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“I must confess I am impressed with all you have done here.”
Annatar dares not move. His posture has remained militantly rigid since the sun first cast its fair shine upon the walls earlier that week, heralding in an equally bright traveller. Since he had first bowed in greeting to welcome their visitor at the gates, eyes averted. This feeling, this tenseness, lingers in each motion he makes. It seizes his body just as much as it seizes his mind, gripping them both in strained terror.
He is aware of it.
He cannot shake it.
“You flatter me,” Annatar murmurs softly. His lips feel chapped, yet despite the comfort of the veil covering his face he still hesitates to run his tongue over them to at least temporarily relieve the dryness. He does not particularly enjoy being seen, and the careful eyes of their visitor seem to take in everything.
“I speak only the truth,” Celebrimbor replies easily, readily, as if compliments can be so freely given without expectation of anything in return.
His ilk always expects something in turn.
“It is hardly the work of my own hands alone,” Annatar deflects immediately, shifting his weight ever so slightly away from Celebrimbor. He disguises the motion by toeing forward, closer to the wall. His hands brush over the stone, cool and calming beneath his fingertips. The tremor that infects his hands is from an Age and life now long past, but the current anxiety does not help his hands shake less. No amount of thought can steady his hands now. As his gaze slips from his own hands to the people below, the trembling only worsens. “Your words should be directed to them. Not myself.” Beautiful elves mill about in the streets, joyous and happy and bright.
Annatar is not like them. Annatar is not bright. Not anymore.
Celebrimbor is not like them either. If the elves below are bright like stars, then he is blazing like the sun.
Annatar is familiar enough with his kind. This form he wears, this skin can barely hold back the beast beneath. And a beast does lurk beneath-some kind of horrid monster, unknown and terrible and ancient. Celebrimbor may wear the skin of an elf, but it is nothing more than a lie.
At least Morgoth never bothered with the charade.
Annatar shivers.
“I think you underestimate your own strength,” Celebrimbor encourages thoughtfully. He too steps forward and Annatar bristles at the way Celebrimbor all but chases after him. He has breached Annatar’s personal space once more, and it makes his skin itch to have one of the Ainur so close to him again. “Not many could have accomplished so much in such a short span of time. Not with the world we left you with.”
Celebrimbor lifts a hand to rest it upon the wall beside him, fingers resting only a breath away from Annatar’s own. The motion shifts the glittering fabrics Celebrimbor wears and Annatar catches a glimpse of the sheathed blade at his side.
He tries not to dwell on it, standing straight and tall and tense.
His tremor worsens regardless.
“Peace is well worth the work,” Annatar whispers, clasping his own hands together in front of him rather than allow his own body to betray his mind. The motion further allows him move his hand away from Celebrimbor’s to a place marginally more safe. He is desperate for more space, despite Celebrimbor’s seeming obliviousness. “For all of us.”
“I agree.” Celebrimbor drums his fingers upon the stone. As with all of his motions there is a sort of bold, unwary undercurrent to the way he taps out some tune only he can hear.
Mairon cannot help but wonder what it must be like. To be so careless, so powerful that you could afford to be careless. He does not even bother to look towards Annatar, instead directing his gaze downwards, taking in the sights of the city below.
Morgoth had moved with that same air of freedom, rolling and rumbling and roaming through his halls. His halls, for it was obvious who the master of such a place was. No movement could betray whatever cruel thoughts stained his mind. No motion indicated what the next would be.
Celebrimbor moves much in the same way now, gliding confidently through the streets, careless and affable as if vying for mastery of what is Annatar’s realm.
And Annatar-
Well, Annatar has no reason to be wary of the Ainur.
“So where will you go next?” Annatar asks softly when Celebrimbor offers nothing else.
“Wish to be rid of me already, then?” Celebrimbor counters with a laugh, gaze not only settling back upon Annatar but raking over him, as if he can see what is hidden beneath the veil, under the robes, the true nature of his injuries.
He cannot.
If he could, he would have slain him on sight.
“Of course not,” Annatar murmurs with the smallest shake of his head. Yes. “I am only curious where your wanderings will lead you. Ost-in-Edhil is hardly the first realm you have visited, and I doubt it would be the last.”
He is thankful, at least, for the good relations he has managed to build with the other elven realms. Galadriel had warned him of Celebrimbor’s arrival a week prior and it had granted Annatar the space to brace himself for old wounds to be sliced open once more. Though, warning was probably not Galadriel’s intention when she had sent the missive. Celebrimbor had apparently made good impressions upon all that he visited and she had encouraged his full cooperation in Celebrimbor’s mission to rebuild.
