The Other Side of the Mirror by fingonsradharp

He is chained, kneeling before his captor. His chin is being gripped by cold fingers, but his skin is still flushed with heat.

He hates that he still reacts like this even now.

“Look at me, Tyelpë.”

He tries to jerk away, but there is no strength left in his body. His arms are pulled behind him awkwardly, and he sags against the ground, his blood dripping onto Sauron’s hand.

Sauron, not Annatar. He must remember that. Though he still looks like Annatar, his silver hair and perfect perfect face, those lips he has kissed countless times and the jaw he has memorized and the slightly-too-sharp teeth.

The grip tightens, nails digging into his skin. “I said look at me.”

He forces himself to raise his gaze, meeting Sauron’s eyes.

It is the eyes that are wrong.

They are no longer shining gold, but burning orange, boring into his skull, piercing his fëa. But where there once was heat and love and passion, now there is only cold indifference.

For a moment, something else flickers behind those eyes. Sauron loosens his grip, bringing his other hand up to caress his cheek and comb through his hair. Sauron presses a soft kiss to his forehead, calmly wiping away the tears streaming down his cheeks. “It did not have to come to this,” he says softly. “I cannot bear to see you in such pain. I would have had you at my side, my precious Tyelpë.”

You hurt me, he wants to scream. But Annatar is touching his face, so softly, and it is a different pain, oh it is so different because he is so close and he can’t help but melt in his hands, his perfectly soft hands that even after years of forge work are still so smooth. Those hands have touched him, they have known every part of him and loved him, more than he thought anyone could.

Annatar’s mouth finds his own and he is gasping, whimpering, needing wanting needing more, and he does not remember that the hand in his hair was wielding a knife just minutes ago. Annatar holds him, licking the blood off his chest as he shivers, his breath coming in short bursts because it is him.

“Please.” The word comes out of his mouth before he even knows what he is pleading for. But then he sees those eyes, those eyes that are wrong, and he wishes he could go back and undo all his mistakes but he is too far gone now. “Please, Annatar, I – !”

He is cut off by a growl at his hip, Annatar tugging on his hair. “Why did you betray me, Tyelpë?”

“Why did I betray you?” He shivers, wanting to get away and wanting to curl closer. “You deceived me. You never loved me, you only wanted control.”

Sauron snarls and slams him back into the wall behind him, hand gripping his throat. “Did I not promise to treasure you above all things? Tyelpë, my love, my precious, do not take my oath so lightly. I would think you of all people would understand the seriousness of such a thing.”

“I see now why they called you Gorthaur the Cruel,” he spits, tears spilling down his cheeks. He hates those tears, hates how they make him feel so weak. “It is not enough for you to inflict pain, you must press it deeper for no reason other than your own enjoyment.”

He flinches as Sauron raises his hand, but he does not strike. “I do not enjoy this, Tyelperinquar.”

“Then stop,” he is pleading again, falling to his knees, and he hates himself for it and he hates this monster more. “Please, Annatar.” I still love you. He does not say it, but it hangs in the air, tangible. I do not want you to be this monster I see in front of me.

But Sauron crouches down to his level, taking his face in his hands once again. “It is not I that inflicts this pain. You know exactly how to make it stop.” The ghost of a touch on his cheeks, revolting and captivating, never enough but far too much. “Tell me where you have hidden the Rings, and we can be just as we once were.”

He wants to accept. Annatar was someone he trusted, someone he loved.

This is not Annatar.

Those are not Annatar’s eyes.

“What we once were was nothing more than a lie. I have never truly known you. You have never known love. I will tell you nothing.”

For a moment, Sauron’s eyes pale, fading to a dull yellow. But they snap back in blazing red. “Then do not blame me for your pain.”

And his perfectly soft hands, still holding Celebrimbor’s face, burst into flame.

Mairon wipes off the blade. The floor is slick with blood, but he does not mind it. 

Celebrimbor lies crumpled on the ground, his arms still held up by the shackles. 

Mairon hates and loves seeing him like this. Tyelpë has always been submissive, but especially before him. Mairon had first thought it a sign of weakness, but soon learned that it was trust. 

Curufinwë Tyelperinquar is not weak. 

But he trusts.

That is what sets him apart from the rest of his family. No doubt that it is intentional. Galadriel, Gil-Galad, Elrond; none of them trusted him. But Celebrimbor welcomed him openly, eager to share in his knowledge. Mairon had not expected him to fall in love. He had certainly not expected to love him back. 

Mairon walks slowly over to him, watching with interest as he shrinks away. He crouches down and takes Celebrimbor’s chin in one hand. “Look at me, Tyelpë.”

His eyes stay closed, but his cheeks redden as a small whimper escapes his lips, and the cut on his temple drips blood on Mairon’s hand. He does not mind it. The Elf tries in vain to pull his chin out of his grasp. 

Mairon squeezes tighter and digs his nails into skin, leaving little crescent-shaped marks. “I said look at me.”

Celebrimbor slowly raises his gaze. He looks so helpless, so broken. The light in his eyes that had once danced with mirth and laughter is gone. 

I wish he would just tell me. I wish he would stop forcing me to hurt him. 

Mairon brushes a stray lock of hair out of Celebrimbor’s face and kisses his forehead, damp with sweat and blood. “It did not have to come to this. I cannot bear to see you in such pain. I would have you at my side, my precious Tyelpë.”

