Chapter Text
The explosion in the forges had been sudden - one moment, Celebrimbor had been meticulously working on his latest project, his mind entirely consumed by the delicate craftsmanship; the next, a blast of heat and light had engulfed him, and the world tilted on its axis.
When the smoke began to clear, his senses were thrown into disarray. His ears rang, a high-pitched whine that seemed to swallow every other sound. His vision swam, shapes blurred and twisted in the aftermath, and the sharp metallic scent of blood filled his nose.
"Tyelpe!" Annatar’s voice cut through the dissonance like a knife, and Celebrimbor turned toward it, blinking to focus.
Annatar was there, rushing to his side. His hands were on him in an instant, warm and firm, cupping his face, brushing back his hair, fingers swiping at his forehead where blood had begun to trickle down.
His touch, usually so calming, felt strange now - too intense, too close. A shiver ran down Celebrimbor's spine, and he stared wide-eyed at the Maia who was wiping blood from his forehead.
Annatar’s words were soft but filled with concern, “Oh Valar, what have you done? We need to get you checked. You’re hurt.”
The words barely registered. The world around Celebrimbor had taken on a strange, dreamlike quality. Something in the way Annatar touched him, in the very air around him, felt wrong. There was an inexplicable shadow hovering over him, as if a darkness had seeped into the very fabric of his being. For a split second, Celebrimbor swore he saw something malevolent flicker in Annatar’s eyes.
His breath hitched in his chest. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and the edges of his vision began to blur.
Annatar’s presence, so radiant and warm, now felt suffocating, as though the room itself was closing in around him. The world seemed to warp, his mind playing cruel tricks on him. Annatar's face, so close to his, shimmered in his distorted vision - was there a smile there, cruel and dark, hiding just beneath the surface?
There wasn’t. Celebrimbor knew that. Knew that Annatar, his beloved, was simply worried. But in this moment, the rational part of his mind felt distant, unreachable, buried beneath a wave of panic that grew stronger with every beat of his heart.
“Tyelpe, can you hear me?” Annatar's voice came again, more urgent now.
All Celebrimbor could hear was his own heart racing wildly in his ears. The blood on Annatar’s fingers - it was his blood, from his head, he knew that - but in his confused state, it seemed sinister, like a stain of something far darker.
He recoiled, his body acting on instinct. He flinched back from Annatar’s touch, his chest heaving with shallow, desperate breaths. His fingers, trembling and numb, clutched at his chest as though he could somehow still the frantic pounding of his heart.
Annatar moved closer, concern deepening in his eyes, but to Celebrimbor, that concern looked like something else entirely. Why does he look at me like that? Celebrimbor thought in a haze of panic. Why does it feel so wrong?
“Stay away!” he choked out, his voice weak and ragged.
Annatar froze, his expression shifting to one of confusion and then, hurt. But he didn’t back away. He stepped closer instead, his hands still reaching out, trying to calm, to soothe.
“Tyelpe, it’s me - Annatar, your husband.” His voice was low, pleading. “Calm down, please. I won’t hurt you.”
But the words only fed the panic already surging through Celebrimbor’s veins. His back hit the wall behind him, and he slid down into a crouching position, pressing himself as close to the cold stone as he could. His vision tunneled, black spots dancing at the edges of his sight. His heart pounded so violently that it drowned out Annatar's voice, and he crouched there, staring up in terror as his husband approached.
But the shadow was gone, suddenly, replaced by the shining figure of Annatar, but Celebrimbor’s panic had taken root, twisting every breath into a fight for air. His throat felt constricted, as if invisible hands were choking him, squeezing the life out of him. He couldn’t breathe - why couldn’t he breathe?
At last, Annatar knelt in front of him, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn’t force himself any closer but reached out, his touch featherlight as he gently cradled Celebrimbor's head, bringing him close into an embrace.
“Shh, Tyelpe, it’s alright,” Annatar whispered, his voice a soothing balm against the chaos in Celebrimbor’s mind. “I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
He pulled Celebrimbor completely into his arms, holding him close, one hand stroking through his hair, the other pressing gently against his back. The motion was soft, rhythmic, almost hypnotic.
Annatar's lips pressed softly to the top of Celebrimbor’s head, his voice steady and calm. “I need you to breathe with me. Deep breaths, my love. In… and out.”
Celebrimbor fought through the haze of panic, forcing himself to mimic Annatar’s breathing - deep, slow. But no matter how much air he pulled into his lungs, it felt like he was drowning. His vision darkened at the edges, the world spinning further and further away.
“Trust me, Tyelpe. Breathe. Everything will be fine.”
Celebrimbor clung to his voice, his body shaking uncontrollably as he struggled for air. Annatar’s hands stayed firm, one on his neck, the other gently stroking through his hair.
Yes, trust him. Trust Annatar.
Even though the panic still clawed at him - even though fear still whispered in the back of his mind that something was terribly wrong, Celebrimbor forced himself to listen. To trust. Everything will be fine.
He breathed. Slowly, shakily.
