Work Text:
Prologue
Second Age, Year 1697
love’s the funeral of hearts
and an ode for cruelty
“We found him, my lord”, the orc captain groaned, nodding towards the tower - towards the workshops.
Of course. Celebrimbor would not flee. He would not hide. He would stand his ground and wait right where he would expect Annatar to look.
That's who he was, which made his earlier cowardice sting even more. He should have been better than that.
Annatar nodded. “Bind him. Leave him to me.”
The orc captain bowed and disappeared into the tower. Annatar did not follow him, not yet. He was not in a rush. He had been waiting for this moment for a century - he might as well give it a few more minutes.
And maybe a part of him wanted to prolong this moment, to delay the inevitable. If what he had foreseen would come to pass, these would be the last moments he would share with Celebrimbor on this plane of existence. It should not pain him, not anymore. Yet it did.
He glanced at the lower courtyard, where the few remaining elves were still fighting against the enemy flooding in from all sides. Their call for aid had gone out too late.
Their ranks were outnumbered one to ten, and no matter how strong, skilled, and brave they were in spirit, few of them were alike the formidable First Age Noldor Morgoth himself had feared.
These were not Balrog slayers - these were elves of peace, trust, and friendship. The very things he had always perceived as vulnerabilities and honed his weapons accordingly.
He smiled at the thought. Even though his plans had gone awry in the end, he had still fooled this city so thoroughly that the mere thought gave him a sense of victory and satisfaction.
Yet beneath it all, a sourness lingered - a tainted, rotten taste of betrayal and loss. His smile waned and he turned away from the scene to face the tower, ready to end it once and for all, but as he glanced at the stone archway, visions from the past flooded his mind.
I. The Birth
S.A. 1200
he was the fire
restless and wild
and you were like a moth to that flame
The ivy cascaded across the archway, its lush greenery a striking contrast against the pale gray stone. Beneath its canopy stood an elf: tall and fair, with flowing dark hair and piercing bright eyes. Clad in the regal attire of a lord, yet holding a pair of welding gloves in his hands, the elf regarded Annatar with a friendly, intrigued gaze.
“Our guest has arrived”, one of the younger elves proclaimed.
“Telperinquar," the elf lord said, bowing slightly, yet his demeanor was straight and proud, and Annatar could have told from leagues away that this was not just any elf. This was a Fëanorian: a descendant of the greatest, most hated enemy of his old master and the finest elven smith to ever live.
“Annatar Aulendil," he answered, bowing in return. He studied the smith curiously and smiled. “I have heard great things about your city.”
II. The Formation
S.A. 1250
he was the moon, painting you
with its glow so vulnerable and pale
Years passed, and Annatar found his time in Ost-in-Edhil surprisingly pleasant. It was a life of contentment and tranquility, even if it felt a little too much like squandered potential - a world lacking in imagination, save for one remarkable elven smith. He, who alone shared Annatar's visions, passions, and ambition.
Upon entering the room, Annatar spotted a familiar figure hunched over the desk. Celebrimbor was wholly absorbed in the papers spread before him, studying intricate drawings, numbers, and diagrams he had labored over for months.
He muttered to himself, oblivious to another being's presence. Annatar cleared his throat, and as Celebrimbor turned around, his expression melted into a surprised smile.
“Annatar! I have been looking for you all morning. I have been thinking about the problem with the lamps. I don’t think it has much to do with the material, after all, I think it is about the shape. I believe we could use a cylindrical piece on the top and help the light bend in a way that would allow it to-”, he went on, but Annatar wasn’t listening.
He was looking at Celebrimbor, really looking, and for the first time, he allowed himself to truly see him.
His brilliance, intelligence, and transcendental beauty. His spirit that was bright and fiery as had been his grandfather’s, but lacked all that friction, rashness, and fury characteristic of the Fëanorians.
No, Celebrimbor’s spirit was glowing with a pure, quiet fire, akin to the stars or the great jewels themselves.
Tyelperinquar was extraordinary, and the realization was something Annatar had not foreseen or been prepared for.
“Are you alright?” Celebrimbor said, his excited smile fading into a look of confusion. Annatar blinked and rushed to flash a smile.
“Fabulous. It is a very compelling idea”, he said. Celebrimbor’s face lit up, and to Annatar, he looked like the most perfect creation to ever exist.
