic."

Celebrimbor found it difficult to process these words. He did not know what to say. He would have given much to have avoided a confrontation altogether, and simply die heroically in hopeless defense of his city and people.

"If I... do leave... and write to you again... will you respond this time?" Sauron asked.

What could he say? What did Sauron want him to say? What did Sauron want from him besides the rings, which Celebrimbor would not give up?

"I will think about it," Celebrimbor finally said. "It depends on what it says."

If it was more promises of turning Celebrimbor inside out to extract his organs and make him eat them, Celebrimbor would continue to have nothing to say in response.

"Hmm," Sauron said. He reached up and tugged his hood back into place, covering his shining hair and casting his face back into shadow. "I will think about it too, then."

Sauron melted away.

The other captains started speaking quickly, gesturing wildly, agitated and distressed.

Celebrimbor wasn't listening to any of them. His brain seemed to have shut down.

Hey, Celebrían sent into his head. Cousin? Celebrimbor? Are you all right?

The sudden óswanë was startling. He jumped, and looked at her.

She was deeply concerned for him.

I'm all right, he sent back. Are you?

Celebrían conveyed amusement. I am. It will take more than that to get to me. Do you believe he's truly retreating?

I could not possibly say, Celebrimbor replied.

Elrond is right, Celebrían sent firmly. We will not take his word for it. We must wait and watch.

Somehow, miraculously, Celebrimbor held it together while they stood on a hill and waited and watched. Sauron did indeed retreat, his orcs dowsing their campfires and moving south. The next day, Celebrimbor sent troops to investigate the campsites and confirm they were all empty. Scouts reported the army had already made it several hours south of them and were still marching during the day, with the sun clouded over.

Celebrimbor held it together while the makeshift alliance discussed future plans and protections for the city and launching a possible offense against Sauron. He held it together while reports came in that the orcs stopped just shy of Methedras and apparently decided to more-or-less permanently camp in a cave system under the mountains. They did not make any more offensive moves.

He held it together until a very well-meaning Celebrían asked him if he was all right, a month or two after seeing Sauron.

Miserably, he shook his head. All of a sudden, he fell apart. His face crumpled and she wrapped her arms around him while he buried his head in her shoulder and cried.

"What would you say if I told you that I loved him?" Celebrimbor managed to say after a while.

She only held him more tightly. "I would say I suspected as much," she answered, very gently.

"What am I doing?" he cried. "I cannot have loved Sauron."

"Give it time," she urged. "These are not easy matters. You did love him. It just... takes time."

"I don't think we have time," he said, pulling away from her and turning to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "He's breeding an army in those caves. He can create orcs exponentially faster than we can muster our own soldiers."

Celebrían shrugged. "We have Númenor coming. They will wipe him off the face of the continent."

"If they come," Celebrimbor said sullenly, refusing to be cheered. "They bear the city of Ost-in-Edhil no good will."

"Perhaps," Celebrían acknowledged with a faint smile. "Although my mother's conflict with Tar-Aldarion over the forests was a long time ago."

Celebrimbor snorted. "Oh, the conflict that nearly ended in war between Ost-in-Edhil and Vinyalondë? The one that continued all the way through Tar-Anárion's reign? His granddaughter will not have forgotten it."

Celebrían simply shook her head. "Elrond says they will come. They appreciate the danger and do not want Sauron running unchecked over Middle-earth any more than we do. And Elrond would know! It is his diplomatic skills we have always relied on with Númenor. We must trust him."

"I just... don't think I can afford to feel conflicted about Annatar and Sauron," Celebrimbor said in a whisper. "I don't have the luxury of time to sort it out."

Never mind that he had already had a hundred years. He had spent that century doing his best not to sort it out. He saw that now. It had been selfish and unworthy of him.

"Whatever your present conflict, you are not corrupted," Celebrían said with a touch of scorn for the idea. "You will stand fast to protect your people against him."

Celebrimbor could not keep looking at her; he dropped his eyes.

"It may also break your heart," Celebrían acknowledged softly. "But you will never let Sauron hurt the city and the people you love."

Sauron's next letter arrived before Númenor's ships did. But this time, it was not carried by a messenger from the south.

Celebrimbor was in the hills above Ost-in-Edhil, walking the contours of the slopes with several other engineers to debate wall placements and construction. There was a loud cry or a croak, and a raven flew out of the trees and made its way unerringly to Celebrimbor's side. It dropped something at his feet, then croaked again.

It was a ragged piece of linen with black writing scrawled on it.

Celebrimbor's stomach flipped over and his heart started pounding. He drew his knife, and kept it in between him and the raven as he bent down and retrieved the scrap of linen.

The frayed, dirty cloth bore nearly-illegible letters that looked like they were written in charcoal with a stick. It was the most pathetic, ragged letter Celebrimbor had seen in a long time. What, had Sauron forgotten to bring pen and paper with him when he marched his orc army north?

I want to talk. Please. Anywhere. Any conditions you name.

Celebrimbor kept a straight face and pocketed the cloth.

"Shoo," he told the raven, glaring at it.

The raven did not move. Its eyes were glassy and strange.

Celebrimbor's heart was racing. Was this Sauron himself, had he shapeshifted into a raven? Or was it an ordinary raven that he trained to bear letters? Or had he stuffed some poor houseless spirit into the body of this bird and created a...

