Archive of Our Own

By the time you finally begin to get results, you have scarcely left enough of him to salvage. Unfortunate. The Seven are not what you wanted, not worth the effort by far--if you had known that they were all you could expect from all this careful labor, you might not have gone to the trouble. And of course, it's a terrible waste. You had such plans for Celebrimbor, once you had helped him see your side of things--and you were going to do that quickly, with no more violence than necessary.

He's proven to be more interesting than you might have guessed. But in this case, of course, you didn't want him interesting. You wanted him compliant. You wanted him broken.

Standing before him now, it is difficult to apply any other word to the bloodied mass of flesh before you. Unconscious, for a time; you've allowed him that. Let it never be said that you are without mercy. His hair has been hacked into short, uneven tufts--you run your fingers through it almost absent-mindedly, lifting his head on his limp neck to inspect his face. Once he was handsome. You do remember that. But even the beauty of the Eldar is no match for your devices. Blood and bruises and broken bones have turned his face into something even a Man would cringe away from. No, this was not what you had planned. You had started out where it wouldn't show, and then worked your way up--his hands had come last. You valued them the most.

Now, most of the fingers are gone. Wasteful, wasteful. You have disappointed yourself.

"We did our best to wake him," the guard is telling you. "He's far gone, my lord."

"I understand. You've done well."

Celebrimbor is scarcely more conscious than you left him. It is the best your guards can do. You, on the other hand, have power, and you use it now. With a hand on Celebrimbor's cheek, you reach into his mind and yank, and with a shattered groan he comes back to you. His eyes rove the room, feverish, panicked, until they settle on you; that is when his expression becomes something different. Panic, after all, is borne from uncertainty. Celebrimbor already knows what you’ll do to him.

"I thought I would give you one last chance," you say, leaning down into his face. “You can still save yourself, Tyelpe. Or at the very least, your people.”

Celebrimbor does not dignify that with a response. Or perhaps you have not left him with enough teeth. Yet even through his pain and obvious fear, he manages a glare. How he has surprised you! The time you spent with him in Ost-in-Edhil was companionable enough, and it was a long time at that—but you thought that you knew him by now. You were so sure that you could break him quickly.

"Very well," you sigh. "I'll allow you this little victory, Tyelpe, as trivial as it may be. But know that in the end, you've done nothing to stop me. In the end, you've only guaranteed my success."

He raises his head. For a moment, something rises in your chest--you think he is about to speak. The bloody saliva he spits into your face does not infuriate you as he might hope, but you are disappointed, and if there was any doubt in your mind, now it is gone.

"Yes," you say. "I suppose you're right."

The dagger slides into him slowly, gently. He has grown so thin that you can take your time deciding which ribs to push it between. As it enters his heart, Celebrimbor gives only a faint, strained groan--his eyes are wide, the tendons standing out on his neck, as if dying is such a difficult thing to do. You watch him until you can sense his fëa has slid away, back to Mandos's quiet halls, leaving you to do all the work. One of the guards offers you a clean cloth as you jerk the dagger free. You wipe it down and slide it back into its sheath with a sigh.

"Leave that here a while," you say, gesturing to the corpse. "I have a use for it yet. Contact my lieutenants and have them meet me in the tent within the hour, we've already wasted enough time--"

You have just stepped out of the interrogation chamber when the first wave hits you. You have never felt illness, but have heard it described: a reeling, lightness in the head, a sudden inexplicable twisting deep inside your physical form. You have been wounded, multiple times, and that much you do understand. You find yourself leaning against a wall, your guardsmen closing ranks around you, and you dig through the fibers of your physical form in search of the wound, the poison. Nothing. You are unharmed. And yet--

It hits you again, stronger this time. Your vision goes dark, leaving you with your other senses; you are aware of the room, of the hands that reach out but are too afraid to touch.

"My lord, what is it? Should we call for... someone?" You almost laugh. What could the healers possibly do for one like you? The spell passes again, and you shake your head as if to clear it.

"I am well," you say. "It is nothing. A passing strangeness—"

That is when you feel every nerve in your body go dead. Seconds later, the rest of you is obliterated. What a foolish death, you think—

And then, you wake up.

Lights. Hundreds of them, staring at you like empty white eyes. You blink your own, in case there is some mistake—but your other senses tell you what your physical body cannot. You are—here. And here is not where you were one moment ago. In fact, it feels more distant than you can yet understand.

