Chapter Text
Annatar shows up in his study the next day, bright and early before the birds awaken in their houses outside of his window, before the last star has faded in the west and before the servants have cleared away last night's farewell feast.
Gil-Galad had come. He had invited himself, of course, and he brought his entire council of Lords. Celebrimbor had been reminded time and time again that as High King of the Noldor he could do that, drop in unannounced and pay his dear cousin and kin a long overdue visit. Erestor and Figwit have been with him and so many others he remembered from Gondolin. The only ones missing were Elrond and Galadriel. When he had asked, Gil-Galad had waved him off. Galadriel was out in a futile attempt of chasing orcs through the northern wastes in search of shadows and wraiths and long forgotten tales, together with her company. Elrond had remained at home, there were things to take care of in the absence of the High-King, and who was better suited than the son of Earendil.
“You mean for him to lead one day?” Celebrimbor had leaned in close, his voice low, barely above a breath.
“He should.” Gil-Galad had stated matter of fact. He had tilted his head sideways, casting a slow glance at Celebrimbor. “I remember you once telling me the future of all Elvenkind would be in his hands.”
“I don’t think I ever said that.” Celebrimbor had furrowed his brow. Had he said something like that? Elrond was noble and wise far beyond his years and it had been uncanny to see him at first. The way he and his brother had carried themselves, the familiarity of it all. It also hurt to remember their mother, he had known her only briefly, a young queen with burdens even mightier elves would crumble under, trying to live up to what was expected of her. She had been so young. His eyes were his fathers though, wide and bright like stars and full of hope.
“Oh, but you did. I recall it exactly.” Gil-Galad had raised his glass to his lips. “It was a rather odd thing to say about two orphans we found wandering the woods calling out for the kinslayers.”
“Earendil had hoped they might still live.” Celebrimbor had reminded him. He could not fault him, Earendil had always been too dear to him. To both of them. A brother of sorts.
“And they do. One of them still does, at least.” A shadow had crossed over his face and he had drained his glass.
After the feast Gil-Galad had risen from his seat at the head of the table and beckoned for Celebrimbor to walk with him. The moon had been bright that night, not a cloud in the sky to be seen. They walked for a while, cloaked in heavy silence. Gil-Galad had seemed more absent than he usually did during these kinds of walks. They had woven their slow rounds through the streets and gardens of his city, the fragrance of the last sweet flowers filling the air, as they descended from the grand hall down to the river and the espalandes by the water’s edge. Yellow lanterns were lazily drifting on the dark river.
Gil-Galad had stared out across the water for a long while, his features only illuminated by the lanterns.
“Celebrimbor, I have long sought your counsel on important matters.”
“I had not been aware.” Gil-Galad had shot him a warning look. Celebrimbor had folded his hands and tried again. “What troubles you?”
“It is Galadriel, as you may have suspected. I do not know what to do about her. She left a hundred seventeen years ago, on midsummer's day. I have told her I do not support her quest for revenge, but still her company was loyal to her and went with her. Thondir has sent back few reports of their movements and discoveries. But I fear for what drives her and to what end it shall bring her.”
Celebrimbor had come to stand besides his king. “You really have heard no word from Galadriel herself, then?”
Worry had started to grow inside him when Gil-Galad’s words had fully sunken in. If she had been lost, if her light had fallen into the darkness of the north, if her endless ambition had led to her downfall, then they might as well all be lost. What would this Middle-Earth be without her light, her wisdom and strength. He had started to feel lightheaded.
“I have known her longer than you have, my king,” Known her, loved her, worshipped her, it did not matter anymore these days. “I assure you she will return to her people, and to her daughter most of all.”
He had spoken the words even though he knew they would be a lie, and that Gil-galad would see through them. They had been meant to comfort him, to put him at ease, to keep his mind from spinning and hands from trembling. Calm breaths. Close your eyes.
“Quests for revenge are no idle thing, as you are well aware of, Celebrimbor Curufinion.”
“No, indeed they are not.” He had sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he had opened his eyes again he watched one of the lanterns float by until it had disappeared beyond the river bend. “I did not mean to upset.”