He is precious. Not a warrior like so many of his uncles and cousins. Not just any smith, either. He is special, something to be protected, preserved. Mairon would never let anything touch him. 

He kisses him, full of heat and passion, and smiles when he kisses back. His lips find Celebrimbor’s jaw, his neck, his chest, and Mairon is kissing his wounds and licking clean the blood as the Elf shivers. He has always been so pliant beneath Mairon’s hands, until he wasn’t. 

“Please,” he begs, the word coming out as a whine. “Please, Annatar, I - !”

Mairon growls. How dare you plead with me when everything you endure is of your own making?

He tugs on Celebrimbor’s hair sharply. “Why did you betray me, Tyelpë?” It hurts, more than it should. 

Mairon had known that if he had revealed his true identity, he never would have agreed to help. Surely he would understand why the secrecy was necessary. 

“Why did I betray you ?” Tyelpë’s voice breaks. “You deceived me. You never loved me, you only wanted control.”

I did love you! Mairon wants to scream the words, but they catch in his throat. Instead, he snarls and slams the Elf against the wall, fingers tight around his neck. “Did I not promise to treasure you above all things? Tyelpë, my love, my precious, do not take my oath so lightly. I would think you of all people would understand the seriousness of such a thing.”

(I will always be yours, he had promised another so long ago.)

(And you shall always be my most trusted, my most admirable, my lieutenant.)

But those days were too far gone. Mairon had broken those vows, in falling for Celebrimbor. Not that it mattered. His master was gone, too far for even Mairon to ever free him. He had failed so ultimately. 

(I do not blame you, Mairon. He had said it so softly, so tenderly, more than he had ever been since those awful Silmarils had destroyed his mind.)

(I will never leave you, Mairon had promised.)

(You must, he said, and it had broken Mairon’s heart. It is far too late for me. But I will not see them diminish your fire as they once did.)

“I see now why they called you Gorthaur the Cruel,” Celebrimbor spits. “It is not enough for you to inflict pain, you must press it deeper for no reason other than your own enjoyment.” He is crying now, and Mairon can not decide if he wants to comfort him or kill him. 

He raises his hand as if to strike him, and the Elf flinches. “I do not enjoy this, Tyelperinquar.”

He used to enjoy this. He used to revel in punishing those that defied him or his master. What had happened that had changed him so much?

(I would rather be cast into the Void by your side than be parted from you again.)

Tyelpë had happened. Tyelpë had changed him, made him softer, weaker. 

“Then stop!” Celebrimbor falls to his knees, mirroring where they had been so many times before, but it is no longer love in his eyes but fear . “Please, Annatar.”

He is not Annatar. 

He is reminded of the lies again, the lies he had to tell, he had to. He never would have been given a chance without the lies. He was hardly given a chance with them. 

(Do not say that. You will carry on without me, I know it. You are far too strong to be destroyed by this. They had kissed one last time, and Mairon had tasted fire and bitter cold.)

Mairon crouches down to again caress Tyelpë’s cheek. “It is not I that inflicts this pain. You know exactly how to make it stop.”

(Promise me, Melkor had breathed. Promise me you will run. That you will live. I will buy you as much time as I can.)

(No, Mairon had pleaded. You said you would never send me away again. You said we could handle anything, as long as we were together.)

“Tell me where you have hidden the Rings, and we can be just as we once were.” Please, Tyelpë. Mairon will not beg. He will not allow himself to become so vulnerable again. But he wants to keep this precious precious Elf, keep him so close so they will never be parted. 

(You must do this for me, Mairon. He had taken his hands, holding them to his chest. I could not bear it if they caught you, too.)

(Tears had leaked from his eyes then, as he heard the footsteps of Tulkas growing nearer.)

“What we were was nothing more than a lie.” It was not a lie. The lie was in the name. The lie was in his past. The lie was not in anything else. 

(Please, Mairon! His eyes had been wild, desperate even. Mairon had never seen him so afraid.)

“I have never truly known you.”

He knew everything that mattered. Mairon had wanted to stay in Eregion. He wanted to stay Annatar, he wanted to love Tyelpë and be good . For the one he loved. 

But Tyelpë was not his first love. 

(So he had swallowed and promised. I love you.)

“You have never known love.”

(I love you, too. Now, go!)

Sauron snaps his head to look at him sharply. His vision goes white with anger. 

(And Mairon had run.)

“I will tell you nothing,” the Elf spits. 

He never could have come this far without Celebrimbor’s help. His knowledge on the preservation of time and the slowing of decay was invaluable. But the Rings have been forged. 

If he would not reveal their locations, then he no longer served any purpose. 

“Then do not blame me for your pain.”

Sauron grips Celebrimbor’s face tighter, and wills his hands to catch fire. 

His gaze stays hard as the screams pierce the air. 

He almost smiles, even, as he smells the burning hair and flesh. He will not kill the Elf yet. Celebrimbor will break, as all the others have. It is only a matter of time. 

But once all the Rings are his, he will have to die. Sauron has no use for anyone who is not loyal to him. 

And Celebrimbor has proven his affinity for betrayal. 

The flames did not last long, but long enough for Celebrimbor to be completely despondent, curled up and barely breathing. 

Sauron stands sharply. “I will ask you again tomorrow, Curufinwë. Do not disappoint me.” He turns on his heel and walks out, carefully boxing up his love and tucking it away in a corner of his mind. He no longer needs it for what he knows he has to do.