Terrifying Tolkien Week

Day 1: All Shall Fade

Characters: Annatar, Celebrimbor

Summary: Annatar seeks to learn about the Three.  When force fails, he tries a gentler hand.

Tags: oblique mentions of blood/gore/torture, not graphically described.  Psychological torture, Annatar just generally being a creep.  Your standard silverfisting interaction

When Celebrimbor wakes, it is with a feeling of pleasant,
comfortable familiarity.  It is
warm.  He can hear the crackling of
flames, burning low in the grate.  There
is something warm pressed against him, soft and reassuring against his
skin.  It is dark, despite the fire; he
can feel the comforting press of it against his eyelids.  It is peaceful, almost solitary, and yet,
Celebrimbor knows he is not alone.  Annatar
is there, as he is always there.
Celebrimbor knows it before he opens his eyes, knows it in the feel of
Annatar’s hands, in the familiar scent of Annatar’s skin.  Annatar gently tucks a strand of hair behind
Celebrimbor’s ear.  “I was beginning to think
you’d never wake up,” he murmured, his whispered words loud in in the quiet
hush.

It is an innocent phrase, one Celebrimbor knows he has heard
before.  It is mundane, unremarkable, and
yet it sends a shiver of fear through him.
Something is not right, he
thinks.  His pulse quickens, an up-tempo
thump within his chest that sends anxiety coursing through him.  He casts about for the source of his unease,
and though he knows it is there, he cannot seem to find it.  It’s nothing, he assures himself, though he
cannot quite believe it.  There is
nothing wrong.  He is at home,
asleep.  Annatar is there.  

Annatar.  The name sends an unexpected shudder through Celebrimbor,
and he frowns, trying to remember why.
And then he does, all at once, and the pleasant haze of sleep dissolves
into gnawing fear and searing pain.

His eyes snap open and rove the dim recesses of an
unfamiliar room.  He is sitting up, his
back against a cold stone wall, his head lolling uncomfortably to the
side.  He straightens with a groan,
flinching as a hand comes to rest on his arm.
“Easy,” says a soft, familiar voice.
Celebrimbor turns his head, focusing blearily on Annatar’s face, too
close to his own.  Celebrimbor can see
the concern in Annatar’s eyes, feel it in the steady stroke of Annatar’s thumb
on his skin, and yet it does not comfort him.
It disgusts him, and he wants to scream, wants to spit in that pretty,
poisonous face, but he cannot.  Instead,
he merely moans, a ruined sound that rips through his swollen throat.

Annatar tsks,
running his thumb over the ridge of Celebrimbor’s cheek.  “You shouldn’t have screamed so much,” he
says, fixing Celebrimbor with a gaze that looks almost like regret.  “I told you it would hurt.  But then,” he says, tilting his head, as
though thinking it through, “you never did know when to listen.”  He taps his index finger against
Celebrimbor’s lips, and Celebrimbor flinches.
“Oh, Tyelpe,” Annatar says, and there is real hurt in his face, a pain
that for a moment makes Celebrimbor feel guilty.  

The guilt curdles in the pit of his stomach, turning to a
revulsion that runs hot and cold through his limbs.  “Don’t touch me,” he says, words rasping
dryly from his cracked, swollen lips.

Annatar ignores him, as Annatar has always ignored him.  Celebrimbor never minded before, not
really—not until it was too late.
Annatar brushes back the hair that has fallen across Celebrimbor’s face,
runs his thumb down the jut of Celebrimbor’s chin.  Celebrimbor raises a hand and pushes feebly
at Annatar’s chest, fingers scrabbling against cloth.  Annatar catches Celebrimbor’s hand, holding
it carefully in his own.  He turns his
hand and kisses Celebrimbor’s palm, a gentle brush of lips that stings despite
the tenderness of his intent.  

“No,” Celebrimbor says, the word bleeding into a moan as Annatar
lays his hand on Celebrimbor’s chest.  