III. The Blooming
S.A. 1500
he was the sun shining upon
the tomb of your hopes and dreams so frail
The night wind moved lazily through the room, dimly lit by the full moon hanging low in the Eastern sky. It was still warm for late October, still cozy enough to sleep in the east-facing chambers - halls of summer, as the Elves of Eregion called them.
Annatar traced his fingers across Celebrimbor’s arm, wrist, and palm, all the way down to his fingers to touch a golden ring that glimmered through the darkness. It bore a simple white jewel, sparkling in the moonlight, its light dancing in the quiet of the night.
Gently he took Celebrimbor’s hand in his and lifted it to get a better look at the jewelry.
“Do you feel it?” he whispered. He felt Celebrimbor’s head against his chest as the elf nodded in response.
“I do,” Celebrimbor answered as he extended his hand before them. The ring was humming softly as its power surged through the golden band.
Annatar circled his thumb around the jewel, feeling his own power run through the ring and the familiar waves of the elven spirit resonating back.
The ring, along with its fifteen siblings, was one of their greatest accomplishments. They were unparalleled creations, unlike anything the Gwaith-i-Mírdain had ever crafted, and their potent power felt almost unnatural.
“This, my dear Tyelpë, is how we save Middle-earth," Annatar hummed softly in his ear. It should have been a comforting sentence, but there was an ominous tune to it, something Celebrimbor did not quite recognize.
It was but a flicker in the dark, a brush of leaves. Like a fleeting shadow, it vanished as swiftly as it had emerged. Was it a promise? A threat? An order disguised as a wish?
Slowly he drew his hand from Annatar’s grasp and turned around to face him. They locked eyes, and Annatar stared back at him with the familiar glow in his gaze. It was not wholly unlike the light of the trees, but not quite the same.
Yet his face was gentle in the moonlight, and his smile was sincere. The eeriness from earlier had disappeared like a wisp of smoke. Celebrimbor felt himself relax; it must have been the unfamiliar power coursing through his hand that had unsettled him.
“I will miss you, Tyelpë," Annatar said softly, caressing his cheek. He was leaving the next day to continue his research in the East, he had explained.
“Why cannot I follow?” Celebrimbor had asked, seeking an answer within Annatar's eyes, yet they were veiled. Something hid from his gaze.
“You are needed here. I shall tell you everything when I return. You must trust me, Telperinquar," he had whispered, pressing a soft kiss on the elf’s forehead.
And he wanted to - he tried to, but as he lay next to him and watched the wisps of clouds float across the night sky, the doubts grew again, and he fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.
In the morning Annatar was gone and Celebrimbor made his way to the workshop. He could not explain the uneasiness that had set in, but something in him pushed him to act.
He forced himself to focus, unrolling another parchment as he began to plan, the weight of uncertainty heavy upon him.
IV. The Withering
S.A. 1600
when angels cry blood
on flowers of evil in bloom
Celebrimbor was proud of the work he had accomplished in less than ten years.
He and his smiths had, at last, mastered the craft of ring making, and he gazed upon the Three with joy as they sparkled on the burgundy satin beneath them: Vilya, Narya, and Nenya. The greatest of the nineteen rings, crafted solely by his hand.
He thought of Annatar, and as he imagined presenting the rings to him, he felt strangely reluctant. A nagging feeling of doubt gnawed at the back of his mind again, no matter how much he tried to push it aside. Maybe Annatar didn’t have to know. Maybe it would be for the best. They weren’t his creations, after all.
Celebrimbor shook off the uneasiness and reached out to pick up Vilya as its blue Sapphire heart sparkled in the evening glow. Carefully, he placed it on his finger and held it in the light. It was the greatest of the three, the ring of air, the one designed to heal, protect, and nourish.
As he reached out to remove the ring from his finger, a strange surge of power ran through him, as if the ring had suddenly grown in might.
He stopped his hand mid-air, tilting his head to listen to the jolt that had run through him. It got very quiet for a moment.
Then, slowly, a strange hum started to ring in his ears. Slowly it grew like a gathering storm, a thunder in the distance, rumbling and growling and shaking the very ground beneath him.
He did not understand - this power was not of his making: this was a strange, ominous, maleficent force that seemed to come from the outside, yet control the ring all the same.
Suddenly it struck him as lightning - a terrible, overpowering tide of flame, violence, and darkness flooded his mind. Celebrimbor fell to his knees, clutching his hand to his chest, the golden band burning his hand.
His vision blurred and turned into a storm of fire and smoke. Everything was burning and pitch black at the same time and his ears rang with pain.
