Archive of Our Own ^beta

The forge was dimly lit with lanterns and the steady fire, which bathed the room in a gentle light. The workbench was cluttered with metal instruments, most thrown without care, and discarded until later use. Shadowy figures created by the forge fire danced on the ceilings, stretching to the walls and the emboss. These walls were richly decorated with pieces that spoke of the advanced craft of the best smiths in Middle-earth. Holly leaves crowns, elegant yet sharp-edged swords, and a large array of various utensils that may or may not be suitable for the kitchens. Next to them hung the mundane but necessary instruments for the workshop.

Only the rhythmic sound of someone hitting with a hammer broke the quiet of the room. A lone figure stood by the emboss and was coaxing the metal in another shape, transforming the raw into something beautiful. The light of the fire clung to him like a second skin, embracing him, and the heat did little to stop his efforts. He did not mind It, as his mind was far away from this time and place, focusing on his craft.

"Are you still working on the sword?" A voice breaks the silence, smooth and honeyed, echoing like a song through the forge. A figure emerged out of the shadows, hands behind his back.

Celebrimbor stopped his moving midair and instead of finishing his hit, laid his hammer next to the sword he was forging. He didn't need to turn around to know who had entered his forge, having recognized him by voice and presence. Nevertheless, he loved to see Annatars face and thus turned around to gaze at his friend.

Annatar was still standing a few paces away from him, clad in white garments and his long hair draped over his shoulder, not so different from a cape. His form was as fair as ever and his piercing eyes were warm. His gaze laid heavy on Celebrimbor and bore fascination and something else.

Celebrimbor faltered lightly under Annatar's gaze. Even though they were closer than most, he would never get completely used to the Maia's otherworldly attention. There is something disarming in the way Annatar observes him, not just the craft but the craftsman, as though he is a particularly hard riddle.

Celembrimbor takes his gloves off. "It should've been finished two days ago." He sighs, brushes a hand through his hair, and groans.

Still watching Celebrimbor, Annatar steps to him to squeeze his shoulders. He leans to his left ear to whisper: "You look lovely when you forge. It comes to you like second nature,".

Celebrimbor smiles softly and turns to be face to face with Annatar. For a moment, their gazes locked. In that space, the forge was not just a place of craft but of something more, a crucible where alliances and emotions begin to melt and reform, as malleable as the metals in their hands. Celebrimbor was attracted to Annatar's fairness like a storm pressing against the shores.

Eru help him.

The forge breathed warmth and light into the space, but Celebrimbor felt his pulse quicken for reasons that had nothing to do with the fire and he felt his cheeks redden. Annatar’s presence this close to him was an ever-present storm on the horizon, tempting and dangerous. He cursed himself for the way his heart betrayed him, for the way his resolve weakened under that gaze as if Annatar could reshape him as easily as metal.

“Why did you come here? I doubt you enjoy pacing through the empty House” Celebrimbor said fondly stepping back to look at Annatar more closely.

“Maybe I was looking for you?” Annatar replied with his bell-ringing clear voice and a hint of smirk. His hands grabbed Celebrimbor’s arms again. “I wanted to see which object consumed so much of your time, O lord of Eregion.” He said teasingly and fingered the fabric of Celebrimbor’s tunic.  

Celebrimbor crossed his arms, his lips curving into a reluctant smile. "Be careful, dear Annatar, one might think you jealous.”

Annatar tilted his head, his piercing eyes softening as he studied him. "And you, dear Telperinquar, need to rest." He looked him up and down for good measure, taking his dirty apron and loose braid in. Celebrimbor was aware of his dark eyebags and current shallow complexion and being under the scrutiny of such a fair being made him feel wholly inadequate.

But the Maia only raised an eyebrow, conveying his feelings. He then sighed: “The sword will be in the forge tomorrow still. While I know your hands cannot help but create, they need rest too. As you do, my heart.” And he embraced Celebrimbor, soot and all.