You force yourself to remain calm. To inspect your surroundings with dispassionate eyes. You are alone, on a balcony, outside of a private apartment. Your apartment, you realize. This place is familiar because you have been here before, more times than it would be feasible to count. You are still in Ost-in-Edhil, but compared to the burnt-out husk that you left behind, this city is unrecognizable. This city is still alive.

A trick. It must be. And yet the stone banister beneath your hands is rough and vivid beneath your fingertips, and you are not one to succumb to any petty magical trick. Most compellingly, you remember this; and your memory is irreproachable. You had stood at this very balcony on your first night in the city, the night before you pled your case to the city’s leaders to secure your place among them. You had not met Celebrimbor, though you were aware of his presence. Your plans did not yet include him. That would quickly change.

All of that had already come to pass, centuries before. Something has happened to you. Something you cannot explain.

You are not afraid as you push yourself away from the balcony and stride back into your rooms. Everything is quiet, untouched—your small collection of travel gear remains neatly in the corner, still unpacked. There is scarcely any sign of your presence here at all, yet as the decades marched on it had become something close to home, a place of refuge. Until you burned it down, not so long ago. All of this should be gone, yet here it stands before you.

You pick up a delicately crafted vase. You remember it too, without any particular attachments. It cannot truly be here. Yet when you hurl it against the wall it shatters quite convincingly. The table follows it, ancient wood shattering into kindling. Nothing to suggest that all of this is not very, acutely real.

You stalk out of the door. Now you are angry, angrier than you can remember being in some time, because you do not understand. An attendant nearly collides with you in the hallway, drawn by all the noise you’re making. His eyes are wide, but it is not you he is afraid of—not the way that he should be. As if watching your actions from a distance, you find yourself taking him by the throat.

“Who is responsible for this?” you demand. “What spell? How was it done?”

Unfair of you to be asking questions without allowing any air to his lungs. You loosen your grip enough for him to gasp out a response—“My lord—? I don’t understand, please—“

It is then that you realize, belatedly and foolishly, that he does not know who you are. Of course he doesn’t. This is hundreds of years before whispers of your true self will reach these streets. This is happening to you, and you alone. To the rest of the city, the rest of the world, your past four centuries do not exist.

You cast the elf away with a noise of disgust, and continue down the hallway as you leave him choking. You remember the way easily enough. You have no real plan, no greater understanding; but this all began with one person, after all, one death, and you will follow it back to the source—

Celebrimbor answers his door quickly enough. He looks at you without recognition, merely a wary smile.

“Ah,” he says. “I take it you must be the Maia.”

You stare at him blankly. “You know me.”

“By reputation.”

“Do not lie.” Your voice comes out as a hiss. “This started with you. If I remember, then you must as well. Now tell me what it is you’ve done.”

Celebrimbor blinks at you, stupid, uncomprehending. You think back on how it felt to slide a knife between his ribs, the lost, desperate expression in his eyes. The dagger is in your hand, one you kept secreted beneath your robes for times such as these. This time, it happens before you are fully aware of what you are doing. Such lapses are sloppy, unacceptable, but in your defense, these are  extraordinary circumstances. Celebrimbor stumbles back, a hand fluttering to the gushing red where his high, smooth throat once was. He falls, and you follow him, crouching over him like a carrion bird to make sure that this time, he is truly dead. He stares at you without comprehension until his eyes stare at nothing at all. The blow was a deep one, nearly to the neck vertebrae. It accomplished what you needed it to.

And sure enough, it is mere seconds before you feel it again: the dizziness, the shifting of the floor beneath you as if the world is suddenly bending, growing thin. You allow yourself a momentary relief. Whatever spell you triggered, you have quickly picked it apart. Now, you will return to reality. To victory.

You close your eyes—

—and open them on the balcony once more.

That is when you begin to understand.

This time, you wait. Morning comes, the city shakes off the stillness of night, and you are summoned to present yourself before the Council in Ost-In-Edhil. You follow the guide they have sent you just as you did all those years ago, observing everything around you. You have seen the pale grey of these stones turned black with soot, red with blood. And here they stand, clean and strong and unbroken once more. Now that your confusion and rage have been banked into a low-burning fire, you can begin to appreciate how remarkable it is. If it is an illusion, some trick of the mind, its texture and flavor are impeccable. If it is real—if you are truly, actually here—then the implications are even more staggering.