Annatar’s hand in his hair, the softness of his touch, the warmth of his body - it was familiar again. It was safe. Slowly, the edges of Celebrimbor’s panic began to dull, the sharpness of his fear blurring into a hazy, distant hum. His body sagged against Annatar, the tension draining from his muscles as exhaustion finally caught up with him. His breaths grew slower, deeper, and the darkness that had been creeping at the edges of his vision finally overtook him.
Everything went dark.
And as he slipped into unconsciousness, the last thing he heard was Annatar’s voice, low and soothing in his ear.
“Everything will be fine, Tyelpe. I promise.”
Then, silence.
.
.
.
Annatar sighed as Celebrimbor's body finally slumped against him, unconscious, his breathing evening out as the Maia’s hand, which had been subtly increasing its pressure on Celebrimbor’s neck, finally eased.
The tension drained from Annatar’s shoulders, and he allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. His fingers, so often gentle and affectionate nowadays, now moved with a cold precision as he lightly pressed a thumb to the Elf’s neck, feeling the steady pulse beneath the skin.
It was a curious feeling - this closeness, this moment of intimacy that wasn’t quite what it seemed.
"Finally," he breathed, his words barely above a whisper as he gazed down at Celebrimbor, the lines of panic on his face now softened by an eerie calm. He leaned over and cradled Celebrimbor closer for just a moment, as though in some twisted mimicry of affection. He pressed a kiss into his husband’s blood-matted hair, his lips curling slightly at the corners. "You always make things so difficult, Tyelpe."
The weight of what had just happened lingered in the air. He couldn’t have foreseen that a tiny explosion would shake Celebrimbor so badly. His panic had been a setback, a moment that threatened to break the careful spell Annatar had woven around him. It was dangerous - too dangerous - if Celebrimbor's trust began to crack. And for a moment, Annatar had glimpsed that crack, the flicker of fear and mistrust that could unravel everything.
But now, with Celebrimbor slumped in his arms, unconscious and pliant, Annatar had regained control. The pressure he had applied to Celebrimbor’s throat had been delicate, calculated - not enough to cause harm, just enough to lull him into a temporary darkness. It was safer this way - safer to put him to sleep rather than to risk more suspicion from the spiraling panic that had taken hold of him.
With a gentleness that belied his true nature, Annatar laid Celebrimbor down onto the cool stone floor, his movements careful and deliberate, as though handling something precious. The very image of a devoted husband tending to his beloved in a moment of crisis.
He knelt beside him, wiping away the blood that still oozed from the wound on Celebrimbor’s forehead. It was shallow, but it had bled more than it should have, staining his pale skin and the strands of his dark hair. It really wasn’t serious, nothing that the healers wouldn’t be able to manage, but the sight of blood on his lover’s skin stirred something dark and possessive within him.
Annatar let out a quiet sigh, wiping the last of the blood with the edge of his sleeve. “You don’t have to bleed for your craft just yet, do you know that?” he muttered, his tone a mix of amusement and irritation, though there was no real malice behind it. Not yet. He could not afford for Celebrimbor to break like this.
Annatar allowed himself a moment to admire his handiwork - the way Celebrimbor lay still, utterly at his mercy. A masterpiece brought low, helpless. The rings, the city, everything Celebrimbor had built, everything he was - would soon belong to him.
But first, he had to play the part again. The caring, attentive husband who would never allow harm to come to his beloved. He needed to be perfect, as flawless in his deception as the rings they crafted together.
The panic, the fleeting suspicion, would be dismissed as nothing more than shock from the explosion, a moment of confusion. He would calm Celebrimbor again, reassure him of their bond, and coax him back to the work that mattered.
The rings.
They were so close. Perfection was nearly within reach. And they couldn’t afford any distractions.
Annatar stood, stretching his arms briefly before turning his attention back to Celebrimbor. He would call the healers soon, let them see to the wound, but he couldn’t allow them to linger too long or ask too many questions. He would play the concerned husband, keeping them at a distance, ensuring they didn’t pry too deeply into what had transpired in the forge. No one else needed to know about the panic or the way Celebrimbor had flinched from his touch.
However, he wouldn’t call until he was certain the blood had slowed more - stopped flowing, at best - and Celebrimbor’s breathing had steadied enough to appear natural, more convincing.
Annatar smoothed out his robes, his eyes glinting in the dim light as he considered the next steps. He would be waiting when Celebrimbor woke - calm, caring, the very image of devotion. He would tell him how worried he had been, how he had cared for him, nursed him through the episode. He would ease Celebrimbor’s worries, soothe the doubts that had begun to surface.
Annatar knelt once more, brushing a stray lock of hair from Celebrimbor’s face, wiping away the last traces of blood from his forehead. His touch was light, reverent even, as though tending to something sacred.
"You’ll be alright, Tyelpe," he murmured softly, his voice a mockery of tenderness. "I’ll take care of everything. And when you wake, you’ll trust me again, as you always do."
He stood, finally stepping back, eyes lingering on the Elf before calling for the healers. His tone was sharp with urgency, laced with just enough panic to sell his concern.
He would have the healers come, dress the wound, and then…
Then, they would get back to work - as if nothing had happened.
Sauron had learned long ago that perfection required more than sacrifice. It required control.