Work Text:
Looking back, Celebrimbor told himself he really should have guessed; because he had been happy, so unutterably happy, and happiness was never meant for the line of Feanor.
~
Every smith, every artist holds a dream-image in their mind of their greatest work. Usually it is soft around the edges, undefined; sometimes the dreamer knows the shape of it, or the materials they want to use, and nothing else. It is a will-o’-the-wisp of a dream, always beckoning, promising to be the greatest work a smith could hope to accomplish. And yet, never quite within reach.
Celebrimbor had thought that someday he would create something of mithril and red gold. It had been a shy dream, barely intruding upon his everyday work; but when Annatar had come to Eregion, when their eyes had met for the first time, it had blossomed back into life.
Annatar was like his dream made flesh, mithril skin and gold hair, so achingly reminiscent of a love he had been too afraid to pursue; but when the evening light struck in it was tinted with red, like copper mixed into the liquid gold. Celebrimbor tried not to be caught staring, but Annatar seemed to notice every time, his wise grey eyes meeting Celebrimbor’s with a slight amusement, but no reproach.
“You wish for something from me,” Annatar had said, when they were alone. Celebrimbor had almost protested, dismissed the suggestion, but the finger Annatar lightly placed on his lips stopped him. “No, precious one. You deny yourself so much already. I am a giver of gifts; let me give you what you want…”
If he had thought it was an act of pity, of unearthly generosity, he would not have accepted it. If he had known what Annatar truly was, he never would have allowed him to… But that was beside the point.
He had not known, and Annatar had seemed as caught up in it as he was; kissing him fervently, threading his hands through his hair, rocking their hips together with a delicious friction that made Celebrimbor cry out. His skin was hot under Celebrimbor’s mouth, his hands desperate as they ripped at the elf’s clothes; there was nothing to suggest, then, that he did not feel the same as Celebrimbor.
Nothing to hint at his cruelty, when he gathered Celebrimbor close and murmured endearments in his ear afterward.
Nothing to suggest he did not mean it when he whispered of the love he felt, in the cool secret hours of the early morning.
Nothing to break the illusion when he threaded his fingers through Celebrimbor’s and let their hands lie between them on the bed.
When he was sliding up against Celebrimbor’s side after a long day of work, clever mouth against Celebrimbor’s throat and making him gasp and sigh, it was not so hard to believe - when he allowed Celebrimbor to pull him closer and kiss him, when he closed his eyes and made soft, sweet noises into the kiss - that he was in love.
~
Celebrimbor could not allow himself to believe that, though.
“Precious one,” Sauron said into his ear, the gentle caress on Celebrimbor’s cheek a blessing after the racking pain of torture, “don’t make me hurt you any longer.” Soft lips pressed against Celebrimbor’s collarbone, tracing the line of it. “Just tell me where the Three are.”
Celebrimbor did not answer.
“I love you,” Sauron murmured, against his ear now, warm and low like it was a true secret.
Celebrimbor laughed, coughed on it, choked.
“Liar.”
He sounded very like his father now, after being tormented for some time; but he didn’t have time to think about that now.
“What a pity,” Sauron said, and the sorrow in his voice was such Celebrimbor almost could have believed it.