He pressed his eyes shut but could not escape the blinding fire taking over his entire being.
He heard a terrifying, hoarse voice: a ghost from the ancient world was chanting words unfamiliar to him, but the words carried such hatred and dominance that he knew exactly what the voice wanted and what it tried to do.
The visions were changing. A set of eyes emerged from the dark - fire red with their black pupils slit like a serpent’s and staring past him. He wanted to hide from them.
He tried to pull away from the vision, but the flames were growing again. He was lying on the floor, panting, and his hands were burning with pain as he forced himself to reach out for the ring.
As his fingers touched its golden edges, the serpent eyes focused, sharpened - and looked straight at him.
He knew these eyes, and they knew him.
And at that very moment his heart shattered, burst in a thousand splinters and shot through him, and overcome by grief and disbelief he fell to the floor, screaming in agony.
V. The Reckoning
S.A. 1697
the heretic seal beyond divine
pray to a god who’s deaf and blind
Celebrimbor stood before him, hanging from the binds that had tied his hands above his head to the iron bar on the wall, a bar he had once grabbed to steady himself as Annatar had touched him in their shared nights in that forge. It felt like eons ago.
His body was bruised, and blood was dripping from his temple down his fair face as he stared at Annatar with an intensity that in another setting would have exhilarated his jailor.
Yes, this was a Fëanorian, these veins were rushing with the same fire that had once burned down the entire hröa of his grandfather. What a tragedy it was to sacrifice such brilliance.
“You," Celebrimbor hissed, his voice shaking with anger. “I trusted you!”
Annatar stepped closer and grabbed his chin, pressing his fingers into his cheeks. Blood stained the golden ring that pressed into Celebrimbor’s skin, making him grimace as if its touch alone had burned. It probably did.
“Did you, Tyelpë?” Annatar asked, furrowing his brow. “You simply... forgot to tell me about the Three?” he asked as he turned Celebrimbor’s head slightly to look at the wound that was bleeding all over his precious. He clicked his tongue, displeased. “The Orc blade is so crude, is it not?”
Celebrimbor stayed silent, and Annatar turned his head to face him again. He let go of his chin and lifted his hand, drawing attention to the ring that blazed on his finger.
“What do you think?” Annatar asked.
No response.
“It is quite plain, I’ll admit, but don’t let it fool you. It is grander than anything we have created, but you of course know that already, do you not?” he continued smiling, turning his hand proudly.
“I thought the writing would be a nice touch. The Tengwar, another pretty little creation of the great Fëanáro. Just like you, Tyelpë”, he smiled.
No response.
“Aren’t you quiet today, hm?” Annatar said and let his hand fall. He took a step back and studied the elf’s features. His eyes were still staring back in defiance.
“I have nothing to say to you,” Celebrimbor said, his voice shaking with anger. “I have had enough of your lies.”
Annatar tilted his head and smiled.
“Oh, but I never lied to you. It is not my fault you never asked the right questions,” he replied.
“You know what I mean,” the elf snapped.
“And you know I’m right,” Annatar said, letting his gaze find his ring again. “I told you I wanted to help Middle-earth, to save it from chaos and destruction. And you wanted to help me.”
“I wanted nothing to do with this”, Celebrimbor snapped. “You used me.”
Annatar sighed.
“You’re boring me, Tyelpë. You knew there was more to me than I let out, don’t try to claim otherwise. They warned you about me, but you refused to see the truth because deep down you knew we wanted the same things. Can you really blame me?”
Celebrimbor gulped at the words. He looked at the evil that wore the skin of someone he had once loved - the being that still looked like his friend but had given up trying to hide the evil beneath. The fana was wavering at the edges, barely containing the spirit inside.
Yet there was a fraction of truth in his words. He had had his doubts. Galadriel and Gil-galad had warned him.
And still, he had not seen it. How did he not see it? How could he have been so blind? A wave of regret flooded over Celebrimbor’s mind, and he bowed his head in shame.
“Just be done with it already," Celebrimbor grunted, eliciting only an amused huff from Annatar.
His eyes narrowed as the fire in them danced around their black slits. The smile had worn off, and he looked at Celebrimbor with a keen, impatient stare. He looked like a predator.
“Alright then. Enough with the small talk. Where are they?”
Celebrimbor took a deep breath. He knew what was coming: he knew Annatar would use every method imaginable to force the answers out of him.