Celebrimbor relaxed in the embrace of his friend and focused on the Maia’s warmth. He was hot to the touch, like the metal of a worn bracelet. For all his strength, Annatar was a weakness. He let himself be swayed by Annatar from the forge to their chambers.

For all his doubts, for all the warnings whispered by others, there was a gravity to Annatar that Celebrimbor could not resist. He couldn’t help but believe in the light he saw in him, the beauty and brilliance that seemed to eclipse every shadow lingering at the edges of Celebrimbor’s mind.

In their chambers, Annatar’s hand reached out, his touch as light as a whisper on Celebrimbor’s wrist. "You have the heart and hands of a creator," he said softly in a reverent tone. Annatar laid himself next to him and drifted off to wherever the Maiar went when they pretended to sleep.

A shiver passed through Celebrimbor. His heart hurt for a reason he did not know, like a phantom ache or a forgotten wound.

For now, he let the storm linger, pressing just close enough to feel its pull without letting it consume him. 

Eru help him, indeed.

Celebrimbor was an anchor.

In his youth, before madness and oaths twisted his family, he had been the steady one. His father had often been lost in his own brilliance, and his uncles were fires that burned too hot, too bright, too passionately, and too dangerously. They relied on him in ways that went unspoken: to be the reliable one, to create and to settle them. Even during the war, when the world fell apart and their family fractured under the weight of their choices, Celebrimbor had remained steady in the face of tragedy.

His hands were wonderful in smithing and smiting yet clumsy when it came to anything else. When it came to tending to his heart, to the complexities of relationships, to navigating the treacherous waters of loyalty and ambition, Celebrimbor faltered. His craft was his heart and he was bound to it.

Annatar was the opposite.

When he had shown up in his realm, polished like mithril and hard like gems, Celebrimbor had been cowed in the face of such fairness. His presence was radiant and his words disarming. It only took a few words and people were taken with him. But Celebrimbor was no fool and a deeply rooted distrust was not easily forgotten.

He saw Annatar for what he truly was: A storm bound to a Fana . His eyes barely concealed a hunger for something he was searching for, something he had come for.

Against his cousin’s judgment, he invited Annatar into his realm and into his forge.

During the coming years, they would come together in new ways and make the most marvellous objects. It raised Eregion even higher to a more prosperous realm. They would linger for days in the forge, just exchanging ideas and challenging one another.

Celebrimbor hid his ugly parts, the parts of him that had struck his sword down on his kin on the shores of Aman, from Annatar in shame. The claws that tore elves in the name of his grandfather. But with Annatar, the fractures in his being threatened to show. 

Annatar’s hands moved with the same steady precision as Celebrimbor’s, but his movements were graced with an almost otherworldly elegance. Where Celebrimbor crafted with purpose, driven by necessity or beauty, Annatar’s work carried an edge of indulgence. He created not only for function but for the sheer joy of it, or vanity, for awe, for the satisfaction of shaping the world to his will.

Annatar was not bound by mortal constraints, nor by the need to steady the world. He was raw power and knowledge, weaving his golden Song in his creations, imitating Eru itself. Although Celembrimbor was selfish, he could never hold him.

And when Annatar’s ideas bordered on the sacrilegious and unthinkable, filled with a singular will, Celembrimbor wondered if he was already being swept away and losing his hold.

At first, it had been subtle: A suggestion to push boundaries, a quiet question of why certain traditions were held sacred, why limits were so rigidly kept. Celebrimbor did not perceive these words as strange, as Annatar had a curious mind.

But Annatar’s proposals become bolder and bolder, urging Celebrimbor to cross the line of his own morals. He spoke of power, power to heal Middle-earth and its wrongs.

“Why should we stand by while we could save them?” Annatar would ask, his tone soft and then “We could shape the world! Make it for the better! Think of all the possibilities, Tyelpë."