A were-raven? As far as Celebrimbor knew, there was no folkloric name for necromantic ravens, not like wolves or bats had.

"Shoo," he said again. The raven stayed unmoving.

The engineers were looking at Celebrimbor very curiously.

"It's nothing," he mumbled.

One of them coughed in response.

Celebrimbor ignored the raven, bidding everyone to walk downhill away from it, and resolutely turned the conversation back to their planning.

Later that evening, back in his own chambers in the central citadel of the city, Celebrimbor carefully tucked the scrap of linen alongside the other letters Sauron had sent him over the past century.

He sat at his desk and stared at the stack of correspondence for a very long time, as the flames in the fireplace behind him flickered and waned.

This latest writing was, by the standards of Sauron's other letters, downright pleasant. No threats, no unhinged assertions of ownership over everything Celebrimbor had ever touched, no promise to destroy everything Celebrimbor held dear.

Celebrimbor already knew he would cave and speak to Sauron. He had said as much to Sauron the night before the orcs' retreat: If Sauron was willing to be civil, so was Celebrimbor. It was just a matter of logistics.

Celebrimbor wasn't about to suggest a parlay between faithless parties, where he would ride out with a greater force than agreed, but smaller than the enemy's, and end up dangling from a cliffside by his arm.

In truth there were not really any suitable venues to take Sauron up on his suggestion that the two of them talk. Celebrimbor would certainly never willingly permit Sauron back in Ost-in-Edhil.

He could only think of one solution, and it terrified him a little—a lot—and so he was sitting here working up the courage to do it.

He procrastinated for a long time. The sky had already begun to lighten in the east, above the mountains, when Celebrimbor finally leaned back in his chair and opened his mind.

Ósanwë worked at a distance only when the affinity between the two minds was very great. Celebrimbor had teased Celebrían about being able to speak to Elrond all the way in Lindon, and here Celebrimbor was, reaching out to a mind that was probably hundreds of miles away from him.

It was simultaneously electrifying, terrifying, and nauseating when Celebrimbor found Sauron's mind the instant he went looking for it. As easily as if they were in the same room making physical eye contact.

Annatar had had his mind under careful regulation during ósanwë as he had everything else—his manner, his looks, his behavior, even his actions in bed. Ósanwë with Annatar had been pleasant and easy. Celebrimbor never had the sense that he was communicating with a being far more powerful than himself.

Opening his mind to Sauron was like being helplessly frozen as a whirlpool formed beneath the prow of his ship and knowing he could do nothing to stop it. It was a whirling storm, a hurricane of winds, an explosion of colors, a fury under no regulation whatsoever.

Sauron's anger was pulsing through his entire being. The calmness he'd projected in Annatar's shape a month ago had been utterly faked. His mind was a disaster.

Images flooded Celebrimbor with such swiftness that they were in him before he could take the step of pulling back, of closing his mind. Everything that Sauron was dwelling on was crammed into Celebrimbor's head before he understood what was happening.

Celebrimbor wasn't able to fully process it all. It was fire, pain, torture, endless heaps of misery and torment and death wished on his enemies, and it left Celebrimbor reeling.

It did not, however, last long.

Blankness cut across the flood like a knife. Everything stopped. Celebrimbor was left with the awareness of one thing only: a tightly-controlled presence humming at the edges of his mind.

Just like Annatar.

Tyelperinquar, came Sauron's very-carefully controlled thought. I apologize. You took me by surprise.

Celebrimbor realized he had fallen out of his chair. He was hugging himself and lying prone on his own floor. He was shaking and his breathing came in rapid, short gasps.

He did not reply to Sauron right away. He took the time to untangle himself, mentally and physically. He stretched out on the floor, arranging himself a little more comfortably, and focused on nothing but his own breathing until it was under regulation.

Sauron waited, projecting patience and contrition.

You asked to talk, Celebrimbor scraped enough of himself together to retort. His irritation was beginning to win out over his fear. He could not believe how vulnerable he was to Sauron even after knowing the truth about him. The ease with which they had connected by óswanë was an unpleasant reality. You are surprised I accepted?

Yes, Sauron returned readily and frankly. After a hundred years of silence? Yes. Very.

I said something to you this spring, Celebrimbor grumbled in return, feeling goaded and resentful.

It was Sauron's own fault Celebrimbor had not spoken to him for a hundred years. Celebrimbor didn't know anyone who would have happily accepted the corruption of the greatest works of one's hand, would have cheerfully acquiesced to finding them bent in service of the enemy to enslave one's own people.

There was something very wrong with Sauron to not have anticipated Celebrimbor would react poorly and to still lack an appreciation of why.

Then again, that was a given: something was wrong with Sauron.

And something was wrong with Celebrimbor to not have seen it at once, like Galadriel and Gil-galad did.

You said eleven words to me in the spring, Sauron sent scathingly. In front of your cousins and allies who were busy glaring daggers at us. It hardly counts.

Those eleven words expressed an openness to you writing me again, and write you did, and now we're talking, Celebrimbor sent, a bit impatiently. What do you want?