The entire conversation had left a sour taste in his mouth, one that even more days of feasting and hunting and singing could not wash away. So it had been a welcoming respite when the host of Ereinion Gil-Galad had finally departed yesterday. The feast had been grander than the welcoming feast, gifts had been exchanged, a sapling from the great tree in Lindon, wreaths of gold and pearl, fine goblets and crystal hair pieces and many fireless lanterns, like the ones illuminating the streets and river.
“I had hoped to find you awake, my Lord Celebrimbor.” Annatar beams as they push through the door. They are carrying bundles of scrolls in their arms. They had been away while Gil-Galad had visited, taking with them ink and pens and brushes and as much paper as they could carry.
“How fared your studies away, Annatar?”
“There is great beauty found in your forests and hills, Lord Celebrimbor. I followed the river upstream, as you had suggested and came upon some dwarven ruins, hidden under a hill, the entrance gate had long been overgrown with holly trees. I followed their tunnels for three days.”
With one graceful movement they clear a corner on Celebrimbor's desk from clutter, it piles but doesn't topple. The scroll they unfurl and spread across the table is a marvel, filled with sketches of arches and geometrical patterns, doorways, windows, stairs that descend down into the darkness of a mining shaft. Everything is shaded in inky blacks and greys, each stroke of their brushwork is strong and expressive, drawing the eye into the paintings.
Celebrimbor had not even been aware of the dwarven tunnels, maybe it had been an outpost of Khazad-Dûm in ages past, long forgotten and sealed up after the defeat of Morgoth, or a settlement that had been wholly abandoned because of him and his foul creatures.
Celebrimbor finds a carved raven, hidden away in one of the long hallways Annatar had captured, it is a small thing, barely bigger than a fingernail. It is as if Annatar has brought it to life, its inky wings stretching across the parchment wall, proud beak raised towards the ceiling.
“You must show me one day.”
Annatar nods their head and rolls up the scroll again with nimble fingers. The next scroll shows a landscape at dawn, rolling clouds hanging above the far off peaks of the Ered Mithrin, still dipped into shadow with only their white crests illuminated.
“I seem to have missed quite the party while I was gone.” They hum while their finger points towards a rabbit they had drawn. “I wasn't aware for how long I had been gone.”
“Not really. It was barely a formal event.”
Annatar raises an eyebrow at that. Their lips quirk into a lopsided smile and their tone turns teasing. “I heard that the High King came to visit, do kings count that little among your people.”
Celebrimbor has no time to answer. Their next scroll comes out, this one filled with holly leaves, flowing lines that span the page top to bottom, swirling shapes of all sizes, reaching from small pins to brooches, circlets, swords and shields. In the centre of it all sits a tower. It is unlike any he has seen before. It is all annotated, sizes, the weight of each object, the materials and time needed, scribbled into the smallest crevices and gaps.
“This is a very nice portfolio. I do not think it would have been half so nice if you had attended any of the festivities.”
“Do you think Gil-Galad will return?” Regret flits across their fine features. Their hands pause for a brief moment and the room falls silent. They are wearing one of the new robes Celebrimbor had put out for them, layers of rich blue velvet, embroidered with gems and pearls and fine golden chains at the shoulders. Their hair is a stark contrast against the dark fabric.
“He tends to come as he pleases.” Celebrimbor confesses. Their last meeting had been many springs past, and it had been briefer. “Or I might have to go to him.”
Annatar nods. “That is the way of kings. What did he want?”
“Nothing, nothing much at all.” Celebrimbor had been pleaded to secrecy on those matters. He smiles at Annatar. “He wished to know how things are in Eregion, many of his people moved east over the Ered Luin and did not stay in Mithlond or in Lindon with him. Many of the Sindar moved even further east, to the Greenwood.”
Another slow nod. They collect their studies and move over to the chaise that takes up half of the connected space that is Celebrimbor’s sun room. Celebrimbor follows them. Vines of ivy grow around the slender columns, they had come in through cracks in the roofing or the wall and spread.
“None of my kin moved to Greenwood the Great, I went and searched for them there.” Annatar’s eyes are fixed on a point far beyond Celebrimbor’s reach, one only they themselves can see, filled with longing and sorrow.
“I am sorry to hear that.” Celebrimbor sinks into the yellow cushions next to them, leaving precious few inches of space between them. He should comfort his friend but he doesn't know how. It is too great a grief.