You are careful. When you step before the Council at Ost-In-Edhil you notice already that there are certain small differences—a coldness in the faces of those before you, perhaps, that were not there before. Belatedly, you realize that the beatific expression you wore when winning their trust the first time has slipped; your face is drawn, tense, unlovely. Careless. But of course, you have much on your mind. And there, in the back of the room, leaning against a wall: you had not noticed him the first time, because you had not thought to look. You meet Celebrimbor’s eyes, and know this version of him has never seen you before. He blinks, seeing perhaps a glimpse of your true essence, the fire that burns at your core. When he looks away, his expression is unnerved.

The Council accepts you, though the mistrust in their eyes is darker than you remember, your words not so honeyed as before. When you approach Celebrimbor after a time, he listens to your words as if they are embers spat from a fire, ready to burn him. You spend most of your efforts trying to pick him and his fellow craftsmen apart, searching for the tether that keeps dragging you back to this city you thought you destroyed.

You find little of consequence, and alienate them as a result. No matter. You never needed their help. You work in secret, testing theories, trying to grasp how something as seemingly incorruptible as time itself could be bent back into a loop.

Nothing. No hint, no clue, no suggestion of what is happening to you or how to stop it. In the end, there is only one experiment left.

Killing Celebrimbor tells you nothing that you didn’t already know—only this time there is no betrayal in his eyes, and he dies hardly knowing you at all.

And then you’re back.

"It should be possible," Celebrimbor says from his place at his desk. "The forges in the West produced metals strong enough to withstand such forces. We may not have their sheer power, but with technique, with skill--" He falls to muttering again, forgetting, perhaps, that you are there. His hands move over the paper, writing equations, drawing diagrams. You find yourself counting his fingers. You vividly remember what it felt like to remove them.

You watch his movements carefully. The way he lifts his glass, drinks from it without tasting, yet sets it down so carefully among his papers without looking to see what he is doing. This timeline, you have devoted yourself to studying him. Could it all be an act, a careful persona designed to distract you from the truth? And what truth might that be? If Celebrimbor possessed the power to somehow drag you through time again and again, you would have felt it before stepping through the gates of his wretched city. And yet, he is the key. By now, you are reasonably sure that the only way it begins again is when Celebrimbor has breathed his last.

After a while longer, he sets the paper down again, your own handwriting a delicate spidering across the page. “These theories may be useful to us,” Celebrimbor says neutrally. He is lying. The work you have presented him with is about to become invaluable to him and the rest of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. You gave it to him now as a mere excuse to insinuate yourself into his presence once more. But he will not so easily give you the power of acknowledging that you have him in your debt.

“I noted your work on the various ways in which different materials respond to the effects of Song,” you say idly. “I thought this might tie into it well.”

Celebrimbor’s frown melts into an expression of faint surprise. You already know the conclusions his mind is leaping to. How boring it is! All you can do is follow your own footsteps, anticipating even that which had once managed to surprise you.

But perhaps you are simply not trying enough. More change, new variables—there you have it, a potential way through.

“I admit, that application hadn’t occurred to me,” he said slowly. “This… this would change everything.”

“Mm.” It will change everything, at least for a while. You cannot summon the interest in repeating prior successes. You have already questioned Celebrimbor and his associates as closely as you dare—you have had centuries to get to know them, and all that has changed is their lack of regard for you. Whoever or whatever is causing this spell, no one in Ost-in-Edhil knows what it is. The source is somewhere else. But the cause, the only working component you have been able to isolate, is sitting right before you with a thoughtful twist in his lips.

You realize it then—a solution.

But you have given too much knowledge too quickly, without the foundations of decades to build them upon. The accident is almost inevitable, in that way, and it levels half the forges. You can tell from the darkness that immediately creeps into your vision that Celebrimbor did not make it out. He dies. And you—you come back.

You do not try to stay. You leave that very night, taking your horse without a word or plan to return. You never needed them, after all—you can find another plan, one that does not require Celebrimbor’s cooperation.

That is what you tell yourself, at least. You throw yourself into your labors, exploiting all the knowledge you’ve gathered through two rounds of studying Ost-In-Edhil’s defenses. When you return, you order Celebrimbor to be taken alive. It happens much more quickly this time, and it’s almost strange, standing in the broken husk of the city you’ve conquered once before. It should feel as if a wrong has been righted, but you find yourself waiting to wake up. Stranger still, to see Celebrimbor dragged from the workshop where he and the other craftsmen made their last stand; the only one to make it out alive, despite his own best efforts. He looks into your eyes and does not recognize you—only recognizes what he thinks you to be.