I have told you repeatedly what I want, Sauron said, sounding... sad. Yes, Celebrimbor thought, somehow Sauron made his thought sound mournful and wistful. I want what we promised each other long ago. To heal Middle-earth, to shape it according to our designs, to share our knowledge and our wealth and bring beauty to all peoples. Sauron hesitated, the silence weighing oppressively inside Celebrimbor's head. I want to do this... together.

That's funny, Celebrimbor sent. This conversation felt curiously unreal, as though he could have been dreaming it. I thought what you wanted is to burn my city and cut me open and display my dead body as a warning to your enemies.

Sauron fell silent at this.

Only half of Celebrimbor's mind was on the conversation. The other half was attempting to deal with the flood of thoughts and images Sauron had shared when Celebrimbor initiated óswanë. They matched up fairly well with the threats that had featured in Sauron's letters over the past hundred years. The ones currently floating to the surface involved Sauron cutting Celebrimbor open and watching him bleed, listening with relish as he pleaded and screamed and begged and whimpered—feeding on his suffering, until he cried out his surrender and gave himself completely to Sauron's use, body and spirit.

It should have made Celebrimbor feel sick to his stomach. That it hadn't probably meant only Celebrimbor had not really processed it.

That is not truly what I want, only what I was dwelling on in place of having what I want, Sauron returned stiffly, after a long pause.

I thought you wanted the rings, Celebrimbor sent slowly, struggling to make sense of Sauron's explanation.

Yes, I do, Sauron returned instantly. They are the works of our minds and our hands, our union, and they are very beautiful. I love them, and I want them, but I do not need them if I have you and your promises, your cleverness and your ambitions, your craft and your spirit.

You can't have me, Celebrimbor retorted sharply on instinct.

The careful control of the presence in his mind broke. It turned to fire, lashing out with wrath and pain. Celebrimbor recoiled and snapped his mind closed. He surfaced from the connection. He was breathing rapidly again, fast, shallow breaths that were panicked even to his own ears.

He was still on his own floor. Sauron was two hundred miles away. He was not in any immediate danger of being tortured and burned. He repeated these things to himself as he stared at the ceiling until his breathing evened out again.

But then he had to face the reality creeping in at the edges: What Celebrimbor had told Sauron wasn't true, and he knew it.

Sauron could—and almost certainly would—have Celebrimbor.

This was the doom Celebrimbor had been living with for a hundred years. He had sifted through Sauron's increasingly-angry letters and it eventually dawned on him that—however twisted the reasoning or lack thereof—Sauron felt the sting of an intimate, personal betrayal as acute as the one Celebrimbor had felt when Sauron forged the One Ring.

Celebrimbor had always known it was personal. He'd known Sauron would hunt him. He'd never expected to be able to evade it, nor had he ever meant to try. He always meant to die for his mistakes.

He shouldn't squander this opportunity to make it mean something.

Celebrimbor swallowed. His mouth had gone dry and it was painful. His stomach was churning. He felt light-headed. Nonetheless, he tentatively opened óswanë again.

Sauron's mind was still there. There was no flood of anything this time. His presence was silent and careful. It was hostile, but in a passive way; it was no longer a searing spirit of flame.

I apologize. I reacted poorly. It was my turn to be surprised, Celebrimbor tried to explain calmly. I hadn't imagined that you wanted me more than you wanted the rings.

Sauron remained silent. He was a flickering sense of watchfulness and just-barely-controlled malice.

Celebrimbor took a deep breath. I will surrender myself to you, he offered. If you promise to give up looking for the rings, and leave my city and my people alone.

Sauron remained silent at this, although Celebrimbor thought the hostility was softening at the edges.

Sauron remained silent for a prolonged period of time, in fact. Celebrimbor tried to settle a little more comfortably on the hard floor as he waited and tried not to think too hard about what he'd just said.

You would... take me at my word on this? Sauron's mental voice was full of wonder.

Celebrimbor had spent a lot of time thinking about this. He had a lot of data about Sauron's mind, actually; likely more than Sauron realized. He had learned far more than Maedhros had meant to share about his uncle's captivity in Angband. He was one of the few who had the tale of Gorlim firsthand from Beren while he'd visited Norgothrand and spoke to Finrod. He'd witnessed Sauron speak to Eonwë and surrender himself before the ruined gates of Angband at the end of the First Age. And he had his own four hundred years or so of data about Annatar.

Sauron did not lie. He deceived. If he spoke a promise, he would hold to its literal words, sometimes to the point of absurdity.

Sauron had made one deal with Maedhros: to share information. He'd upheld his part in a manner Maedhros had even found satisfactory. He'd never promised to help Maedhros.

Sauron had promised to free Gorlim from captivity and send him to his spouse, and that was it. It was quite a bit nastier than his dealings with Maedhros, but it was still literally true that Gorlim's death had freed him from captivity and sent him on the same path as his dead spouse.

Sauron had surrendered and sued for Eonwë's pardon, but when that was refused, Sauron had never agreed to go west and ask for the pardon of any of the other Ainur. And he hadn't.

And Annatar... had never outright lied about his origins or his past or his allegiances during the war. He said things like "I came from Aman" rather than "the Valar sent me," allowing his audience to assume the second proposition from the first.

Celebrimbor believed Sauron would not break an affirmative promise to Celebrimbor.

