Chapter Text
After being carried like a cumbersome parcel from a fortress to another fortress, never knowing where he was, Celebrimbor is left alone for years. He lives; Sauron is victorious, he can show some mercy. Celebrimbor has been healed and repaired almost perfectly, except for his hands. They will, he fears, remain ruined forever; a fitting punishment, his torturer told him once, for an unforgivable betrayal. They are deformed and often painful, but for the rest of his body, everything is back just as it should be. Sauron has been thorough in his work.
He has been left alone but given a room next to a small unused library, and anything he will require is brought to him. Human servants bring meals, clean elegant clothes, jewels he seldom wears -what’s the point? The door of the room is not locked, he can go outside but for the first years he barely leaves his bed, guilt stricken, sick with himself. Sick with the grief of having lost everything he cared about. His city – burnt to the ground; his friends – dead and lost; his skills -forever gone, not to mention his pride and what honour he had. He has been haunted with the memories of what he went through. The torture, the humiliation, the betrayal, the shame have come back every day, every night to mess with his mind. He has cried and screamed and broken things, and yelled until he had no tears and no voice left. He has lain on the bed, breathless with sorrow and self-hatred. He has thought of dying but this is no longer possible because the Dark Lord, commander of werewolves, vampires and all the monsters he himself created long ago, has forced his sorcery upon him and disallowed him to die. For years he has barely breathed, barely spoken, a dark-haired, pale-skinned, tragic beauty, a brooding figure no-one disturbs, not even the once-named Dark Lord, now called Divine Ruler of Men, the unstoppable conqueror, the High King of Middle Earth, a god among men, a wolf among sheep, a beauty so striking that the awe he inspires is tainted with terror.
For fifty years or more (Celebrimbor will understand later it was closer to a century), said High King has ignored him and the elf does not know if it is out of indifference, spite or anger. He knows him for what he is, someone to whom time means nothing at all, someone who can wait and wait and wait until he thinks the moment has come. Every day, Celebrimbor expects him to visit. For a while, the prospect terrifies him, making him grind his teeth and shy away from the door, take shelter in the darkness of the library, shivering with fear, sick to the pit of his stomach, memories flooding him – the torture, the blood, the excruciating pain, the cruelty, the false tenderness, the vicious endearments and the softly spoken threats, the deceptive moments of relapse between the sessions of torture, the helplessness. The final defeat.
After a few years, it becomes clear that the former Dark Lord won’t resume his attacks, and Celebrimbor dares hope again that he is maybe allowed to resume some sort of life. The ancient fortress is now a city. Diplomats, ambassadors, craftsmen, shop owners, live here. Space has been added to manage this new wave of men, women and children. Human families, human servants, human soldiers, human advisors and, more disturbing, orcs, who dare now show themselves as civilians and assume jobs that do not pertain to violence. A city entirely devoted to the High King, the divine ruler whose authority weighs heavy on the major part of Middle Earth. Sometimes Celebrimbor walks down the stairs, leaving his shelter. At first he doesn’t go very far: every step reminds him of pain, every corridor holds hidden darkness and fear, every hall echoes with screams of terror. It is in his brain only of course but he cannot make himself move any further. After some attempts, he eventually reaches the heart of the city where people live as if this cursed fortress was home to them. He hears them speak languages he barely understands. He hears them laugh, and yell at each other, he sees them hug, and fight; small children run around, hand in hand. Among the crowd he looks for a familiar face, elf, or dwarf, but there is none. Only humans with their unsettling diversity, and orcs sometimes. Celebrimbor looks, hidden in the shadows, and when he goes back to his room where candles burn softly, he is exhausted. Never does he get a glimpse of the Dark Lord, nor does he cross path with anyone he once met. Celebrimbor thinks he might have become invisible; a ghost. He thinks the Dark Lord has forgotten him. He is the past, and Sauron is only interested in the future.
One day, though, he makes an unexpected appearance in Celebrimbor room. He’s wearing black robes, with remarkably few jewellery adorning him. His hair a red-dark gold, is braided tightly. Only his eyes shine too bright for being those of an incarnate. He is a sight of fierce beauty. A monster.
“Well met, Tyelperinquar,” he says, taking a look around, examining the room with obvious displeasure.
Celebrimbor only nods. Not talking to anyone for so long will take your voice away. Or maybe he’s nervous; maybe he’s terrified. Maybe he has forgotten what it is to be near Him, after so long. Or maybe he remembers too well. This dazzling creature is, at heart, a monster.
“Let’s sit down,”
Celebrimbor obeys, head swimming, heart beating much too fast for comfort.
“This place doesn’t befit you,” the monster says. “I would like you to move upstairs. There is a place that should be more agreeable, adjacent to my rooms. You have been lonely long enough. And bored, I should guess.”
Celebrimbor stares at him, wary, assessing the offer. Why now? What does it entail? What is the hidden purpose behind the words? He glares and the monster chuckles softly. “Don’t give me that look, Tyelperinquar. It’s unsettling.”
Celebrimbor rises a questioning eyebrow.