You keep him alive. The world turns on as it is meant to, except that your campaign’s success ends with Eregion. You have struck a blow, yes, but you acted too hastily, too eager to test your theory; Gil-Galad and Elrond marshal against you, and your forces are overtaxed.

When you fail, when your armies are broken and battered back, when you scarcely manage to make it back to your own stronghold intact—that is when you realize the true nature of what has been done to you.

You go to Celebrimbor’s cell. It is simple, comfortable enough—he has a bed and room to stretch his legs, and you have ensured he will be fed as often as necessary to keep him hale.

When the door opens, he scrambles to his feet from where he was lying on the bed. How long has it been? By now, it must have been decades.  They show in the darkness around his eyes, the thinness of his shoulders beneath the clothes you have provided him.

“I thought that this was a curse,” you muse aloud. Celebrimbor says nothing—merely watches you, his body so tense you can feel it humming like a plucked string. “I am not often wrong.”

“What do you want from me?” Celebrimbor’s voice is hoarse from lack of use. You smile at him, kindly.

“A new beginning.”

You make it quick.

This time, you will do it right.

Your greetings are more honeyed this time. Those with any power in Ost-In-Edhil are suspicious still, but you soothe their fears with the ease of practice. You do not meet Celebrimbor’s gaze this time, though you are acutely aware of his presence. Whatever opinions he forms of you, they are his alone, for now.

Often you catch yourself wishing to return to your original timeline, when everything was going your way. Well—almost everything. You think of Celebrimbor, slumped in his chair, reduced to so much spoiled meat. This way will be better. Less wasteful.

It is difficult, waiting for Celebrimbor to approach you himself—it seems to take longer this time around, as if something has changed. Despite your efforts to carefully follow your own script, you quickly notice small details falling out of place. The breakthroughs you and Celebrimbor make are different, guided by your hand—yet somehow, his mind still manages to leap to interesting conclusions.

It all goes very well—you work with Celebrimbor closely, building great things together. And then you betray him, more skillfully this time, hiding even the existence of the One until it is too late for him, for all of them. Eregion falls with less bloodshed, and you are satisfied with the efficiency of your conquest. Celebrimbor is delivered safely into your keeping. You look at him fondly now, knowing that he is your ultimate weapon, your last resort, the key to achieving final victory. You can live through the same millennia again and again if in the end you can reach perfection. You are very old as it is. What is more time to you?

You do not count, however, on Celebrimbor Fading. Which he does, as all the kingdoms of his allies fall before you like wheat before the scythe. After all, it is the last defense he has, though he might not see it as such. You watch over the years as he grows thin, in body and spirit, almost translucent by the end. Such selfishness cannot be abided. You have only just hit the last of a dozen dead-ends with you research on how to reverse the process when you feel your reality begin to warp once more, and know his willful dying has finally reached its end.

You take a breath on the balcony in the city you already see as your own. You remind yourself, again and again, that you are patient.

“What causes one of your kind to Fade?”

You ask the question at last, after your efforts end in the same result, time and again. Your victory hangs before you, Middle Earth made as it should be, by your hand—you are so close, but you need more time, and Celebrimbor can’t seem to stop dying. Staring at him now, clad in his forge clothes with a sheen of sweat on his brow, it is not so difficult for you to believe how fragile he is beneath it. It’s a flaw of his nature, rather than his person. All his kind are built weak, bound into flesh as they are. You find yourself wishing he was better than that, wondering perhaps if you might find a way to make him stronger, harder.

Celebrimbor looks at you strangely, setting down his tools and wiping his face with the back of his glove. “That’s an odd question, Annatar.”

“Is it? The concept is unfamiliar to me. The idea of the spirit growing tired with its container.”

Celebrimbor smiles. In this continuity, you can still make him do that. “That’s not entirely an accurate description.”

“Then enlighten me. You do always seem to enjoy explaining things.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you’re calling me a know-it-all.”

“Am I wrong? Tell me about Fading.” You settle down with your back to a workbench behind you, arms crossed over your chest. You’re more aware of your physical form around Celebrimbor, the ways in which it expresses itself, the subtle pushes it allows. He seems aware of it too. Celebrimbor strips off his gloves, his work clearly finished in lieu of your question. He steps over to a bucket of water and splashes his face and neck, making you wait.

“It’s difficult to explain,” he says at last, straightening and wiping the water from his skin. “At least, it’s difficult to explain to a being that can’t immediately sympathize. Men, for example, are somewhat familiar with the concept.”

“And yet they cannot simply choose to die.”