But there was still defiance in him, and the shame that burned his cheeks only fueled his stubborn Noldor spirit.
He would not yield. He could not undo his mistakes, but he could still protect The Three.
He lifted his chin proudly and looked into the flaming pits of malice.
“They," he paused, "will never be yours," he added, his voice quiet but firm.
Annatar gave him a cold smile that did not reach his eyes. He stretched out his fingers and looked at the ring, blood glimmering, hiding parts of the finely etched letters.
“We shall see.”
VI. The Death
S.A. 1697
the last rite of souls on fire
three little words and a question: why?
The night was deepening, and the only light that reached the dark, cold room came from the flames devouring the city somewhere below, casting eerie shadows upon the cold, unforgiving walls. Gone was the comforting embrace of the forge's heat, replaced by a biting chill that seemed to seep into the very soul.
Annatar wiped his bloodied hand on his cloak and looked at Celebrimbor’s barely conscious being. He could not take much more - his fëa was already flickering and dimming, trying to escape his broken body. He had to come up with something, or Celebrimbor would slip out of his reach for good.
He stepped closer and took his face in his hands, gently this time.
He stroked Celebrimbor’s cheek softly, letting his fingers trace his cheekbones down to his chin and lips, then back up to glide over his closed eyelids.
As his hands traversed the broken skin, wounds closed slowly, like cracks in a dry, parched land after the rain. He rarely healed things, and seeing Celebrimbor’s skin knit together reminded him of a memory far away, of times of light. It felt strange and foreign.
He leaned in to press a soft kiss on his forehead like he had done so many years before.
“Come back to me, Tyelpë, to us. It doesn’t have to end like this.”
At first, Celebrimbor did not seem to react. He leaned into Annatar’s touch, and for a second he thought the elf was giving in at last, but when he opened his eyes, they burned with wrath that made Annatar blink in surprise.
“What us? There is nothing to return to," Celebrimbor spat with blood in his mouth. “There never was.”
Annatar hissed like a snake, drew his hand back, and struck him. The blow was hard and uncalculated, and it struck Celebrimbor’s head with all its Maiar force. And then, just like that, it was over.
Annatar stood still for a while, his eyes wide and shocked for a fraction of a second. Then he grabbed the elf’s lifeless body by the shoulders and shook him.
“No!” he whispered in disbelief.
No response.
“Come back!” he snarled, desperately looking for any signs of life in the pale, sunken face, but it was lifeless and already turning cold.
“I am not done with you!” he cursed, trying to draw power from his ring, but it had not been designed for such feats.
No response.
The last rays of his bright fëa had been swept away from his grasp.
It was over.
He had left him.
VII. The Harvest
S.A. 1697
a plea for mercy
when love is a gun separating me from you
Annatar let his hands fall from Celebrimbor’s shoulders. He stayed still for a while, holding on to his rage, refusing to let grief take its place. His breath came in rapid, shallow gasps, and his fists were clenched.
He would not let him go this easily. Telperinquar was his and would always be.
Slowly he stood up and turned away from the body.
With a quick snap of fingers, orcs stormed the room, their eyes glinting with bloodlust and fear of their master, whose eyes burned with a terrifying fit of anger and vengeance.
“Shoot him dead," he ordered bluntly.
It would be unnecessary, of course, but obediently the archer lifted his bow and shot one, two, three arrows. The orcs in the room cheered and laughed, stomped their feet, and cursed the elves and their fancy armor, now beaten down and bathed in blood.
Annatar stood still with his back turned to the body that was slowly bleeding dry through the arrow wounds. His anger was changing form - the fast, blinding, impulsive rage was melting into a throbbing pain of betrayal.
There had been a time when he had loved Celebrimbor so much, more than life itself, yet now all he felt was bitter hatred.
He hated him.
He hated everything he represented - the Elves, the Men, the Valar - the opposition. The cowardice.
The way he had turned his back on him.
But that was no longer his decision to make. Annatar would hold onto him until his hröa crumbled into nothingness - Celebrimbor was his, at last. And he would make sure the elves knew.
Suddenly the voices quieted down and the orcs turned their heads to the door. A captain entered.
"My lord, the elven scum from Lindon are approaching."
Annatar looked down at his ring. It was glowing brightly, impatiently, hungry for more. He glanced at Celebrimbor’s body, and the fury of his betrayal took over.
“Bring his body down. He shall march as one of us.”
the funeral of hearts
and an ode for cruelty