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Celebrimbor knew the folly of pride. What Noldor did not hear the warning of their histories past and believe, in the very depths of their bones, that they would be different? He had spent an age avoiding the worst of the pitfalls in his path, and even as he garnered acclaim and satisfaction with his work, pride was a dangerous line he had never quite crossed over. No, Celebrimbor knew his limits and his capacity, and he knew them well. What was the difference between knowledge and certainty, between humility and pride? Where was this line that had somehow foretold a thousand dooms?
There were elven smiths before him. There would more than likely be elven smiths after him as well, but there were no great elven smiths before him, and any great elven smiths after him would be compared to his likeness. Certainty was not pride, because he was old enough to know the way of the world, and he knew how the day turned to night; Celebrimbor knew how hearts beat, how minds worked, and he knew the path history carved well. Certainty was not pride, and yet he knew how he would be remembered.
His weakness was, as it had always been, his work. Power did not appeal to him, and he had no desire to lead in anything but innovation. However, there were many ways to view the facets of innovation, like a gleaming jewel in the light, and innovation has always stood alone. Even after his years of working, Celebrimbor never found the true limit to his potential, and it gnawed at him incessantly, the true answer to the question of what he could do.
Annatar posed a challenge. Annatar posed the opportunity to not only meet his potential, not only finding it and grasping it true but growing upon what Celebrimbor had already made. Creation begot creation, after all, and all potential should be limitless, in theory. Making the three rings was not the end of his potential but the beginning of the newest depths of his ability.
That was the thing about creation. There was always more to be done. His work had held his attention for years, and he had never so much as glanced from it, but now, to have someone working beside him, to have someone working in tandem with him, he found himself looking up and seeing golden light.
Beautiful, illuminating, blinding light.
Others had always said that his work consumed him, but Celebrimbor knew that wasn’t true. He consumed his work, not the other way around. He had always been in control of himself, pointedly precise and exacting in everything he did. Smithing required much of the body but even more of the mind, and his mind had to be the sharpest blade he could possibly wield, his truest and most reliable weapon. Certainty was not pride, but he had never expected his mind to be countered by a sharper blade, either.
Would it even be pride if he had always been right before? Or was it expectation, cause and effect, simply playing out?
Regardless. Annatar, sent by Aulë, the Valar of smiths, was certainly a sign. Celebrimbor had never wavered in his path before, and he certainly wouldn’t now, with an emissary of the Valar looking over his shoulder and guiding his hand, filling his mind with ideas and his heart with passion. Creativity demanded passion, demanded fervor, and without it, could anything be created?
“I would make a request of you, if you would hear it,” Annatar, the giver of gifts, said. Celebrimbor nodded, and he put his hands behind his back. Annatar smiled benevolently at him. “There is power to be made, to be crafted, and I would have you be the one to make it. With me.”
Celebrimbor nodded slowly, the request washing warmth over him. “I will lend whatever aid I can, of course, to the Valar,” he said.
“Good.” Annatar’s smile widened. “Because I believe we can achieve great things together, Celebrimbor.”
Celebrimbor could not stop his chest from puffing out with pride, even as he humbly inclined his head. “I think we already have,” he said, but the cogs of his mind immediately rushed to turn as he conjured plans and schematics and theories.
Later, when they were bent over the work tables taking jabs at those plans and schematics and theories, Celebrimbor would not wonder how Annatar’s hand was not obtrusive or in the way and would instead marvel at how well Annatar worked in time with him, finishing his thoughts as he spoke or giving him kindling to spark. Celebrimbor would not wonder at how Annatar fit so seamlessly into his work rhythm, and he would not think twice about their easy companionship beyond to appreciate it. He would not question why the Valar, why Annatar, had chosen him, either. He was certain there could be no better elf, man, or dwarf who could complete their task.
And certainty, after all, was not pride.
Working with Annatar was so much more than working alone. It was not that he did not have his own smith’s aides to assist him in his work, or that he had not worked with other smiths before to make great things, but something was different this time around. The song that pulsed life through Celebrimbor’s chest seemed to grow under Annatar’s conduction and in time with his own symphony, and Celebrimbor found himself more awake, more alert, more alive, while working with him.
Partnerships were always unique. The best partnerships not only brought the best work in each individual but coaxed them to even greater heights than they could meet alone. Celebrimbor knew this, in theory. There were always the practical reasons for partnerships, and yet, this was different. This was not mere practicality but a union, challenging him to bring more to the table, to be and become more, and Celebrimbor was eager to find the newly-set limits of this collaboration.
Challenge set and promise made, the rings of power would be unlike anything before or anything to ever be, and he knew that solely because it was the two of them at the helm. That it was their hands, together and working in unison, to craft these treasures, and he also knew that, if Annatar had gone to any other smith, the rings would not turn out as they needed to. Not even close.
“You’ve never married,” Annatar said one afternoon. Not a question, not a statement, more observation than anything, but Celebrimbor felt the emissary’s curiosity tap-tap-tapping on the borders of his personhood.
Celebrimbor nodded, still looking through the lenses of glass at the jewels before him. “Indeed,” he decided on finally. “I have been described as being married to my work.” He chuckled, shaking his head and blinking his eyes to allow them a brief rest before resuming his work. Still, a question lurked beneath his skin, and he found himself asking, “Do you have a wife?”
Annatar laughed, the sound warm. “No, no wife,” he said. Celebrimbor nodded, and he studied the gem for the slightest imperfection. “The fair sex is lovely, but I have never been persuaded by them before.” Another brief chuckle, and Celebrimbor could see Annatar smiling coyly in his mind’s eye.