“It isn’t a choice, as I understand it.” He toys with the hinge of the water bucket, his thoughts far away. “Sometimes, the burden of existing in the world is too heavy to bear. It can be avoided, perhaps, with small joys, with hope, especially—but in the face of too much evil, too much misery, too much pain, my kind will not endure.”

“That seems a rather large weakness.”

Celebrimbor looks at you sharply. “I don’t think so. It does not make us weak. I have seen my people endure things that should have destroyed them completely. They did not Fade, because they had a reason to remain. But when those reasons disappear…” He shrugs. “It is a mercy. A kindness.”

It isn’t the answer you want to hear. And for all the kindness and mercy you show him after his city falls, it is not long before you open your eyes on the balcony once again.

You realize that a change in tactics is required.

You cannot proceed without Celebrimbor. Yet when you capture him by force, he dies—as if he knows that his death will erase everything you've accomplished each time. Something must change. If you have all the time in the world, you plan on exploring every option.

So you bide your time. You throw your efforts into gaining Celebrimbor’s trust, as you have dozens (hundreds?) of times before. To your surprise, your devoted attentions only serve to push him further away. 'Annatar' has become too careful, too scripted; you allude to things that have happened in another timeline, your own infallible memory finally growing overcrowded. You have to reset the timeline three times before you discover the right combination of regard and reserve to draw him in. It’s a delicate balancing act, but you’ve had practice. All your praise you temper with criticism. All your closeness you modulate with distance. And Celebrimbor circles nearer and nearer, transfixed just as you intend him to be.

You never meant for him to fall in love with you. But you quickly realize that his mistake will prove very useful.

"Why here?" he asks you one night. The glass of wine in his hand has been filled and drained many times by now. You recall many such nights of comfortable companionship, though you inevitably remember more of them than this version of Celebrimbor does.

In answer to Celebrimbor's question, you raise an eyebrow. "Is there a better place you would have me take my talents?"

"To be fair, Ost-in-Edhil wasn't your first choice."

"But it has proven to be the best one." You can say that quite definitively. "If by 'here' you mean Middle Earth, the answer is simple: I wish to make the world a better place."

"That's what you told us when you first arrived. But I know you better, now." Celebrimbor smiles at you, the wine making his eyes drift slightly closed. "There's more to it, isn't there? Another reason you're here."

You pause, tilt your glass of wine in consideration. You decide to be slightly more honest "In truth, I don't fully understand what my purpose is here. Only that I must stay until I discover it. But whatever it is, it lies here—within your own city."

"Are you a second Melian, then, to wrap your spells around our lands and keep us safe within?"

"It wasn't spells or lands that captured Melian's interest, if my memory serves."

"No, I suppose not." Celebrimbor smiles awkwardly. "Thingol was lucky."

"Was he? The attentions of a Maia are not easy to bear."

"I don't find them so disagreeable."

"Well, I hardly swooped down on you in a fit of passion and held you spellbound for a few centuries, now did I?"

Celebrimbor laughs. "Not per se; but I’m not sure what else to call the time you’ve spent here, either."

"Shall we marry then, and complete the picture?"

The beat of silence between your lighthearted words and Celebrimbor’s stiff smile speaks volumes in a language you do not comprehend. But you realize something then, for the first time in centuries: Celebrimbor would not mind it so much if your relationship resembled Thingol and Melian's in more ways than one.

In retrospect, it should have been obvious. From that point on you see clearly what had been before your eyes all along; the way Celebrimbor's eyes linger on you even after you look away, the way his spirit reaches for you unconsciously, flame following tinder. This must not be the first time. You did not see it before because the possibility simply did not occur to you.

From then on the knowledge sits in the back of your mind for you to turn it over at odd hours, weighing the value of Celebrimbor's desires against what they can be used to buy. You note his feelings carefully now, experiencing a delighted self-ridicule at not having seen them before. You wait, biding your time, waiting for the proper path to reveal itself to you. You cannot help but feel that an essential piece of the puzzle has become clear, that the next and most important step has appeared directly before you.

As it is, you wait too long. By the time you have formulated a plan, the whispers of a Mannish power from beyond the shores have grown into an army at Ost-In-Edil's gates. You fight at Celebrimbor's side as the city burns, and for once it is not your armies that wield the torch. You turn your back for only an instant, it seems--and when you look back, a Numenorian captain has Celebrimbor spitted on the point of his sword.

You resolve not to wait so long.