“So” he has to clear his throat to find his voice again. “You can still be unsettled. The Divine Lord of Men"
"You always held that power. Didn’t you know? Daring me, pulling me, resisting me, defying me…"
" I do not remember things the same way. I remember being stupidly besotted with someone who did not even exist. Someone who played games, lied and betrayed me. Not mentioning the torture.“
The monster rests his chin on his fist, his expression bland.
“Shall I show you your new place?” he asks eventually.
Why not? Celebrimbor thinks. And how would a refusal be met? He shrugs and the monster rises. “I wish you would use another word than Monster when referring to me, even if it’s only in your mind."
" I find the word perfectly appropriate.” Celebrimbor says coldly. But when the monster – well, Sauron… Annatar (no, he cannot stand calling his that now) grabs his arms in a bruising grip, he doesn’t pull away. “Fine,” he says, shrugging again. “Give me a name I can use that is not Divine Leader or Almighty ruler.”
The Maïa of Morgoth seems to think as they walk up the stairs to the top of the fortress.
“I was called something once, when I was still a Maïa of Aule.
" And what was that?”
Sauron stops, hesitates. “That was Mairon; it is what Men call me sometimes. Tar-Mairon."
"The admirable.” Celebrimbor huffs in derision, then sobers and nods. “Mairon will do.”
When they reach the upper floor, Sauron -Mairon- opens a sculpted wooden door. Behind it is a room flooded with daylight, and just that could bring Celebrimbor to his knees. He’s been denied it for so long that the grim winter dusk looks like a miracle. High windows. Granite tiles and against the further wall, a huge bed.
“It is empty,” Celebrimbor says, very little inclined to show any sign of appreciation.
Mairon shrugs. He walks across the room,up the few steps leading to the bed and sits on it, looking around.
“I thought you might enjoy all this. Choosing furniture, paintings. A desk at least. Shelves for books. Books. Whatever you want, I’ll provide."
“So we’re back to the Lord of gifts,” Celebrimbor says, crossing the room to sit on the lower step. The room is indeed very spacious, the offer is very tempting and Celebrimbor is very tired of being mostly a prisoner, and an idle one at that.
“Will you accept my offer?”
" What do you want of me?" Celebrimbor asks, trying to make sense of Mairon's words.
" I wasn’t going to ask for anything. Those times are long gone.”
Long gone. There’s no emotion of any sort in Mairon’s voice. It’s all over. Celebrimbor feels an unwelcome tinge of melancholy.
“Why are you here after so long?” He asks, suddenly weary.
Mairon smiles. “Did you miss me"
" I missed a lot of people but you were not one of them. Our last meetings didn’t go very well.”
It's only half a lie: he did miss Annatar, he will miss him for the rest of his life. But this... This is not Annatar. Celebrimbor watches as Mairon reflects on his words. His expression betrays nothing and it feels as if something has been lost to him. The part of himself that still felt – anger, pleasure, any emotion at all- seems to be gone. He is not Annatar, not even Sauron as Celebrimbor remembers him and although his shape is still elf-like (which is ironic for someone who hated elves so much) he looks completely alien. Even the fire in his eyes doesn’t burn so vividly.
“I left you alone so you could heal, somehow. Recover might be a better word. Besides, it took me a century to get over my anger. My rage was so potent that it felt almost like I could consume myself in it. Now is different. I can look at you… differently. I thought the time had come to give you a second chance." At what? Celebrimbor prefers not to know. But the knowledge that he was important surprises him. He sincerely thought that Mairon had forgotten him.
That was long ago. So many summers and winters, so many days and nights. Celebrimbor now lives in comfort, if not quite freedom. He is, officially, the Divine ruler’s friend. Not that it means anything because Mairon is away most of the time, waging wars, assuaging rebellions. Middle Earth is not quite his yet. The conquest proves more difficult that Mairon thought, victories less permanent, submission more uncertain. When he is here, though, he comes to Celebrimbor on the second or third day, a delay that leaves the elf some time to prepare, although any kind of preparation is futile. Mairon’s presence is always a shock and Celebrimbor cannot find the old familiarity, when this being of fire was Annatar, because he is no more or has never been. Every time, the elf is reminded that being Annatar, for Mairon, was a part he played. That very morning though, Mairon comes to his chambers as soon as he has changed into fresh robes and does not bother to knock on the door. Celebrimbor sees him hesitate for a couple of seconds before sitting on a sofa near the huge desk where piles of papers threaten to sink to the floor. His assessing gaze rests on Celebrimbor much too long for the elf’s comfort. After a moment, he says, sounding annoyed:
“Come here, Tyelpe. I shall braid your hair since you didn’t bother with it for a while, as I can see. What have been losing yourself into of late?"
" I have been writing my memoirs. You are playing quite a part in them.” Of course, no one will ever read them but Celebrimbor, at some point, felt that he had to write about a world that ceased to exist, as if he was afraid to lose it completely.
Mairon shrugs. "Writing must be painful," he says, pointing at Celebrimbor.
"Whose fault?" the elf says, and sits on a stool at Mairon's feet.
As far as intimacy goes, the braiding is all that Celebrimbor had conceded, and all that Mairon has asked for, pretending the moment is relaxing to him. It feels like the beginning of some new relationship between them. It is not an easy one, but at least it is one that is acceptable.