Ha.
Mairon did not survive Morgoth so that Annatar would roll over and die like a dog.
“In truth, I had planned to linger here for a while longer,” Celebrimbor replies and Annatar’s brain stalls.
“What?”
Celebrimbor turns more, fully facing away from those below. He leans back against the stone wall, confident and secure even though one good shove might send him careening down.
It is a shame there are no spikes at the bottom. Annatar would have risked pushing him if there were. He stands there instead, rooted to the ground, shivering slightly as Celebrimbor looks him over appeasingly once more.
A moment passes, then Celebrimbor tilts his head to one side, bouncing his head ever so slightly as he does so in an almost playful way.
“You are a very curious elf, Annatar,” he says and-
“You are a very curious elf, Mairon,” Morgoth coos, dragging a single nail down his chest, leaving a trail of blood in its wake.
“My apologies,” Annatar breathes past the memory, scrambling to bow his head before he even realizes what he is doing, “I meant no offense-“
“No, no,” Celebrimbor laughs, laughs at him, waving a hand in a clear dismissal. Annatar jerks himself out of the bow as quick as he can, stiff and rigid, and if Celebrimbor notices him reeling he does not comment. “I only meant in the time I have spent here with you, you have never asked why. I have found in other realms they do not even permit me to pass through their gates without explanation for why I have come. I had expected a similar hesitancy here.” Celebrimbor closes his eyes for a moment, tilting his head upwards towards the sun as if basking in its glow. “It is… nice.”
Annatar does not remember the last time he allowed sunlight to caress the bare skin of his face. He never dares to remove his veil in public, or where one might catch a glimpse of what lies beneath.
“It merely seems…” Annatar trails off, struggling to find the right word to use. He is thankful that the veil masks his expression, hides the way his face contorts as he struggles not to offend further, “inappropriate to question the will of the Valar.”
A thought that apparently none of the other realms shared, nor saw fit to warn him about.
The gratitude he had felt towards Galadriel vanishes and her warning, replaced with a more familiar annoyance.
Celebrimbor grants him a look of pity in turn. “We are not without flaw, Annatar,” he chides softly, as if Annatar is some naive fool for trusting him.
As if Annatar trusts him at all.
“And still,” Annatar insists back, lips pressing together into a frown that Celebrimbor cannot see. It is the only reason he feels comfortable doing so.
“Some would take advantage of your charity,” Celebrimbor warns and Annatar chokes back a scoff.
He knows more than anyone the dangers of trusting the Ainur. Of trusting the Valar.
No. He does not trust Celebrimbor. His words are just as much of a charade as Celebrimbor’s skin is. They are doing nothing more than exchanging lies between them. Celebrimbor pretends that he is harmless, reduces himself down to walk amongst them in a form that would not cause panic. He acts as some emissary acting on behalf of the Valar to allegedly help the elves rebuild, to lift them up, to help them recover.
Annatar’s gaze dips ever so slightly to the sword at Celebrimbor’s side.
No.
It is a lie.
Celebrimbor is clearly not here for reparations or peace. He is not here to help the elves at all, at least not directly. There is only one reason the Ainur would send one of their own back to this land after all they had done. There is only one reason a Maia would leave the comforts of their own paradise to walk amongst those lesser. There is only one reason they would lend a hand to those inferior.
“Would Celebrimbor?” Annatar asks, feigning innocence once more. It is not as if he can fault Celebrimbor for his lies. That would mark him as a hypocrite. His entire being is wrapped in untruths, perhaps even more so than the creature that stands before him.
They are, both of them, liars.
“No. I would not.“ Celebrimbor sighs as if it is some great admission. More likely, it is just another lie. Annatar inclines his head slightly, watching as Celebrimbor pushes away from the wall, once more coming to stand before him. “In either case, I do intend to linger within your realm, if you would have me.”
Annatar grimaces, yet raises his right hand to rest the palm over his right breast. He leans forward again, slipping not quite into a bow but into a position of some kind of deference of gratitude. He does not lower his head, refusing to avert his gaze towards Celebrimbor’s feet, but rather staring up at him through the veil.
After all, Annatar has no reason to be wary of Celebrimbor.
Annatar is merely the Lord of Eregion. An elf, and just as loyal and charitable to the Valar as any other within his realm. For what reason would he turn him away?
“We would be delighted for the opportunity.”
Beneath his palm, sandwiched between the many layers of dense fabric and his heart, the brand of Morgoth throbs against his skin.