After so long spent discovering the means of winning Celebrimbor's trust, you know better than to rush. Instead you simply act as you would have otherwise, watching more carefully for the signs you've come to expect. Only then do you subtly draw him closer, letting your eyes linger fondly on his, your hands seeking his touch even when it not necessary. The smallest details are enough to nurture vague affection into a deeper longing, like a seam slowly worked open, stitch by stitch.

You must admit, you’re enjoying yourself. It's a new challenge, difficult for the fact you have not attempted anything of its kind before; you always love tackling a new  project. And certainly he is fair, even among the Eldar; such topical details matter little to you, but the soul beneath his flesh is equally appealing, a thing you might like to possess.

It is not unheard of. Melian seemed to enjoy herself, enough to conceive a child. And yet the Eldar are so different from you, in form and in scope. You have seen the birth of the universe, and Celebrimbor—he is a child of the atoms you sung into being. And yet, you do not know him, cannot break him down to his parts and components the way you can with any other thing that you have had a hand in making. He is not your own. Not yet. He will be, soon enough, and you think you see a way.

At the very least, it is worth trying once. You have room to test every possible outcome.

You know more of the courtship of the Edain than the Eldar—they were much more likely to take partners while under your rule. But you do know Celebrimbor, and you know exactly how to bait the snare.

You are careful to ensure things happen in such a way to get you and Celebrimbor back into that same room, those same cups of wine in your hands, with Thingol and Melian on Celebrimbor’s mind once again. You take a seat beside him, this time, and refill his cup more generously. A thrill of excitement moves through you; so rare in these days you have re-treaded into a muddy rut. Finally, a chance at some real progress.

“Are you a second Melian, then?” Celebrimbor asks, and you smile at him over the edge of your cup.

“Would that make you Thingol?” you say, and Celebrimbor blinks and looks away.

“I don’t seem to recall marrying you,” he says with an ironic twist of his lips.

You allow yourself to inspect Celebrimbor frankly. “I admit, I used to wonder what Melian could have seen in a mortal. It seemed foolish for a Maia to bind herself to one of the Eldar. I didn’t understand what might have led her to do such a thing.” Celebrimbor quickly hides the pained, bitter expression that crosses his face at your words. It’s then you know that you almost have him. You reach out, and touch a strand of his hair that has fallen against his neck. He goes very still. “I think I see better, now.”

Celebrimbor looks at you sharply; you do not avert your gaze, or lower your hand. “It did not end well for Melian, in the end,” Celebrimbor says.

“But I am not Melian, and you are not Thingol. We can do better than they ever did.” As you speak, you let your hand trail from his hair to his neck, settling over the skin there. Even beneath such a delicate touch you can feel the wild lunges of his heart.

“What are you saying, Annatar?” he says hoarsely.

You are already leaning forward. His eyes are on your mouth. “Do you really not know?”

But he does, of course. For you have given him nothing, over all those recycled centuries, if not knowledge.

It is strange to discover there is more about Celebrimbor you have yet to unlock. That you have known him for century after century, and yet only now are you learning the way his lips fit to yours when you kiss him, the way his breaths come faster as you press close to his body. Strange to see his familiar face twisted in passion almost resembling pain. You had not suspected these bright flashes within him, these further depths to be plumbed. But Celebrimbor has always managed to surprise you.

If you had lied, when you said you understood Melian better—well, it is not a lie now.

From then on, the change in Celebrimbor is immediate. He throws himself into your work like never before, with you there to urge his progress on; he wants more than ever to impress you, and you do not have to feign admiration at the new heights he achieves. The rings you craft together are better, even, than you could have imagined alone.

You had always appreciated the value of Celebrimbor’s mind, but only as a useful tool, a well-balanced hammer; you see now he was always, somehow, more. What your Ring does through careful craft, magnifying your power and cycling it back into you, Celebrimbor does by his nature alone. His uses are not so clear to you now, and yet you value him more.

But you still craft the One, for the temptation of harnessing that newly-made power is too great to resist. You have learned by now to block all methods of escape from Ost-in-Edhil, so that the rings you seek have no means of slipping beyond your grasp. You expect the city to be well-prepared, but you find its defenses disorganized, lacking Celebrimbor’s characteristic guidance. When you break through the gates with the band of gold on your finger and fight your way to the forges, you are not fully certain what to expect—a pleasant change. Your satisfaction ends the moment the inner gates open, and Celebrimbor himself steps forward alone.