Annatar turns to face him at last. Their eyes are wet with tears. “It may be that they, at long last, followed the calls from the West and don’t dwell on the eastern shores anymore.”
“They will have found peace in the Blessed Realm and all their wounds and worries healed.”
“I do hope so.” Their voice breaks.
Celebrimbor wraps his arm around Annatar’s shoulders and holds them as they pour their heart out, their shoulders trembling with every shaky breath. Before long their face is tucked into the crook of Celebrimbor’s elbow and their forehead has come to rest on his shoulder. Celebrimbor whispers soothing nothings into their hair, the same words his mother had used when he had come running home with a scraped knee. Slowly their sobs ease
“Why do you remain in Middle-Earth?” It’s a mumbled mess of words, hoarsley whispered into the folds of his robe. “Why do you not dwell in the Blessed Realm?”
He wishes he could. He yearns for it, has yearned for it for an age. There would be no greater release of the torments of his own mind, than seeing the white shores again, taste the sweet air and hear the calls of birds that have never made it across the vast ocean, see his family again. When he closes his eyes he can see meadows filled with flowers and he can imagine the light of the two trees shining warm on his face, soft and gently like a kiss. White towers stretching towards the sky beneath tall mountains. “I am forbidden from ever returning.”
Annatar angles their face out of the crook of his elbow, lifting it slightly. Their red rimmed eyes search Celebrimbor’s. “Forbidden?”
“You hadn’t heard?” His own voice is nothing more than a hushed whisper to his own ears.
They avert their eyes and sit back up again, folding their hands in their lap. They open their mouth and close it again. Annatar’s voice rings hollow through Celebrimbor's study. “I was always told the Noldor remained in Middle-earth because the Valar meant for them to protect these lands from the darkness and the shadows that remained.”
Protect. He almost has to laugh.
“My fighting days are long over, Mellon-nin, I have not held a blade in centuries. I fear I have forgotten how. These days I hope my hands will be remembered for crafting great treasures and riches.”
Annatar sucks in a breath. They move in closer. Their hands grab his, enveloping it into their warmth. “Your city speaks volumes about your love for creation and peace. It will not be forgotten.”
“I built Ost-in-Edhil from a memory, the last time I ever saw Tirion. Some of the Noldor have trouble moving forward, for some the past is more tempting than the future. Despite the pain, maybe because of it.”
Annatar smiles sadly and gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. Their gaze is soft and it lingers, as does their touch. Their presence is an unwavering encouragement. “I have never seen Tirion and never might, but your city is beautiful. One of the few true wonders of Middle- Earth.”
Celebrimbor smiles back. “One day you might still get to behold the beauty of Valinor.”
Annatar hums at the thought of that, the sound sends tremors and vibrations through Celebrimbor. The muscles in his hand curl instinctively, and his fingers slide into place around Annatar’s. It feels almost natural.
He looks down on the intricate chains they wear on their hand, looped around their middle finger and thumb and pinky, webbing over the back of his hand to the bracelet they are fastened to.
It is a pretty design. He withdraws his hand.
“But I do hope you stay around a bit longer, as my student. As was your wish.”
They all but leap at the words. A radiant smile spreads across Annatar’s face.
“You have decided then?”
“Yes.”
He hears fast and quiet footsteps approaching from beyond the closed door, soft leather soles slapping on marble tiles and colourful mosaics. It is a cruel reminder of the world outside his own refuge. He knows Annatar can hear the sound too, when the warmth disappears from around him the cushions of the chaise shift slightly under Annatar’s weight.
He turns just in time to hear the first knock on the door. “Come in.”
One of the apprentices steps in. She still has her leather apron on and her goggles are hastily pushed up into her dark hair, away from her face. She bows quickly before standing ramrod straight at attention again.
“Lord Celebrimbor, Camaenor of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain asks for your presence.”
“Camaenor? What does he want?” He is on his feet in seconds. He would not have sent it if it was not something urgent, something important. He knows Camaenor and he would not send word unless the world was ending.
Gladhril, that was her name, looks confused from him to Annatar. He had not noticed Annatar shuffled closer and is standing behind his shoulder. She clears her throat. “There is an issue with the last shipment from the north. I do not know every detail but he urgently wished to speak with you.”