Celebrimbor had heard similar words, spoken with the same ambition a lifetime ago. “Certain boundaries cannot- should not be crossed.” He would reply, his voice strained, and continue hammering on a piece of Mithril to dull his senses.

Annatar would only coldly storm off to reappear in the evening with a bottle of wine, almost apologetically.

But his ideas were seductive. Celebrimbor could not get the whispers out of his head. Sometimes he would catch himself designing a dagger that could harbor more power than an elf should wield or jewelry to enhance one’s might.

The Maia’s passion was intoxicating and through a compromise, they worked on their biggest project yet. Together, they worked magic into metal, wove power into rings, and shaped the impossible into reality. Each new creation seemed to whisper promises of what more they could achieve if only Celebrimbor would let go.

When Annatar’s hand brushed his and encouraged him, all his doubts turned mute, leaving only a warm weight in his stomach.

Against the will of his heart, Celebrimbor starts his own project, unknown to Annatar. He was Fëanor’s grandson after all.

It is a secret that Celebrimbor has tucked deep inside his chest. His heart is guilty but knows no remorse.

He loves Annatar.

As foolish, as pathetic as he is, Celebrimbor cannot help it. He had been drawn to him when he first saw him and hadn’t stopped since then. It had also awoken something inside him, a yearning he had never known, a vulnerability that scared him as much as it exhilarated him. He could share his craft with someone as capable and creative as him and be understood . Isn’t that the worst part?

Sometimes he was so full of love that it might consume him and bury Annatar with him. It was the slow days in the forge, spent bickering over ore properties, Annatar’s hands gesticulating animative and eyes full of fire. Sometimes it was the slow nights spent in each other’s company, reminiscing about people who had left this world ages ago, forgotten by most.

It was scalding hands brushing along his back and kissing his neck.

They all kindled his love, which was burning like a forge: hot and all-consuming.

The weight of the world and the past fell away, leaving only the two of them in their shared universe of creation.

And then Annatar left.

When he was gone, a piece of Celebrimbor went with him but he would not allow himself to weigh Annatar down, so he set him free. The forge felt colder without his presence, the fire less vibrant. Eregion still thrived, the work continued, but there was a hollowness to it. Celebrimbor told himself that he’d come back and everything would be like before.

And then came the betrayal.

The betrayal, when it unfolded, shattered something fundamental within him. It was not a clean break, not a sudden revelation, it was a slow, agonizing realization as the truths unraveled before him.

The rings they had made together, their creation, so perfect, so beautiful, had been tainted. They were not simply creations; they were tools, vessels for Sauron’s malice, to make his will come true. The man he had loved, the being he had trusted with his realm, his craft, and his heart, had been a lie.

It was beyond cruel.

Yet, amid rage and the unbearable grief, that love remained. Twisted, agonized, but alive.

And it was that love that cut the deepest.

Eregion was in ruins.

His beloved realm was burning, and it was his fault.

The once-merry streets that had echoed with laughter and the hum of craft were now overrun with orcs, destroying everything in their path. Flames licked at the walls of homes and workshops, the air filled with smoke and shrieks. Screams pierced the chaos, walls crumbled, and at the heart of it all stood Celebrimbor, powerless.

Celebrimbor tore at his hair, crying in despair. It would’ve always come to this, nothing good ever happens to Fëanor’s line.

The Rings were long gone, given away to people less susceptible to corruption. He suspected that the Abhorred knew that as well.

Then why come here to destroy everything they had built together? Desecrate their home?

Was betraying their craft not enough? Had it meant nothing?

Celebrimbor had poured himself into the rings, into the vision they had shared. Although reluctant at first, he had come to believe in Annatar. Each creation had been more than just a marvel of craft: it had been an act of love, a coming together of two kindred spirits.

But let it not be said that Celebrimbor did not fight.