Yes, Celebrimbor sent back. Yes, if you give me your word, I do trust you will keep it.

I... I accept your offer, and I give you my word, Sauron said, almost gently.

Celebrimbor gasped, a surge of shock and dismay rolling over him. It turned out he truly hadn't prepared himself for the prospect of Sauron accepting; of him wanting to hurt Celebrimbor more than he wanted the rings and the conquest of Eriador. Celebrimbor was silent for a few moments, struggling to control his reaction, until he thought he could keep his projected thoughts calm.

Very well. Where do you want me to go?

Your scouts know where I am, Sauron said with a hint of amusement.

Vaguely, Celebrimbor agreed. Somewhere beneath Methedras?

Close enough, Sauron sent. Reach out to me again when you have arrived in the vicinity.

It will take me a week or two.

I am aware. I will see you then. And Sauron closed his mind and cut off the connection.

Celebrimbor opened his eyes. Light was streaming through the windows; the sun had fully risen. He had no idea what time it was or how long he'd lain on this floor. He was stiff and sore.

He took stock of his own feelings, and surprisingly, he found that he was not afraid.

He looked at the ceiling and felt only relief.

This was the path he was always meant to walk, from the day he sealed his doom by looking at Annatar and loving him. It would be horrible, but it was coming for him one way or another. And he did not have to drag anyone else down with him.

He did not waste any time. He stood, stretched, and then moved to his desk where he composed a letter.

The letter was shorter than Celebrían deserved, but it was all that Celebrimbor could muster in his current state.

My dear Celebrían,

I am surrendering myself to Sauron. In exchange, he has agreed to give up looking for the rings and to leave my city and my people alone. You may wonder at my believing him. That is fair. You may disagree with my choice. That is also fair. I ask only that you respect it and do not try to follow me.

Do not suppose I do not appreciate what you did for me in mustering the armies of our allies—it is likely the only reason Sauron was inclined to bargain with me at all.

If I am wrong, my life is a very small cost at this stage. I trust that you and your father's ability to hold the city is the same with or without me.

May Varda light your way and guide your steps.

Tyelperinquar

The letter was in Sindarin, but he signed his name in Quenya as it had always been the language Celebrían enjoyed speaking with him, much to her father's annoyance. The thought brought a smile to Celebrimbor's face that quickly faltered. It was nearly impossible to contemplate never seeing Celebrían again, never speaking Quenya with her again. Celebrimbor folded the letter and tucked it away, tears pricking behind his eyes.

He blinked them away. He rose and went to rummage through his cupboards and pack food for the road and find good travel clothes. He opened his jewelry case, and stared at its contents for a long time.

When Sauron had shown himself on the hill above Ost-in-Edhil, on the eve of the battle that wasn't, he had been wearing ribbons of gold in his hair—metalworking that Celebrimbor had crafted for him when their relationship was young. Sauron had made a matching silver set for Celebrimbor, which at the time, had turned Celebrimbor into a puddle of mushy romantic goo.

Celebrimbor didn't feel that it was very romantic anymore. But he thought, perhaps, Sauron would expect him to wear them. Or perhaps it would put him in a good mood to see. Celebrimbor reluctantly took them out of the case, and forced himself to braid them into his hair.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror for a while after he was finished. They were certainly the finest hair ornaments he'd ever owned. They shimmered beautifully in his dark hair and seemed to contain a life of their own, sparkling and falling like a waterfall in and out of his braids.

He did not know whether he loved them still, or hated them.

He left his residence and walked to the House of the Mírdain while the streets were still mostly empty.

In the House of the Mírdain, Celebrimbor navigated several sets of locks and hidden cupboards and traps and eventually found them: the prototypes, the lesser rings he and Annatar had experimented with before beginning their greater works. They were not all that impressive, but a few of them had the useful property of pulling the wearer into the Unseen. In plainer speech, they were rings of invisibility.

Even if Sauron had infected these too, they were not powerful enough to corrupt the wearer's spirit over the very short period of time Celebrimbor needed to stay invisible. Celebrimbor slipped one on his finger.

Hidden now, even to the eyes of the early risers, the street sweepers and the soldiers coming off patrol, Celebrimbor navigated to Celeborn's residence, where Celebrían was staying now. He slid the letter underneath her door.

And then he left his city for the last time.

The elven scouts had been reporting that the country south of Ost-in-Edhil was dangerous. They encountered the stragglers of orc armies as well as wargs (whether they were wild or Sauron's creatures, no one could say). And the land was inhabited by a large number of men who answered to no one, refugees from Beleriand mingled with the races of men who had dwelt in these hills for longer than the present Age. A thousand years ago, they had been on friendly terms with the elves. Now, after ruthless Númenórean colonization and tree-felling, they were friends with no one.

Celebrimbor, however, did not encounter a soul in his eleven-day journey. He wore the ring of invisibility the entire time and was too sensible to make any fires, but he wondered about the stated need for caution. The lands were deserted, or at least they appeared so.

He spent the journey in a sort of suspended state, dwelling on neither the past nor the future. He achieved an almost blissful emptiness, his legs working and his eyes scanning his surroundings while his mind drifted everywhere and nowhere. He slept as little as he possibly could, and his mind stayed mercifully blank when he finally threw himself down, exhausted, well into the night.