You sense the presence of the Three like an icy gust prickling over your physical form, raising the hairs on the back of your neck. This is power. The time and energy absent from Ost-in-Edhil’s defenses is present and bristling here. It seems Celebrimbor has neglected his city in order to channel his efforts into this, the most perfect form his designs have taken yet. You recognize the echoes of your own work in it, though it is clear that Celebrimbor has done his best to move away from them, out of pride perhaps, or something else—

There is so much more than betrayal in his eyes when you face him, something much deeper than fear and anger. You duel on the steps of his workshops as the city walls spit embers into the dark sky around you, and it feels as if the earth is tilting beneath your feet. You realize—as Celebrimbor’s sword dips beneath your own to scratch a white line down the metal of your breastplate—that you are, in fact, losing. That perhaps you have underestimated your enemy. That you have given him a greater weapon than you intended. It is not hatred you see in him now, but love, grown inwards on itself. 

It’s a different sort of Fading, you think. A burning-out rather than a wasting-away. He has abandoned his city, his safety, his self, in the effort of killing you. You are surprised to discover it is working.

He drives you back, blow after blow, the power of his Three and your One locking like the teeth of four mighty gears. If you had known you could drive him to this—that he was capable of this—

One misplaced movement, and your foot slides from the edge of a step and sends you falling to the ground. Celebrimbor is on you like a rabid warg, his sword striking towards you like a flash of lightning, and incredibly, impossibly, you are a fraction too slow.

You had meant to take him alive. You had thought—

It was meant to be easy—

The sword sticks out of you at an odd angle, pressed in deeper by Celebrimbor’s weight above it. Your own sword has not been idle. Celebrimbor has thrown himself upon it. His face hangs above your own, streaked with sweat and sticky hair, but it’s the eyes you can’t look away from, even as the pain in your chest blossoms into something red and ugly, even as you feel the One sucking at your energy when it tries to heal your wounds. His eyes bore into yours as if reaching for something. They do not close when he dies. Wetness lands on your face, warm and salty and nothing like the rain.

You wonder, for what feels like an eternity, whether he has killed you too. There’s a brief moment, with his sword in your ribcage and his body weighing down on yours, when you wonder whether it would be so terrible an end.

But of course, it’s no end at all. Not for you.

There's something so foolish in all of this. You should have won by now. You have every advantage. But the one thing you need to guarantee your ultimate success ends up lifeless every time. The rage becomes a thing that is no longer a part of you at all—a separate entity, a presence that eats up more of you with every passing cycle.

You stare up at the sky. "Is this your doing?" Your words feel hollow and pointless in the air. "Is this a test? A lesson? A punishment?"

The sky offers no comment. In the end you chalk it up to absence more than an intentional silence. Whatever this is, it does not smack of your creator's style.

You avoid satiating Tyelpe’s affections after that. It seems they make him too volatile, for all that they drive him onward. You look at him with a vague sense of unease from then on, remembering that he could become something you did not anticipate, something dangerous and cruel.

You consider your options: you think on the truth. It's a foolish move, and one you would scarcely have considered, but the years drag on and then drag you back again, and you are beginning to weary of their passing. Enough time has passed as it is. You are ready to have won.

So you continue. You do not take Celebrimbor to your bed this time, though you see the same hints of longing which you have now learned to identify. It is almost tempting. But this time, you want his mind clear. You remember the sword driven through your chest, and your hands do not stray even when you might like them to.

The first time he does not believe you. Of course he doesn't. He would rather believe you mad than think you the enemy he has been taught to revile. But you wish to show him otherwise. He is laboring under a delusion, the thought that somehow you are evil. If you could show him the truth--make him see you as you truly are, not as his fellows or his own mistaken understanding would paint you--then perhaps you can get somewhere.

But centuries of half-told tales and ingrained hatred cannot easily be undone. The first time you make him believe, he stops listening long before you can make him understand. You kill him, regretfully, an experiment stopped hallway to its completion.

You try again—this time, you take him to your bed once more. You push harder than ever, almost harder than you dare; you press into his heart like a barb. You tell him you love him first. He responds, tentative not with lack of feeling but instead with  the excess of it. You've learned what to expect from him as a lover, what places on his body to lavish your attention, what ways to have him gasping and helpless within your power. It is strange how you can have him so wholly as your own, as he moans and twitches above you and you curl your fingers into his hair. The soul is held captive by the body. You wait until you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is yours before you try again.

This time, you leave no room for doubt. You touch his mind directly; you make him see. For surely this is the best way, the simplest and the easiest, and once Celebrimbor is on your side you can finally start to get somewhere—

The mind is a delicate thing, and you are not a gentle creature. But still, you really thought he would recover, in time. You wait until it is clear that he is not coming back to himself, and then you wait a while longer. You sit beside his empty form, the knife in your hands, held idle.