“It’s alright,” Annatar says.  He lays a kiss at Celebrimbor’s temple.  “You’re alright,” he murmurs.  He presses his lips to Celebrimbor’s, and
Celebrimbor flinches away.  Celebrimbor is
raw and aching, terrified of what new pain Annatar’s touch might bring.  But there is none.  Annatar is gentle, and he is tender; he is
everything Celebrimbor had believed him to be, everything Celebrimbor has
learned he is not.  His lips are cool,
soothing the ache in Celebrimbor’s feverish skin.  He turns his head, nuzzles his cheek against
Celebrimbor’s.  Celebrimbor whimpers and
squeezes shut his eyes.  

Annatar is whispering against his skin, murmuring words
meant to disarm, to gentle, to charm.
Celebrimbor knows he is being soothed, knows he is being played, and yet
he allows it.  He is too weak to resist,
too tired to fight.  “I hate you,” he
whispers, tears prickling hot against his eyelids.

“You don’t,” Annatar says, but there is no satisfaction in
his words.  

Tears sting the bruised skin of Celebrimbor’s cheeks, and he
knows it is true, and he hates himself for it.

“It’s alright,” Annatar says, and Celebrimbor knows it is a
lie.  Nothing is alright; nothing will
ever be alright again.  How could it be,
after what Annatar has done?  Celebrimbor
remembers the anger, the fury, the fear.
He remembers—

Annatar presses himself to Celebrimbor’s side, and
Celebrimbor flinches.  He remembers the
pain, the agony that came unlooked for at Annatar’s hands.  He can feel it still, piercing through flesh
and sinew and bone.  There is a nagging,
needling part of Celebrimbor’s brain that begs him to push Annatar away; it
calls to Celebrimbor, urging him to fight, to struggle, to resist.  He knows he should, and yet he finds that he
cannot.  He is aching and afraid and
tired, so very tired.  Annatar’s skin is
warm, and his heat seeps into Celebrimbor’s aching limbs, soothing the hurts he
had so tenderly inflicted there mere hours before.  It feels good, and Celebrimbor leans against
him, succumbing to the overwhelming desire for comfort.  

Annatar strokes Celebrimbor’s hair, presses a gentle kiss to
the crown of his head.  Celebrimbor hates
himself then, hates how much he still longs for Annatar’s touch.  “It’s alright,” Annatar says again, and he
nuzzles his cheek to the sore skin of Celebrimbor’s neck, pressing a kiss to a
particularly livid bruise.  Celebrimbor
whimpers, the pleasure of the touch mixing headily with the pain.  

Something rouses Celebrimbor then, some buried vestige of
resistance rising to the surface of his consciousness.  He pulls back, pushing Annatar away.  

“No,” he says, the sound thick on his swollen, uncooperative
tongue.  “No, please.”  

“Shh,” Annatar says,
taking Celebrimbor’s hand and kissing his knuckles.  “It doesn’t have to be this way, Tyelpe.  I don’t want it to be.  You know that, don’t you?”

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor rasps.

“It can stop,” Annatar says, turning Celebrimbor’s hand over
in his own.  “You can make it stop.  All you have to do is tell me.”  He kisses Celebrimbor’s palm once,
twice.  “Tell me what you did,
Tyelpe.”  He holds Celebrimbor’s hand to his
chest, stroking the backs of Celebrimbor’s fingers.   “Tell me how you betrayed me.”

“I didn’t,” Celebrimbor says, desperate for Annatar to
believe him.

Annatar smiles, and Celebrimbor shudders.  He has never seen malice so artfully
disguised.  “You did, Tyelpe,” Annatar
says, his voice quiet, insistent.  “I
gave you everything you could have wanted—more knowledge and power and skill
than you ever knew existed.  And what did
you do with it?”  Annatar’s grip on
Celebrimbor’s hand tightens, and the pressure becomes painful.  Celebrimbor whimpers, pulling feebly against
Annatar’s vice-like grip.  “You made
three rings,” Annatar continues, his words an accusation.  “You gave them to those who would use them
against me.”

“Annatar, please.”
His hand is shaking, nerves screaming out against the pressure, but
Annatar’s grip does not soften.

“Say it,” Annatar says.
He does not raise his voice, and yet Celebrimbor flinches at the words,
at the insistence behind them.  “Tell me
what you did.”  The grip on his hand is
so tight that Celebrimbor can no longer feel his fingers.  The delicate bones groan in protest, and
Celebrimbor knows it is not long until they break.