“A husband, then?”
“No, no husband, either.” Annatar’s kind, sly voice stoked the fire inside his belly, heating his skin and making his flesh flush for reasons beyond the heat of the forge. “I have similarly been too long devoted to my work to cultivate such a relationship.”
Celebrimbor nodded in understanding. He did not know if Annatar was watching him, but he got the feeling that Annatar was aware of his every movement nonetheless. “It is good work,” he said honestly. “I understand your devotion to it.”
“It is a devotion we share,” Annatar said, and Celebrimbor swallowed thickly. His hands remained steady, but he put the jewel down nonetheless and looked up across the workroom to find Annatar looking at him, who then spared him a smile. “It is good work.”
His throat thickened, and he could only stare at his companion before nodding. “It is indeed,” he managed.
Annatar inclined his head. Celebrimbor’s blood rushed beneath his lovely cornflower gaze, and still, Annatar did not look away.
Celebrimbor had been wanted before. Oh, how many elves had approached him, time and time again, hoping to one day be the prince or princess to his realm? How many elves had he gently rejected, time and time again, citing his attention being on his work and how he would always fail them as a spouse? Of course he had been wanted before, for his skill, for his position, for his beauty, but it had been a time since he had been wanted for the entirety of his being, for more than the merest sum of his parts. It had been an age since he had wanted someone else, however, and the prickle of heat, the fluttering in his belly, the skipping of his heart, it was all so unfamiliar now.
He had not engaged in the pursuit of romance before, and Celebrimbor knew many things, but he was not versed in this. He could understand that the way Annatar looked at him was not the way the emissary looked at others, and he could even understand that everything he felt was singularly unique to his fellow smith, but each step made toward Annatar was unsteady, tentative. Annatar’s arms were open to him, Celebrimbor knew, if he could only bring himself to step out and reach him.
Annatar’s arms were opened, but it was Celebrimbor who took the first step into his welcoming embrace. It was Celebrimbor who pressed the Lord of Gifts up against their work bench and kissed him, no, claimed his mouth first. It was Celebrimbor who pushed and pressed at every step, who drove them further and further, deeper and deeper. Annatar had provided plentiful fuel, but it was Celebrimbor who had finally struck the match.
That was to say, of course, that it was his fault.
Annatar kissed each of his knuckles one by one, not meeting his eyes as his sly mouth covered his calloused hands. They were wrapped up in bed, limbs and sheets askew, and yet Annatar clung to him like moss to stone. Celebrimbor looked at Annatar’s lovely features, at the sharp contours of his face and the delicate points of his ears and the bright blue of his eyes, and still, Annatar remained focused on his task. Each kiss upon his hand was slow and reverential, sending warmth through his belly that reverberated through his limbs, and Celebrimbor could not help but wonder how he had gotten so lucky.
“My lord?” Annatar murmured, still not looking up at him as he lavished his skin with love. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” Celebrimbor assured him, and he cupped his cheek. “Nothing whatsoever.”
Annatar’s mouth curved up, and he kissed Celebrimbor’s hand one last time before finally kissing his mouth. Celebrimbor’s heart still skipped a beat, and he set his hands on Annatar’s hips, pulling the other smith onto him and deepening their kiss in the same fluid motion. Annatar’s hair spilled like water over both of them, long and silvery and beautiful, but Celebrimbor did not admire his locks for long, closing his eyes and instead reveling in the sensation of lips moving against lips.
I could stay forever like this he thought.
There was more than mere method to creation. There was more to make than the solely physical, and he knew that now, had been taught and had learned that under Annatar’s tutelage and twin, guiding hand. Celebrimbor could craft a dozen, a hundred, a thousand rings of power, and they would all pale to what he had created with Annatar, to what they had created together. What they would continue to create, and to the trove that they would continue to fill together.
Eternity had never seemed so full of promise, he was certain.
Celebrimbor was often said to be married to his work. Perhaps that was true.
“Give me the nine.”
Perhaps he could even be accused of loving his work more than his fellow kin, of loving creation and craft more than those he made it for, but his work had always been out of love. He loved crafting and creation in and of itself, and he loved the world from which it came. The mountains from which metal was borne, the flames that allowed for his work, the finalizing flow of water, he loved Arda. He loved Arda, and he would not see to its destruction. He would not let his misplaced trust be the end for all that he had created, for all that could be created.
“Celebrimbor-”
His voice was deeper and rougher now, less elven and musical, but it was still his. Still distinctly the Annatar he loved, but more now, too. No less Annatar, no less than he had been, but more now, like a jewel being turned so that all its facets could be observed at once. Celebrimbor closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to savor his voice, to savor sensation without pain, and when he opened his eyes, he was no longer staring at Annatar. No, he found himself gazing upon Sauron.
“-give me the nine.”
There was both the plea and the promise of pain in his words, and yet, Celebrimbor did not allow himself to waver in his conviction. That would come later, he knew, but for now, his spine would stand proud. He shook his head. “No,” he said simply, for that was all there was to say.
Grief and fury struck that familiar face, and Sauron strode forward. “Tell me,” he growled, hand grasping around his throat and pushing him up against the workroom. “Tell me where you sent the rings.”
He shook his head, and Sauron’s thumb rubbed over the curve of his jaw, even as his grip tightened. Celebrimbor gasped for breath, and he tried in vain to pull at Sauron’s hand, but the fallen Maia did not waver. His lovely blue eyes burned away to burning irises, and Celebrimbor felt a part of his heart die as the jewel turned completely and Annatar vanished.