Even in the face of destruction, he had rallied the most courageous and experienced. His people were not made by war but they had heart and were willing to lay down their lives. He had led them into battle, knowing it would be his last. He had fought not for in the hope of vanquishing the enemy but for defiance, for vengeance, for spite, for the hope that in his final moments, he might take enough of his enemies with him to make it matter.

Maybe he would be able to face his kin in the Halls of Mandos.

He cut down enemy after enemy, old reflexes that had settled years ago in his bones still intact. Cruelly he noticed how Sauron wasn’t on the battlefield, that was once his home. A wicked thought wormed its way into Celebrimbor’s heart, making his hands falter.

Did Sauron ever think of Celebrimbor’s two hands?

The worst part about it was not knowing. Had he truly been blinded by someone who could not even tolerate his existence? A part of him yearned to talk to Annatar one last time, to understand. Maybe it was a misunderstanding? The destruction and the blood on his hands was clear but his heart was treacherous.

The enemy pressed closer, and Celebrimbor steeled himself. His grief, his rage, his love, they were all from the same fire that had forged him.

Even if Sauron thought of his hands, it no longer mattered. All that mattered now was that they fought and that some of them might live.

It didn’t matter anymore.

When Sauron’s forces finally overpowered him in the ruins of Eregion, it was not the swift death he had expected. He had hoped that he might die a warrior’s death, that he could keep some semblance of dignity. Instead, they had bound him, dragged him through the ruins of his home, and brought him before their master.

When he had seen Sauron’s true face, he had wept. Sauron was no longer beautiful and enticing as he had been when they met, his face did not hold the same benevolence as before. In its place stood the Abhorred in truth, his form twisted and terrible, his gaze cruel and powerful.

And yet he was unmistakenly Annatar, a force of destruction bound in one being. That same singular will, that same consuming hunger, beautiful and terrible which he had pretended to ignore, was there and it was all him.  

And to his horror, his heart yearned for him still.

They took him to Mordor, to the Tower.

Barad-dûr was a desolate place. Chained to a wall he had all the time in the world to bathe in self-loathing.

The air was heavy, dark, and filled with a faint metallic taste, which was no longer comforting. Sauron’s presence pressed in from every corner, a suffocating void broken only by the dim glow of the presence of lesser Orcs.

The silence was oppressive, pierced only by the occasional echo of screams or the faint clinking of chains or barked orders.

Celebrimbor hung from those very chains, his wrists rubbed raw and broken, his body battered and frail. He had all the time in the world to bathe in his self-loathing.

His fëa was barely tethered to his hröa, straining toward the Halls of Mandos, yearning for release. But Celebrimbor would not.

Sauron would not let him leave either.

The faint sound of steps echoed through the dungeon, announcing His arrival.

“Will you tell me where you hid the Rings, today?” came the voice that haunted his every waking moment. Smooth and clear still, but now cruel.

Stepping in his presence grew stronger. It was like being in the same room as a thundercloud, ready to strike at every moment. Celembrimbor just hung limply from the chains, not lifting his head. His long hair was matted and dull, obscuring his face, in the hope of his thoughts. He didn’t trust to himself look into his eyes, thinking that he would betray himself.

Sauron approached Celebrimbor with measured steps, his eyes dark with something unreadable. He bore into the Elf’s hidden face, searching for his gaze.

“Why do you cling to them so? I would free you if you gave them to me.” He said, “Why do you even care for these Elves that have done nothing but doubt and mock you? They do not deserve your loyalty. I doubt they will come to rescue you.”

The words stung.

Celebrimbor remained silent but Sauron caressed his cheek lovingly and tilted his head up. Their eyes locked.

“Endanya.”

Celebrimbor shuddered at his gaze and words, at the echo of the intimacy they had once shared. He turned his head away, his voice weak but steady. “You cannot hold me here forever , Annatar. My fëa will find its way to freedom.”