Nor did any emotions register when he rounded a corner and finally spotted the tall, snow-covered peak of Methedras, the last peak of the Hithaeglir. It was beautiful, standing proud and unweathered. Celebrimbor allowed himself to feel joy at the sight; such a mighty warrior would go on unchanged no matter what happened with those crawling around underneath it.

The final day of the journey was spent making his way up the hillside, following the traces of an orc army that were not at all difficult to spot—footprints churning the earth, gear discarded here and there, the lingering scent of an uncleanliness in the air and on the trees.

Celebrimbor halted where the trail disappeared inside the depths of the mountains. He removed the ring from his finger and worked it into one of his braids to disguise it. He didn't know why he bothered—walking the Unseen world was no way to disguise yourself from a Maia—but perhaps a hidden ring would be useful against orcs.

Then Celebrimbor took a deep breath. He didn't even hesitate, really. He opened his mind to Sauron.

Sauron didn't answer in words, only sent him a sense that he should wait. Celebrimbor waited. In short order, a company of ten orcs appeared from inside the depths of the mountain.

They approached Celebrimbor and one of them stepped forward and gave a short bow. He was wearing a deep hood and squinting uncomfortably against the sunlight.

Bemused, Celebrimbor returned the bow in the same degree and manner.

"Welcome," the orc said in Sindarin.

Celebrimbor blinked. An orc speaking Sindarin? He'd never heard of such a thing before. "Ah, yes, thank you," he managed to say, caught very off guard.

"I am called Agrok," the orc continued.

"I am Celebrimbor," Celebrimbor offered, although it was likely the orc already knew that, if he was sent by Sauron to specifically to greet Celebrimbor.

"Will you please come in," Agrok said. It lacked the intonation of a question.

"Of course," Celebrimbor agreed. It was not like he had a choice, but the orc's civility was unexpectedly pleasant. Celebrimbor could be pleasant too.

The orc stepped to the side and gestured to the cave. All the other orcs drew a little to either side as well, opening up a path in between them.

Celebrimbor took another deep breath and made his way down that path. He ducked into the cave and waited until his eyes adjusted to the dimness.

The cave was vast. It was lit by a collection of torches, throwing flickering light onto walls that stretched away and down, further than Celebrimbor could see.

Agrok cleared his throat. When Celebrimbor turned to look, he saw the orc pointing wordlessly to the right.

Celebrimbor walked in the indicated direction as the tunnel narrowed slightly. The orc did not follow; it was clear that the orcs did not dare approach this part of the cavern.

And then there he was. Sprawled elegantly on a pile of furs, up against the edge of the cave wall, was a being of breathtaking beauty.

It was Annatar and it also was not. Sauron's features were fair and sculpted just as perfectly as Annatar's had been.

It was his hair, and his eyes, that were so strikingly different, and robbed Celebrimbor of breath.

His hair shone red, overlaid and interwoven with Annatar's silver, and it was left loose and unbraided, a casual and intimate choice that made Celebrimbor's stomach clench. Sauron's eyes sparked with a fire that was eerier and far more primordial than Annatar's had ever been. Annatar's beauty had been divine, radiant and pure. Sauron was also radiant, but he radiated a mesmerizing menace.

A silver crown spiked with horns set crookedly on his head, and he was dressed in black garments threaded with silver sparkling in the firelight. He wore no jewelry save his one ring: smooth and unadorned, gleaming a perfect golden color. Celebrimbor knew it for what it was and should have been sick at the sight—but he was not. It was strangely attractive, and enhanced the ethereal allure of its wearer.

Sauron was undeniably very great. He was beautiful and terrible and he was Celebrimbor's only love and his doom incarnate.

Celebrimbor found himself making his way to Sauron without order or compulsion. He stopped only after he was well within reach of the being sprawled on the furs, and fell to his knees without a word, letting his bag drop on the ground beside him. His eyes were fixed on Sauron the entire time; he thought he might be incapable of looking away.

Sauron turned his head, and Celebrimbor was looking straight down into that gaze of fire. The pupils were narrow black slits. The irises were a glowing, golden amber. The dark brows above the eyes did not match the flaming, light-colored hair. Each detail was just slightly off, just slightly wrong. But the combined effect was overwhelmingly attractive.

Sauron's hand darted out. With a supreme effort of will, Celebrimbor managed not to flinch away. Sauron's clutched at Celebrimbor's tunic, hauling him closer. He threw Celebrimbor down onto the furs, with an entirely unnecessary amount of force considering that Celebrimbor did not have an ounce of resistance in him.

Sauron lifted himself slightly, propping himself on an elbow as he continued to stare at Celebrimbor. Only now it was Celebrimbor looking up at him. The air in the cave was humid and stale and oppressive—or was that just Sauron? Celebrimbor struggled to breathe.

Sauron sat up slowly. He reached out and carefully unbuckled Celebrimbor's sword belt. He pulled it off and tossed it and the sword onto the floor. He did not toss it far; it was within Celebrimbor's reach if he wanted it.