Celebrimbor turns around. Annatar is standing a step behind him, leaning slightly forward. Their eyes are eager, as if they knew what Celebrimbor was about to suggest.
“Annatar, you should come with us.” He clasps his hands around Annatar’s, a quick gesture. “As my student you ought to get to know the forges and the other apprentices.”
Gladhril leads them through the corridors and down the winding stairs, first light filters in through the stained glass windows and throws spots of colours on the walls and floors, bathing the bare walls in stories of golden trees, balrogs and ships that sail across the sky.
When they exit the house they find the wide streets busy, elves and mortals and dwarves are walking in small groups, some in deep conversations and others hurrying from place to place. The air is filled with cinnamon and the smell of fresh apples. Rows and rows of holly trees line the streets, separating the commercial path reserved for carts and messengers from the sidewalk, their red berries peeking out among the shining green leaves. They pass street vendors that have set up their carts before dawn, praising their wares to passers-by.
Gladhril keeps up a quick and steady pace, weaving through the streets with ease and taking shortcuts where it is necessary to avoid larger crowds. She is always at least two steps ahead of them, giving them some privacy. Celebrimbor catches a brief glimpse of Annatar, as the trio turns a corner, their head is turned towards the roofs, their fire warm eyes reflecting the blue of the sky. Wonder and joy written across their fine features.
They look like they belong among the finery and splendour of Eregion, among his city. He wonders if they had looked like that wandering through the groves and meadows along the rivers in Beleriand. Noble and proud and full of grace. They catch him stare.
“Enjoying yourself, I see.” He calls out to them.
Their responding smile is brighter than the sun.
“How could I not, among so much splendour, my Lord Celebimbor.” They stretch their arms out wide as if they wish to envelop and devour it all. “If this is but a memory of your Tirion, I dare not even imagine the real splendour of Valinor.”
“The land of the Valar is far grander than this humble city.”
Annatar drifts over to Celebrimbor, orbiting him as they start talking again. Their sleeves brush his hands. “You could fill this world with so much beauty, my Lord Celebrimbor.”
Celebrimbor had seen much beauty in his day and he had even see how that beauty corrupted and destroyed the minds of his kin, how it had lead them to slaughter the Teleri mariners, how their blood had pooled into the fair ocean, dimming the light of the myriad of pearls and gems scattered there. He had not witnessed Doriath, but he had been there when his uncles descended upon the havens of Sirion like rabid wolves with dark fire in their eyes.
“I don't think I want to.” He sinks into the comfort of his robes, away from this world, a world he helped break in ages past. His grandfather’s shadow loomed large over his shoulder. He only wished to preserve, to shield the dying embers of his home from the erosions of the cruel flow of time.
“How would I even get that done?” He whispers quietly. His eyes meet Annatars. He hopes they can understand. Hopes they know what’s truly holding him back, that doom is all they are tempting. Hopes they know that he is presenting all his hopes and fears to them on a silver platter, for him to take or disregard.
Annatar hands him a knife in answer, cutting through it all with one simple sentence. “With my help, Lord Celebrimbor, I will be your most loyal servant and apprentice.”
A vendor calls out to them, his cart piled high with round layered pastries, steam is still rising from the dough and they are glistening with sugary sweet syrup, he catches Annatar’s attention and they bound over to him. Their conversation is too low for him to hear over the busy street. When Annatar returns he is holding three small packages of pastry, each beautifully wrapped in patterned teal fabric, tied with a silver ribbon.
They hand one to Gladhril and then they are back, falling into an easy pace next to Celebrimbor, their chatter fills the spaces left between them. Closer to the commercial district and the forges the streets have gotten more and more crowded and Celebrimbor feels himself gravitating towards Annatar as the tide of bodies around them grows, to make way for other elves that are also pushing their way towards Camaenor’s workshop.
The central arched courtyard of his workshop is filled with apprentices and merchants, both elf and dwarf.
The rumour of whatever had conspired in the north had spread among the artisans and merchants like wildfire, and they had come rushing from every corner of Ost-in-Edhil. Gladhril shoulders her way through the crowd with sure quick strides, clearing a path for Celebrimbor and Annatar. Heads turn towards him and people start to notice him. Some greet him, others ask him questions that are deafened by the crowd. He tries his best to smile while worry sinks its claws into him.