“I made three rings,” Celebrimbor says, feeling his resolve
crumbling against the impenetrable wall of Annatar’s accusation.  “I gave them to those who would use them
against you.”

“Yes,” says Annatar, a flicker of a smile on his lips.  He releases Celebrimbor’s hand, and
Celebrimbor pulls it to him, whimpering.
“Was that really so hard?”  He
leans close to Celebrimbor and traces the bones of Celebrimbor’s hand with his
finger.  Celebrimbor flinches, but there is
no malice in the touch.  Annatar traces
the ridges of bone, and Celebrimbor feels a soothing warmth flooding his
skin.  The pain in his hand vanishes
beneath Annatar’s fingers, and Celebrimbor moans at the sudden relief.

“Better?” Annatar asks, and Celebrimbor nods.  He can’t help himself.  He has been in pain so long; it’s all he
remembers, all he can feel.  Was there
ever anything else?  He tries to
remember, and finds he can’t.  Annatar is
stroking his hair again, pressing a gentle trail of kisses along Celebrimbor’s
cheeks.  He whispers a comforting litany
of inanities into Celebrimbor’s skin, and despite everything—despite the terror
and the betrayal and the pain—Celebrimbor lets himself be soothed.  He is so tired, so very, very tired.  His eyelids droop, and he feels himself
leaning into Annatar’s embrace.  

“Oh, no, Tyelpe,” Annatar says, and he takes Celebrimbor’s
face in his hands, tilting it up so Celebrimbor must meet his gaze.  “You can’t sleep now—not yet.  I’m not finished with you.”

Cold fear settles itself in Celebrimbor’s bones, and he
whimpers.  “No,” he whispers, the words
rasping from his lips.  “Annatar,
please.”

“Tell me what you did,” Annatar says.  His hands are gentle now, palms pressed to
Celebrimbor’s cheeks, and yet his grip is strong enough that Celebrimbor cannot
move away.  “Tell me where they are, who
you gave them to.”  Annatar strokes his
thumbs gently over Celebrimbor’s cheekbones.
He ducks his head so that Celebrimbor must look in his eyes.  It is not an unfriendly gaze, and yet
Celebrimbor shivers, knowing the anger and the cruelty that lie hidden beneath
the perilous veneer of Annatar’s benevolence.

“Annatar—“

“I know what you want,” Annatar says, wheedling.  “I’ve seen it in your dreams.”  He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to
the sweat-slicked skin of Celebrimbor’s forehead.  “I can give it to you, Tyelpe—all of it.    The power, the glory.  Everything you deserve and more.  You can have everything you’ve ever
wanted.”  He tilts Celebrimbor’s head
back so that their eyes meet once more.
Celebrimbor feels himself wavering, teetering on the edge of surrender.  There is a flicker of approval in Annatar’s
eyes, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to Celebrimbor’s in a tender kiss
that pulls a shudder from Celebrimbor’s limbs.
“All you have to do is tell me,” Annatar whispers.  His breath breaks hot on Celebrimbor’s skin,
and he kisses him again.  

Celebrimbor wants to, wants it so desperately it hurts.  He remembers this, remembers the way it had
felt to have Annatar’s love, his indulgence.
A thousand sun-drenched days flicker into life in his mind, the memories
of hours spent lazing in bed like a stab in his heart.  How he had longed for the touch of Annatar’s
lips on his own—how he craves it, even now.
He presses forward, deepening the kiss with what little strength remains
to him.  Annatar makes a little noise of
approval, muffled against Celebrimbor’s lips, and the sound nearly breaks Celebrimbor.  He remembers the way it had felt to draw
those sounds of pleasure from Annatar, to see the Maia laid desperate and bare
beneath him.  It had been the greatest
feeling in the world, one he had sought more hungrily than any other in his
life.  He wants it now, wants it more
urgently than he had ever wanted anything, his desire stoked higher by the
trace of Annatar’s hand upon his chest, the slide of his tongue on
Celebrimbor’s lips.  Celebrimbor parts
his lips, and for a moment, everything is right.  Annatar kisses him, touches him, wants him, and Celebrimbor never wants
that moment to end.