Sauron leaned over Celebrimbor, planting his arms on either side of Celebrimbor's arms, looming over him and trapping him. Sauron tilted his head to the side. His crown fell off and clattered on the ground next to Celebrimbor's sword. Sauron ignored it completely. He lowered his face to Celebrimbor's and kissed him without warning.

The contact was shocking. Celebrimbor opened his mouth in surprise and gasped into the kiss. Sauron's tongue was fire, his lips sparked where they pressed against Celebrimbor, and the red-silver hair smelled of smoke where it had fallen across Celebrimbor's face. Sauron's hands were on Celebrimbor's shoulders, fingers digging hard into his skin, inflaming it from the inside out.

It was impossible to pretend he was kissing Annatar. His love for Annatar had certainly felt like worship, at times; he had always been aware Annatar was much greater than him and could hurt him without even trying. Nor had Annatar always been careful or gentle. But Annatar had been tightly in control of himself, the full force of his spirit veiled. It had never been like this: like drinking fire, like drowning in a sea of flames, like trying to hold fountains of lava against his body without perishing.

Sauron eased up on the kiss, giving Celebrimbor room to breathe, and focused his attention on unlacing Celebrimbor's tunic.

His fingernails were long and filed into sharp points like claws, which was both a ridiculous affectation and also made it a little astonishing that he retained the dexterity to do something like remove Celebrimbor's clothes without simply ripping them apart. The nails were not fragile, as Celebrimbor discovered when Sauron let them trail against the newly exposed skin of Celebrimbor's chest. They were like steel, sharp as a razor, and left thin raised lines on his skin in their wake.

It didn't hurt, much, only stung a little, but Celebrimbor was abruptly reminded of one of the images Sauron had dumped in his head when initiating óswanë: a beautifully crafted knife with delicate black steel for a blade, impossibly thin and sharp, carving spirals and flowers and stars into Celebrimbor's chest while blood welled in artful patterns.

Celebrimbor wondered if such a knife actually existed. He did not look forward to finding out. He took deep, slow breaths and willed himself to stay calm. He had known full well who he was giving himself to by walking in here.

Sauron finished undoing the laces, and spread open the tunic to fan out on either side of Celebrimbor. His face, as he stared at Celebrimbor's bare chest, was unreadable; it might have been carved from marble, lifeless save for the flaming eyes. Annatar was never this remote.

Or perhaps he had been, and Celebrimbor had simply refused to notice.

Sauron's eyes trailed over Celebrimbor's flesh, his fingernails running lightly across the surface. He wasn't scratching anymore; instead, goosebumps erupted from the almost-imperceptible contact.

Sauron's fingers came to rest on the jagged scar running from Celebrimbor's ribs to his stomach, over his hip, and down his thigh. It was a thick mess of tissue that had burned badly and never healed properly, forever a discolored, pigmentless streak that still appeared slightly puffy around the edges.

Annatar had not remarked on it, nor asked about it, nor evinced any particular fascination for it. That, Celebrimbor saw now, had been another deception: Sauron's bright eyes were fixed on it, and he was running his fingers along it in a fascinated, possessive gesture.

Annatar had never asked what the scar was because he had not needed to. Sauron recognized the mark of a balrog's flaming whip when he saw it.

"You are so beautiful," Sauron murmured, speaking for the first time since Celebrimbor entered the cave. His voice was perfectly Annatar's. Not a single thing about it was different. Celebrimbor felt a jolt of—terrible sadness, or longing, or an unhappy sort of hopeless, desperate adoration for the sound. He had missed it, for the past hundred years. Dreamed of it, even; dreams from which he woke gasping and aching, hard and unsatisfied.

But he did not think it helped the unsatisfied longing now, to hear the same voice come from his enemy's lips.

"It makes me wild to imagine you fighting a balrog," Sauron was saying. He shifted and lowered his head until he was breathing onto Celebrimbor's scar as he spoke. "Standing unbowed, facing it without fleeing, tall and proud and fearless."

Celebrimbor shivered. "Hardly. I was scared out of my wits."

"And you didn't run," Sauron said, his breath warm on Celebrimbor's bare skin. "You faced it. You raised your sword to fight—and it got you underneath your outstretched arms?"

"Yes," he acknowledged. He wriggled a bit, uncomfortable with the topic. But he had surrendered; he was here to let Sauron do as he wished with him. Including dig his sharp fingers into past wounds his own master had inflicted. "You've seen the rest of it," Celebrimbor continued, raising his hand to trace, over the surface of his trousers, the path his scar traveled from waist to thigh. "The whip curled around my leg, yanked me off my feet, and the balrog threw me a hundred yards into the distance. I survived only because one of my people stumbled over me during their retreat."

Sauron took this as his cue to unlace Celebrimbor's trousers, which he did very swiftly, and slide the fabric down to his knees. He did not bother with removing Celebrimbor's boots or taking the trousers off entirely; he stopped after exposing the massive scar tissue that encircled Celebrimbor's thigh.

"Which battle?" Sauron wanted to know. His fingers traced the circles around Celebrimbor's thigh. The touch was heated and intimate, a strange mix of forceful and gentle.