“I chained you here because I will not allow you to escape me.” He said, his voice softening to a dangerous whisper. “Not to Mandos. Not to the void and certainly not anywhere I cannot get you back.” He straightened himself again, stepping away from Celebrimbor.

“Besides you still need to tell me where the Three are, my dear Tyelpë.”

“I will not betray my people,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Sauron’s smile turned stonely, faded and was replaced by something darker, wilder, more dangerous. He leaned closer, his shadow swallowing the Elf entirely. “You will break,” he said, his voice bordering on hysteric. “And when you do, Tyelpë, you will see I was right!”

Sauron’s jaw tightened, his form trembling as though the storm within him threatened to break free. He leaned closer, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

“All of this is temporary. You will understand why I had to do this once Middle-earth is healed and remade.”

But Celebrimbor said nothing more.

He finally removed himself from Celebrimbor and left in a flurry, angrily stepping away from his cell, leaving Celebrimbor in darkness.

Sauron’s forces had erected a pole.

A despaired scream tore through the elven army, the pole was lifted and Celebrimbor’s body was pierced by arrows. One by one, eyes turned toward the pole, and gasps of horror rippled through the army like a wave.

Elrond stood frozen amidst the chaos, his gaze locked onto the sight that would haunt him for eternity. His breath caught in his throat as bile rose, and for a moment, the battle raging around him became a distant roar.

Celebrimbor’s body was marred by wounds, blood still seeping out of them and painting him red. His arms were bound tightly behind the pole, hiding what was done to the craftsman’s golden hands. His face was intact and untouched albeit gaunt. His hair was uncut and hung around the arrows and draped over his broken shoulders.

The orcs jeered and cackled at the body but did not dare to touch it. Sauron’s orders were clear. Celebrimbor’s body was not to be defiled but revered.

Celebrimbor’s death was more than a loss to their people. It was a message, a warning, a deliberate cruelty meant to humiliate them. Everyone knew that Celebrimbor was deceived and most knew that they had been close. Yet few knew the true cruelty of Sauron, having wormed his way into the smith’s heart.

In the very end, they won.

The victory was bittersweet and the losses great, but the people of middle-earth were one step closer to freedom.

Celebrimbor’s body was never recovered, swept by the tides of war. Maybe the fires had burned his decaying flesh, giving it back to the soil of Middle-earth. Maybe his bones were left scattered and mingled on the battlefield. But his fëa was free, free to move on to the Halls. Depart from this life.

Yet an echo lingered.

It lingered in the battle graves, where Elves and Men alike had fallen, their bodies now returned to the earth. It sunk in the stones that once made up the shining halls of Eregion and it strayed into the Land of Shadow.

And in the depths of the Land of Shadow, far beneath the weight of Sauron’s fortress, there was a flicker of something, not just the cold echo of hate, but the faintest trace of regret. Perhaps even the Dark Lord, in his hunger for power, in his consuming need to break and heal everything, had felt the absence of what he had destroyed.

Sauron could not keep Celebrimbor’s essence. He was not able to make him see reason or strip away what had made him who he was. What remained beyond the physical, beyond the flesh, was something Sauron could not touch, no matter how deep he buried his hands into his chest, trying to hold onto his heart. 

Yet, as the years passed, and Sauron’s grip on Middle-earth tightened, the whispers continued to haunt him. There were moments when Sauron would pause, and memories of the past, of a dimlit forge, of a fair face, would drift before his eyes unbidden. He would turn his head, almost as though expecting to see someone there, to hear that familiar voice, to feel that connection once again. 

Yet only silence greeted him. 

Entertaining the treacherous thought that maybe he had been wrong, that he should have persuaded Celebrimbor more gently, give him no room to refuse, was excruciating. So he buried these feelings deep inside himself, never letting himself sink in nostalgia. 

And though Celebrimbor’s fëa had departed, free at last, the shadow of that loss lingered, not just in the ruins of Eregion, but in Sauron’s heart.