You are tired. It has grown so difficult to kill him. But at times like these, what more is left to you?

It is not a surrender. You tell yourself that, as you settle into the same routine you have followed times infinity. This time, it is different. This time, you do not try to win. Instead, you let Annatar live.

It's an odd sensation, pretending even to yourself. You bury what you are beneath the illusion Celebrimbor sees; you allow no trace of it to surface, pruning your thoughts as carefully as you once shaped Celebrimbor's actions. You make yourself into the person he thinks you are. You make no plans of betrayal, of countering Numenor's intervention. You strip yourself of all familiar purpose, and you see what happens next.

What is it all for? You cannot help but ask the question, lying in bed at Celebrimbor's side with his even breathing beside you. You do not sleep, though you find it enjoyable to lie beside him as he does. You watch the smooth planes of his face, touch the fringes of his dreams. You are… no, not happy. Merely acting out the motions of it. Staring down at Celebrimbor's face, you find yourself wishing that the illusion were real. That you were Annatar, and no one else, and this could be enough.

It would be simpler that way. Neater. But you are coming to understand that Celebrimbor and your own victory are not compatible. That perhaps you cannot have both.

Annatar might have accepted that. But you are no one to swallow impossibilities easily.

This time, it is one of your own lieutenants who comes for you. In your pointed absence, Thuringwethil rises in the ranks; she takes your power and influence for her own, and you are not there to stop it, to remind your troops who they serve. She sends them to kill you first, the last threat to her power removed. Celebrimbor dies with your knife in his heart once again, for you know that you cannot survive the coming storm, and surely this time you will get it right—so you start again—

And again.

And again.

And again.

No—

But you cannot stop it, cannot discern the combination of actions to ensure your victory. You are beginning to think that victory is an impossibility. But there must be a way. You simply haven't found the right way, yet—you have time, you will try again—

And again.

And—

Enough—

Yes. Enough.

You begin to redefine what it means to win.

You leave, and you do not come back. You return to your fortress. You craft your rings, though you do not send them forth. You control your forces. You watch.

Numenor rises. It is only a matter of time before they come crashing on the shores like a great wave, a wave which you know from experience will sweep Eregion away. This time, you reach out to them with the hand of friendship. You offer your protection. They will not take it until they are desperate; and soon they are. You come to their aid on the battlefield, when their forces would otherwise be crushed.

You face him on the battlefield, after the last Numenorian soldier has been killed or driven back to their boats. He watches you warily, having never seen you before, and yet now he owes you his life. You stretch out your hand to him. "I believe that we have much to offer each other."

You see him falter, torn between disgust, curiosity, the beginnings of gratitude. When he turns away, however, you are not surprised. “Your aid has been appreciated,” he says coldly. “But the Deceiver has nothing more that I or my people could want.”

Once, you would have cut out his tongue for that impudence. Another time, you might have laughed and kissed his lips. You want to tell him that he is wrong, you want to make him understand—

You leave him there, without another word. You take your troops back into the east, and leave Eregion to its gems and its rings. They will talk more of war, now that they have seen your hand. But your offer of friendship hangs between you like a wall. No assault comes to you from the West. You are stranded in a stale, wary peace.

At times you feel a flicker of something on the edge of your perception, like ripples in a distant pond. You learn to quell the wild terror that leaps up within you, the balcony in Ost-In-Edhil swimming before you like a vision in the heat, before collapsing into nothing.

You have not abandoned your goals. You have merely become very, very good at waiting. You build your kingdom, strengthen your walls, bide your time--you send missives to the West that are returned unanswered. You have studied Celebrimbor for millennia, know his every impulse (or you think you do—for hasn’t he always managed to surprise you?).

Soon, your offers of alliance, partnership, will find fertile ground within him. You write to him of his city, your thoughts on its improvement. When you offer him the knowledge on ringmaking, you recall that once the price of this knowledge was his city, his life. You give it freely, now. He will come to you, and then the real work will begin. We can accomplish so much together, you write. There is so much I could show you, Tyelpe—and you did come to love me, time and time again—

The flames eat that letter before you can be tempted to send it. Patience, patience. Surely you have learned that much.

You stare towards the sunset and think of what awaits you there, so much closer than Valinor. You will have it.

But for now—

For now—

Celebrimbor lives, far beyond your grasp. You have learned to take that as a victory.