"Ah, the—the—" Celebrimbor stuttered as Sauron's touch crept further up his inner thigh, stopping just shy of his underpants. It was the caress of a lover, and Sauron had touched him in this way many times before. But not while interrogating Celebrimbor about a tragic and disastrous battle, knowing they had fought on opposite sides of the battle. It was mildly discomfiting, but the combination of the intimate and the dangerous sparked a perverse arousal. Entirely against his will, Celebrimbor felt himself growing hard.

"The Nírnaeth Arnoediad," Celebrimbor finally gasped out. "I was—I wanted to stand with Fingon, but—"

"But the balrogs were stronger. You were incredibly brave," Sauron murmured. He did not sound condescending. He sounded entranced by Celebrimbor's story and his scars. "How odd it is, how close I came to losing you, before I even knew you existed!"

Celebrimbor's breath was coming short and fast. He grabbed Sauron's hand with his own, to prevent him from tracing more teasing, tantalizing torments across the surface of his sensitive skin.

"I fought in most of the battles of the First Age," he said, trying not to sound like he was chiding. He wasn't sure how well he succeeded. "I cannot count the number of times I almost died."

"If the balrog were not already dead, I would hunt it down and rip it limb-to-limb for touching you," Sauron said, raising his chin to stare at Celebrimbor with those unsettling, blazing eyes. Sauron had not pulled his hand away from Celebrimbor's, but flipped his palm over so that he gripped Celebrimbor's hand in return. Now Sauron tightened his grip, almost painfully.

Celebrimbor tried to laugh. "You are the only one allowed to hurt me, is that it?"

"Without question," Sauron said, enunciating his words with a vicious sharpness. Something clenched and churned inside Celebrimbor's stomach. "Just as I should hope I am the only one allowed to do this."

With his free hand, Sauron tugged Celebrimbor's underpants down until they were tangled with his trousers around his knees. Celebrimbor gasped and thrust a little against the rush of air, his prick already flush and swollen and thick. Sauron bent his head down and nuzzled his cheek in the hair surrounding Celebrimbor's prick, coarse and dark and curly.

Celebrimbor shivered, and brought up his free hand to weave his fingers through the strands of silver hair tinged with fire. It was silky, and very fine, and felt as familiar to him as Annatar's hair had become. It was loose and free and draped everywhere on Celebrimbor's skin; he was not wearing any jewels in it.

"Well?" Sauron asked, sounding a bit arch. He tightened his grip on Celebrimbor's hand. It was starting to tingle and go numb from the pressure.

"Yes," Celebrimbor gasped. "You are the only one. Of course. I surrendered to you, I am yours."

Sauron groaned, a deep heady thing that rumbled through Sauron's throat where it rested against Celebrimbor's skin.

Celebrimbor tightened his fist around the strands of Sauron's hair. "What do you want with me?" he asked, his words unsteady and breathless.

Sauron did not answer right away. He moved imperceptibly forward, and his tongue darted out. He licked Celebrimbor's shaft from base to tip, setting the nerves ablaze. Celebrimbor moved his hips into the touch and let out a wordless cry.

"I should like to hear you beg, Tyelpe," Sauron said in a low voice that was suddenly husky and raw. He did not move to touch Celebrimbor's cock again. "You begged so beautifully in my dreams, as I think you are aware."

Celebrimbor was well aware, yes. Burnt and bleeding, crying salty tears, Celebrimbor's imagined self had begged Sauron over and over again, pledging his love for his tormenter and promising never to stray again.

"You are so incredibly fucked up," Celebrimbor groaned, but he said it very quietly. Sauron's hand tightened on his again. He wished to pull it away by this point, but he didn't dare to try.

He shivered and licked his lips.

"Please," Celebrimbor said, in a louder voice. "Please, Annatar. You—you terrify me and you entrance me and I want you more than anything I've ever wanted in my life."

He bucked his hips again in illustration. "Please," he added in a lower tone. There was no question he was indeed scared of Sauron, but he had also remained painfully hard for all of this, as though Sauron's games did entice him on a level he hadn't been aware he possessed. "I am at your mercy, lord, and I desire nothing but you."

Sauron made a small, contented sound, and he licked at the tip of Celebrimbor's cock, one light touch and then withdrawn.

"Please," Celebrimbor repeated, his face burning with shame and desire. He was so hard it hurt. He had no hope of mastering the need and the lust washing over him. He squirmed and wriggled and tried to press himself closer to Sauron, but he understood the rules of the game this much: he didn't try to move either of his hands to touch himself.

"So beautiful," Sauron whispered again, and then slid his mouth over Celebrimbor's prick. Celebrimbor gasped and pulled on Sauron's hair, the sudden sensations nearly overwhelming. Sauron seemed entirely unaffected by the hair-pulling, taking more of Celebrimbor into his mouth and sucking, hot and urgent. Sauron's free hand moved to caress Celebrimbor's skin around his cock, massaging his balls and running his fingers through the coarse hairs. The cold touch of the gold ring brushed against the sensitive skin, and Celebrimbor gasped at it.

Celebrimbor tugged harder on Sauron's hair as the pressure of his mouth increased. Celebrimbor bucked his hips and Sauron moved with him, stroking his balls with one hand and worshiping his cock with his mouth. It built until he ached with need, until Celebrimbor could not hold out and did not try; everything tightened in him and he screamed. Waves of pleasure crashed over him as he thrust hard, a final time, and spent himself down Sauron's throat. Sauron swallowed it all, lifting his eyes to lock gazes with Celebrimbor as he did. Celebrimbor squeezed his eyes shut against the fire of those eyes, his entire body shaking and his heart pounding.