They find Camaenor bend over a map of Eregion and Rhudaur, held down by four heavy rubies at the corners. Two of the other Gwaith-i-Mirdaín are with him, they are deep in talk and don't look up when the three of them approach their tables.
“What seems to be the issue?”
“We had word from the north that one of the merchant boats we sent out to trade for gold and adamant was sunk. Two nights ago. About eight leagues north.” Camaenor’s finger points towards a silver pin that has been jammed into the map. “Hafer, suspects an ambush.”
“An ambush? How many lives were lost?”
“Only two, thankfully, from what the scouts say.”
“Who was it?”
“The scouts are still out looking, Celebrimbor, they should return this evening, and we shall know more.” Camaenor waves over another one of his apprentices. The young elf carries a heavy tome under his arm. “We have the accounts here.”
The apprentice flips open the book and holds it out for Celebrimbor to read. The captain’s journal tells a tale of a crew of fourteen that set out from Ost-in-Edhil ten days ago, under a blue sky and with promises of fair weather ahead. They made good time to the mines in the highlands north and set out again after their spirits had been cleared from weariness. The weather had remained fair and the current had been good to them. The captain had noted down tracks by the river bed from where they had moored their boat. After that the page was blank.
“We should inform their families.” He said absentmindedly. “Do we know more about those tracks?”
“That is the other issue, Celebrimbor, one of the merchants said she saw glowing eyes in the dark. And the tracks the scouts found were those of a wolf more giant than should be seen in this day and age.” Camaenor’s voice is quiet and strained. Behind him Celebrimbor can feel Annatar move in closer, until they are elbow to elbow and they can read the weatherd pages of the journal as well.
Camaenor shoots them a warning glance before their fingers turn the pages.
There had been tales of trolls before, that had wandered around the highlands, or had been found in the mine shafts, deep underground that made the mining and the transport perilous for the dwarves and few elves that had settled there. But wolves that strayed onto boats was something they had not encountered before.
“How grave are the injuries she suffered?” Celebrimbor asks. The question is meant for both Camaenor and Hafer.
“Very. She should be glad she made it back in one piece and is with the healers.” Camaenor admits.
“Maybe I should talk to her.”
Camaenor‘s brows furrow. “She is still resting and unconscious. And even before that... It was hard to see her like that.”
The rest goes unspoken in the silence between them. There are injuries in this world that even the mightiest healers of the elves cannot heal. If some dark power had been at work, he shudders to even think about it. Gil-Galad might have to be alerted. He wants to laugh at the bitter irony of it all, sending a scout after the king that had just departed.
“Could it be that the tracks were deceiving?” Annatar chimes in. “The river could have washed away any previous tracks. Leaving only those of curious wolves that wandered to their camping site in search of food?”
The words make him pause and falter in relief. Iluvatar bless them.
“Annatar! You have been north recently, have you not?” Celebrimbor faces Annatar, who is still studying the journal and the map.
At his question the table goes silent. All eyes turn towards the elf next to Celebrimbor. The silence draws on for an uncomfortable moment. A moment in which Annatar slowly lifts their head, pausing as well.
“I have, my lord Celebrimbor.” Confused, Annatar looks from Camaenor to Gladhril to Celebrimbor and then to the other two Gwaith-i-Mírdain. They open their mouth to say more but stop themselves. Celebrimbor can see when the meaning of the question sinks in. They nod.
“Did you witness anything strange?” He keeps asking. Wargs. The word comes to him. His uncle had often boasted of facing hoards of them in battle. “Any bands of orcs on wolfback?”
Annatar chews on their bottom lip. Their eyes shoot over to Gladhril before landing on the table again. “I did not encounter a soul; be it man, elf, dwarf or orc and mostly avoided the paths of the animals and they avoided me.”
“What kind of animals?” One of the other Gwaith-i-Mírdain asks. She stands a head taller than her companion, her dark hair is threaded with silver and adorned with blue jewels.
“My Lords, my knowledge of beasts is very poor. I did think I caught sight of a mother bear and her last years cubs?” Their voice is laced with desperation. “Please, if Lord Hafer says it was an ambush, who am I to disagree with him, I was merely trying to offer a second opinion, not to offend.”