Mairon grabs Celebrimbor’s thick dark mane in his hands and sighs.
“This is a mess,” he says sternly.
“I am certain you will remedy to it.”
Mairon’s skill with hair, detangling, braiding, adorning it, has always been a surprise to Celebrimbor.
“I wonder where you learned all that,” he muses while Mairon draws the brush across the remaining knots with unexpected care.
“I used to braid Melkor’s hair when he took his favourite incarnate form. The process had to be swift and smooth. I was a fast learner. He liked it.”
Celebrimbor stays silent, stunned. Never has Mairon ushered Morgoth’s name in his presence. After a moment, he dares ask:
“Do you miss him?”
" I’m not discussing my Vala with you, Tyelpe."
"You just did. Besides, who else would you discuss your disreputable past with? There is no one left.”
The fingers in his hair tighten -it hurts but Celebrimbor keeps silent.
“You are right” Mairon says. “There is no one left. Did you know that the last ship to Aman left a long time ago? Taking the last of your kind to safety, I guess. Fearing I would attack them. Elrond. Your cousin Galadriel. Some others who are still young. You are the last elf on Middle Earth. Do you miss them?"
" I’m not discussing my loved ones with you."
"So we’ll keep our sorrows to ourselves, I guess.”
Celebrimbor sighs. He fights to banish the image Mairon’s words had conjured. Elrond. Galadriel. His fellow smiths. Narvi, his dear friend. They have been so dear to him. A dry sob shakes him and the hands in his hair stop moving for a couple of seconds before resuming their task. “You have beautiful hair, Tyelpe,” Mairon says “Thick and smooth.” He pulls the mirror so that Celebrimbor can see them both. “Beautiul. You truly are a sight to be seen.”
They do not talk further after that and soon Mairon has to go. A meeting with his generals, probably, to debrief whatever has been going on. But in the evening, he enters Celebrimbor’s rooms again, followed by a human servant carrying trays. Food for two in precious tableware. A gift from some vassal maybe.
They settle in front of the fire, as they have done so many time, in Ost-in-Edhil when Mairon was still Annatar.
“I shall leave soon,” Mairon says. “I have a council with Kings whose submission is… uncertain, despite their defeat. I sense some trepidation and I do not want another war so soon. My troops have suffered a lot lately. So I will go and make my best to negotiate. Show some benevolence.”
Celebrimbor stares at him.
“Negociate? And how will you do that? Benevolence is not your forte, to say the least."
"You are ungrateful, Tyelpe. Did I not show benevolence to you?"
The elf shrugs. “But that was me, and you had a lot to atone for. So… Men… Enemies…” He shakes his head.
“I shall not discuss what you just said, because we did already at length and we don’t quite agree."
" We do not agree at all.”
Mairon doesn’t take the bait. He never does, of late.
“Anyway. I can be patient. Patience is not the problem, and you know that very well. What I need is… a distraction. A way to make them see me differently.” He puts down the silver cutlery and the porcelain plate on the side and joins his hands, pensive.
“I was wondering if you would accept to accompany me."
"What?" Celebrimbor's heart skips a beat. 3What do you mean? Why would I…?"
"You are mostly a gentle soul, Tyelpe. Unlike me."
"I killed many of your orcs and men, during two of your wars. I would have killed you, given the chance."
"But it’s not what you are, really. You are not prone to violence. Stubborn, yes. Unyielding, yes. But still gentle. You were gentle when I came to you. To the point of being stupidly naïve and making it easy for me to ensnare you.”
Celebrimbor glares but Mairon only smiles knowingly.
“Come with me, and show them that I am not only surrounded with warriors and slayers. Show them that some of my… friends…"
"I am not your friend."
"You were once, before you betrayed me. That counts and they need not know, anyway. I need someone who makes me look more human."
" It’s impossible."
Mairon frowns, annoyed.
"Stop being so stubborn, Tyëlpe! I need someone to whom they can relate."
" Relate? I’m not human." Celebrimbor won't surrender so easily.
"Closer to human than I shall ever be. And I saw you with them, in Eregion. You liked them. You lived in Nargothrond and Finrod loved humans, there were a lot of them there.”
A fleeting memory of Finrod with his human friends, and the whole tragedy of it. Celebrimbor keeps silent for a while. He has not set foot out of the fortress for two centuries at least. Never been outside, never seen anyone else than the inhabitants of this disturbing place, humans, orcs and Mairon. Never felt the caress of the sun on his skin, the wind in his hair. The offer, again, is irresistible.
“Come see the new world.” Mairon has taken his hand, and presses his fingers lightly. Why resist? What more is there to maintain? What dignity? All has been lost long ago and those who cared are forever gone.
“I shall come,” he says eventually. At that Mairon rises, pulling him up in a warm embrace, their cheeks touching, and Celebrimbor fights not to surrender himself completely to the fire that burns, very deep, hidden, at the core of Mairon’s fëa.
“Tyelpe,” Mairon whispers against his ear. “You will like it.”
Celebrimbor hopes he will.
End of ch. 1