Celebrimbor loosened his grip on Sauron's hair and relaxed back into the furs with a soft sigh, opening his eyes again to stare up into the gloomy darkness overhead. Sauron released his softening cock, licking it clean, and then finally let go of the painful grip on his hand. Celebrimbor shook it out a little, or tried to; the hand had gone so numb that it was hard to tell the difference.

Sauron gave a sigh of his own, sounding contented and calm. He settled down with his cheek on Celebrimbor's stomach. He hadn't bothered to remove any of his own clothes, and the silken material felt cool and soothing against Celebrimbor's flushed skin. The hand wearing the ring splayed against Celebrimbor's ribs, the cold bite of the gold band pressing into his skin. Sauron's other hand came to rest again on the whip scars circling Celebrimbor's thigh. The scratches down his chest were still stinging ever so slightly.

Celebrimbor had not taken his hand out of Sauron's hair, and he continued gently stroking the strands.

"I am glad you are here," Sauron said, breathing out the words almost reverently.

Celebrimbor could not quite return the sentiment. He felt it was inevitable, and he was exactly where he was fated to be, but he did not think he was glad.

"Anything for you," he said instead, and continued to run his fingers through the beautiful hair.

It was the right choice; Sauron made a satisfied sound in his throat.

Feeling slowly crept back into Celebrimbor's hand, and with it came pain. Sauron was simply too strong; Celebrimbor couldn't tell whether he'd meant to hurt or acted without thinking. Celebrimbor would have—well, he probably would have—told Annatar that he was hurting his hand, and Annatar would have stopped. Celebrimbor was far less certain about the game he was playing with Sauron now.

He wasn't being carved up with a knife, yet, nor thrown to werewolves, and he'd enjoyed the sex. But that they were playing a game there was no doubt. Perhaps Sauron thought to use charm where threats had failed, to seduce Celebrimbor in making more objects of power and conquering Middle-earth at his side.

Celebrimbor was certain he would not be swayed into turning into an enemy of his own people, and he was equally certain the fallout was to be as horrible as anything that had happened to Gorlim or Finrod. Or worse.

Or maybe Sauron just wanted a consort or a paramour. Celebrimbor suspected he ought to feel such a possibility to be demeaning or unpleasant, but if it were to be that in lieu of torture, he thought it would not be such a hardship.

Whatever the path was, he was committed to walking it.

"Um," Celebrimbor said, and then cleared his throat. "What would you like me to call you?" He'd tried out both 'Annatar' and 'lord' during sex, and it had worked fine in the context, but he wasn't sure now what would work. He could not imagine that Sauron actually wanted to be called 'Sauron.'

Sauron stirred a little, as though he'd been drowsing and Celebrimbor had woken him. "Mmm," he said, drawing out the sound, rich and warm. "Hearing the name Annatar from your lips pleases me."

"Annatar, then," Celebrimbor said softly. Sauron wasn't Annatar, but—so be it. "Why are you—tell me about this shape you're wearing now. Is this what you looked like during the First Age?"

Sauron laughed, a small soft laugh. "No," he said. "No, I was—I sort of imitated Melkor's shape during the First Age. This is what I looked like... before."

"Before Morg... Melkor?"

"Before I joined Melkor, anyway," Sauron said, sounding wistful. "There is not really any such thing as 'before Melkor,' cosmologically speaking."

"Ah," Celebrimbor said, understanding. "This is the shape of Aulë's smith."

Sauron murmured a quiet assent. "It inspires a very deep awe in the orcs," he added.

"Why did you change it to come to Eregion, then?"

"I thought it was better to tone it down a bit," Sauron said, and the half of his mouth Celebrimbor could see curled into a smile. "It's not that different in fundamentals."

"Interesting," Celebrimbor said. "I found it strikingly different."

"I noticed," Sauron said wryly. "But you did not let it scare you off."

Celebrimbor didn't answer right away. He focused on his breathing for a little, trying to make it his sole focus. He failed, rather miserably. He wrapped his fingers around the silky strands of Sauron's hair and imagined tugging on them again, this time as hard as he could, hard enough to hurt. Was he even capable of hurting Sauron physically?

"I gave you my word," he said finally.

Sauron gave a soft sigh and readjusted his cheek against Celebrimbor's skin. He closed his eyes and seemed to drift off again.

Celebrimbor didn't speak again and let Sauron lie on top of him undisturbed, but he could not manage to sleep himself. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable—the furs were soft and he enjoyed the feel of Sauron's body against his. The humidity in the cave had grown pleasant, and it was nice and warm. His hand was starting to feel better, and he was relaxed and satiated from the sex.

It was just that every time he closed his eyes, another vision of his own torture flashed through his mind.

Sauron's visions were absurdly creative, and highly detailed and realistic. Celebrimbor could easily believe he had actually spent a hundred years dreaming of new ways to hurt him. It was horrible, and the relatively tender sex hadn't changed how horrible it was.

Celebrimbor didn't close his eyes and he didn't sleep.

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Rising to Meet You by yletylyf

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One

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