Annatar’s eyes flicker over to Celebrimbor’s, pleading, as if to release them from this conversation and its torment. Celebrimbor rests one soothing hand on their forearm. He has known Camaenor long enough to know that he is only worried; about the crew and the trade with the north and the miners there, and is no threat.
Hithfaerwen and her companion exchange pointed looks.
Hafer nods his head and the ornaments woven into his proud, long beard jingle in agreement. “No, by all means it could have been wild animals. Even us dwarves drawn to the surface are not well versed in all the creatures on this earth.”
A murmur goes through the crowd.
Camaenor’s shoulders slump slightly in defeat. “What say you, Lord Celebrimbor?”
“Let us send out a small armed party, volunteers only, to investigate.” He sighs. His eyes follow the winding paths of the rivers, first south and then north towards the highlands. Absentmindedly he picks at his fingertips. “We could construct watchtowers along the rivers, in case another ambush is to follow, I might have a design in mind.”
“What are we to do about the injured?” Hithfaerwen asks.
“They will be brought back here to rest and heal. I do think it best if we had dwarven healers with them as well.” He thinks out loud.
“Agreed. I shall send a raven so that one of ours can come and aid our kin heal.” Hafer says. “I thank you for treating Iosunn and offering the others a place to recover. Our memory will remember this kindness for the ages, until we are remade.”
Hithfaerwen nods.
***
After everyone has left and Camaenor’s workshop is empty again, with Camaenor and his apprentices having gone with the volunteers to help them prepare, the forge feels empty and small again. It is no longer bursting at the seams and filled with voices and the world has shrunk away again. Half wilted wisteria blossoms lie scattered around the courtyard, and fill the air with a sweet scent.
Celebrimbor closes the captain’s journal, but can’t quite let go, his hand lingers on the faded velum. The thought of this old evil having returned and survived somehow makes his stomach turn. He thought he would never have to see war and destruction again. He hopes they can avert this path before it is too late and avoid its bloodshed.
It is Annatar who takes the journal from his hands in the end. It joins the map in one of the hidden storage and supply cupboards.
Celebrimbor thanks him silently. His mind is still reeling with the possibility that Galadriel may have, unbeknownst to her, driven whatever evil she was chasing down into their realms. Would he have to send out more volunteers? Train new soldiers in the art of war? His fingernails leave fine crescent moons in his soft palm.
Slowly the courtyard drifts back into focus, Annatar ist still standing by the half open cupboard, dressed in shining velvet blue and the sun dips their concerned features into a soft glowing fire. He becomes aware of the bustling streets again, hammers falling on hot iron.
“Should we accompany the party, my Lord?” They ask and close the cupboard.
“Do you wish to go out and test your steel, Annatar?” Celebrimbor would not stop them if they wished to join the volunteers. Even if he had hoped that –. No.
Annatar laughs. “I am better suited by your side, and your fighting days are long over, as you said.”
“Are you calling me old?” He shoots back, his own smile breaking forth. Briefly he glimpses himself with a long beard like Cirdan, his dark hair crowned in silver stars. The vision is gone, like the reflection on water as soon as he tries to reach for it.
Annatar lets out another laugh.
“For all you know I could be the elder of us.” Annatar teases and crosses their arms in front of their chest. They lean back against the wall.
“I do know precious little about you to begin with, mellon-nîn.” Celebrimbor points out.
Annatar is with him in two long strides, their form flickering and blurring at the corners. Last soft peals of laughter are still falling from their lips like rubies. “You only have to ask. My Lord. I am an open book to you.”
Their hands clasp his wrists and their breath ghosts over his cheek.
There is so much he wants to know about them. So many questions that he wants to ask, that his heart wants to ask. He clears his throat. “Where are you from?”
Annatars hands are warm and soft, gently burning through the layers around his wrists. Annatar smile softly and tilts their head, their eyes glaze over with that far away look again. “I have roamed the forest of fair Doriath in my youth, and after our king’s death and our queen’s departure we joined my mother’s kin by the seven rivers, where summer never ended. My sister loved it there.”
“So I take it you learned your art in Doraith? Under some smith there?”
Annatar nods.
“I did. And for a long time I thought they were the finest and greatest, for I did not yet know of the works of Feanor, and yours, Lord Celebrimbor. It is only when I beheld the Nauglamir, that I saw that I had much yet to learn.”
His heart stops. Celebrimbor had also seen the Nauglamir. Some of its glittering opals and emeralds broken and missing, leaving dark wounds in the pale gold. Haunted eyes, begging voices. He blinks them away and his tone turns teasing and gentle. “The Nauglamir was made by dwarves, mayhaps you should go to them then.”
“Its gems came from Valinor, and were crafted and cut by your jewelsmiths, were they not?” They ask. “It is why I came here, to learn the craft which can turn even the heart and mind of the proudest and make them weep.”
“Then show me what your old master taught you. So I might get a better insight of your progress.”
“They taught me many things.” Is the breathless reply. They let go of Celebrimbor’s wrists. There is a tool shelf hanging on a wall at the far end by forge, and their feet carry them over to it, stepping lightly over the cracks in the tiles and the places where the vines have started to take root. Celebrimbor follows.
Annatar shrugs out of their velvet robes and they drape and fall among the wisteria blossoms that had drifted into the covered area. The tuliped and richly embroidered sleeves of his inner robe follow, their silk ribbons hastily undone. Celebrimbor hands them a heavy leather apron and a pair of gloves he thinks might fit them.
“What sort of contraption are these ties?” Annatar chuckles and holds up the ends of the chains that tie and hold the apron. They raise one eyebrow “You Noldor have strange customs and even stranger clothing, it seems.”
He had never thought of them as overly complicated or strange. They hold the apron by the ties and cross the bronze chains trying to mimic the way Camaenor and the others had tied their aprons.
“Let me.” Celebrimbor offers and reaches out a helping hand.
“By all means.” Annatar turns around and lets the apron sink into Celebrimbor’s hands He reaches his arms around Annatar’s middle and their hands come up immediately to hold the leather and metal plating in place, their hand covers Celebrimbor’s for a short breathless moment. Ever so slowly he forces himself to edge his fingers out from under Annatars. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Annatar watching his every move.
They lift their arms to grant Celebrimbor better access to the sturdier bronze chains and he can pull them over their shoulders. First he gets to fastening the clasp in the back, the mechanism clicks into place easily, securing the apron.
Annatar stretches slightly, the thin silk fabric of their inner robe does little hide their muscular back. With one swift motion they put their hair in a loose bun, tucking the ends of his braid in under it and securing it with a pin. A few loose soft strands still fall over their neck and shoulder. They look like finely spun gold, soft, tempting.
“Oh, I think I have figured out the front.” Annatar’s voice is cheery and light and accompanied by a soft metallic click as the front clasp closes. The spell is broken and Celebrimbor lets out the breath he was holding. They turn around abruptly. “How do I look?”
“Like a noble Gwaith-i-Mírdain.” He replies and returns the smile. Beautiful, his mind supplies, radiant and god-like like the sun.
Annatar’s eyes soften and they duck their head under Celebrimbor's praise. “I only hope you may find me worthy of the title one day.”
“I have no doubt.”
Another nod. They comb a stray strand of hair out their face and walk over to where they had left their robe. They reach into its blue folds and fish out a folded fragment of parchment. They place it on the nearby table and Celebrimbor grabs two of the rubies Camaenor had used as paperweights and gives them to Annatar.
They thank him.
Only after does he tie his own apron and slips his hands into a well worn pair of gloves. He makes his way to the forge and stokes the glowing embers, makes sure there is a clean container so as to not contaminate Annatar’s work, he sets out the baskets and boxes Camaenor and the other Gwaith-i-Mírdain store their supplies in. Anything to keep his mind busy and on the task at hand.
“Care to let me in on what you have planned?” He calls over to Annatar.
They only smile “No. You asked me to show you what I have learned and I will.”
Annatar grabs one of the stone and iron containers that has been disregarded by the anvil and takes out its cooling contents and sets them aside. They take in the baskets and boxes Clebrimbor lined up by the wall, filled with samples and chunks of almost every metal and rock and gem imaginable.
They fill a thimble with an alloy of different ores, copper, celestine and gold and shards of rainbow pyrite and more until they are satisfied with their selection. The container comes to rest in the heart of the glimmering coals.
Unbid, Celebrimbor reaches for the chain that operates the heavy bellows and tugs. Like a great old dragon the forge comes to life and with each breath of the bellows great gusts of wind send sparks flying and give the fire the heat it needs.
Soon the furnace built up enough heat that the hot air streams out into the courtyard, smelling of woodsmoke and bitter metal. Sweat starts to collect on his temples. Annatar, he notices, seems wholly unaffected by it. Slowly and deliberately they arrey the fragments by size and colour, giving them a pattern only they know.
The repeated motion, the push and pull are familiar to him. His own breath soon matches that of the bellows. He watches as Annatar searches for the tools they need, small chisels and hammers, thongs and tweezers fine enough to weave a spider web. Their fingers roam through the iron weights and forms and moulds on the shelves.
Celebrimbor watches as the metals melt and form a mirror of different coloured metallic ribbons. Annatar draws one hot poker through it, folding and layering the lines in on themselves as whole worlds form in front of their eyes. He doesn't dare breathe. It is only a small nudge, Annatars foot against his own and he remembers the bellows. He pulls the chains again. He can feel their yes on him. When he looks up he can see them smile at him, teasing him.
Annatar stokes the fire again and spreads the coals, so that they form gentle hills around the container and the corners of the liquid oxidise and turn shades of fuchsia and green.
When the alloy is mixed and the colours of it layered to their satisfaction Annatar looks up from the embers, sparks reflecting in their eyes. Celebrimbor hands them the cast iron thongs hanging next to the bellows. Annatar removes the container from the coals, the licking flames whispering their goodbyes as the stone is pulled from their embrace.
The pair steps over to the anvil. Annatar pours a third of it into one of the casting moulds they had prepared, the liquid hisses when it touches the cool and chiselled stone. The metal hisses even more as it is placed in water to cool.
Their hands close around the hammer and pincers. The metal comes alive under their hands. They pull the metal into fine strands, this way and that and slowly the fine point of a blade forms under their hammers steady caress. The song of the hammer and anvil fills the courtyard and Celebrimbor’s heart leaps at every beat of it.
He steps in close. His body melts around the shape of Annatar’s shoulder and their breaths mingle. Annatar’s song slowly takes shape, it is an intricate circle, almost living vines that wind and come together in symmetrical and delicate forms. On each small connection he attaches three small settings. Celebrimbor watches in awe as Annatar leans in down over the anvil, eye level with their creation and fills them with rare grey pearls.
They remove the lid of the foundry mould and attach its creation to the circlet, a single large twelve pointed star in the middle, to fit between the wearer’s brows. Its settings are still empty. Gingerly their gloved hands pick up their finished work, lift it to their face.
Celebrimbor holds his breath as Annatar judges their own work, turns it this way and that.Their eyes narrow slightly when it catches the sunlight. They let it hover there for a moment. Small sun flecks dance across the walls and their face. Then they smile. Satisfied with their first work they set it aside on one of the nearby busts to cool.
Then with a relieved breath they spin around to Celebrimbor. Their hair had come undone at some point during their workings, and it is only now that Celebrimbor notices the sun is setting. He had not even noticed the passing of an entire day. He walks over to the bust and takes in Annatar’s creation.
He reaches out to touch the star, traces his fingertips over the cooling smooth metal, every pearl is meticulously attached, the small claws of their settings holding them in place.
“It isn’t finished yet.” They rush to explain when Celebrimbor picks it up as well. It is light as a feather. “Tomorrow I will attach the strings with the other grey pearls, and pair them with diamonds. The star too. After that it is yours.”
“Mine?” He pauses. His breath catches in his throat. Had Annatar truly made it for him? With him in mind even?
“Consider it a gift. From your most humble apprentice.” They say earnestly, bowing their head slightly.
Celebrimbor sets the circlet down again, suddenly it feels heavier, and its phantom weight threatens to drag him down into unknown depths. He winces when it scrapes against the stone of the bust. Carefully he adjusts it so it doesn't catch on the ears. He can still feel Annatar’s waiting gaze on him, burning. Celebrimbor sighs heavily. “I could not accept such a gift, Annatar.”
He does not dare face them at first. But when he does he wants to turn around again. They look crestfallen.
He pulls them close without thinking, enveloping them into a hug and Annatar wraps his arm around his shoulders after a short pause, returning the embrace.
“But I will.”
He can feel more than see Annatar’s responding smile.