Yet there is a part of him, stronger than the rest, that knows
it must.  It needles at him, insistent
and accusatory.  Coward, it says, angry and loud in his mind.  Weak,
broken, coward.  He turns his head
and lays his forehead in the familiar curve of Annatar’s shoulder, burying his
face against Annatar’s neck.  “I can’t,”
he says, the words sending waves of agony through him.  He nuzzles closer to Annatar, savoring a
closeness he knows will not last.  “I’m
sorry,” he says, and he presses his lips to Annatar’s skin, breathing in the
scent of him.

Annatar sighs, and Celebrimbor can feel the disappointment
that grows like a living thing between them.
He braces himself for Annatar’s fury, for the rage that inevitably
translates to pain, but it does not come, not yet.  Annatar wraps his arms around Celebrimbor,
holding him close and kissing the top of his head.  “I want you to remember,” he says softly,
laying his cheek against Celebrimbor’s matted hair, “that I tried to help you.  When you are broken and bloody and raw,
remember that I gave you a choice.  This
is what you chose.”

“Kill me,” Celebrimbor says, choking on the words, forcing
them out.  “Please, Annatar.  Let me go.
Let me die.  I can’t take any more
of this, I can’t, I—“

“Hush, Tyelpe,” Annatar says, and Celebrimbor can feel the
sorrow in Annatar’s words, like a knife in his gut.  “You will ask me for death many times before
the end.  You will beg me for it as you
have never begged for anything in your miserable life.  In the end, I will give it you, much as I
loathe the thought of it, and you will die knowing you had the chance to save
yourself, save your city—knowing that you wouldn’t.”  

“Please,” Celebrimbor whispers, desperate, trembling with
dreadful anticipation.  

But Annatar shakes his head, and he cups Celebrimbor’s face
in his hands once more, looking into his eyes.
“Not yet,” he says, and Celebrimbor shivers.  “Not before you’ve seen the error of your
ways.”

Annatar has always been as good as his word.  Celebrimbor is begging for death within the
hour, begs for it with every touch of a hot brand to his skin, with every
agonizing tear of his flesh.  “Please,”
he begs, feeling blood flowing from his nose, pooling at the corner of his
mouth.  “Annatar, please.”

“Not yet,” Annatar says, analyzing the angle of Celebrimbor’s
fingers as they snap.  “Not yet,” he
says, flaying the mottled skin from Celebrimbor’s bones.  “Not yet,” he says, carving the Eye into the
bloodied skin of Celebrimbor’s chest.

After a while, Celebrimbor ceases to ask.  He ceases to speak.  He ceases to feel anything but agony,
coursing like fire through every inch of his body.  Once, he ceases to breathe, and for a moment,
he feels a sweet, irresistible numbness descend upon him.  But then Annatar lays a hand to his chest,
and Celebrimbor is pulled back, gasping, choking, sobbing.  “Not yet, Tyelpe,” Annatar admonishes.  “I’m not finished with you yet.”

The hours drag on.
They melt together, perhaps into days, or weeks, or months.  The hours are a featureless landscape of
pain, and Celebrimbor their unwilling admirer.
Little remains of Celebrimbor for Annatar to torment, and yet he finds a
way.  Annatar is in torture as he is in
all else—resourceful, persistent, inspired.

At last, even Annatar seems to be spent.  He bends over Celebrimbor, inspecting him, as
though searching for some last reserve of resistance Celebrimbor knows does not
exist.  A servant approaches, a twisted
thing Celebrimbor would have shuddered to behold, if he but had the
strength.  “All is ready, my lord,” it
says, the words dripping awkwardly from a stunted mouth.  Annatar nods, dismissing it.  He strokes the ragged hair back from
Celebrimbor’s face, the touch an assault on Celebrimbor’s broken nerves.  

“Well then, Tyelpe,” he says, the words measured,
deliberate.  “I suppose we must go.  Our time is close at hand.”  

He takes Celebrimbor in his arms with a tenderness that
means nothing to Celebrimbor, wrecked as he is.
Annatar carries him from the dungeon room, up paths that twist and turn
as they ascend.  He takes Celebrimbor
through a wide, dark hall and into the unforgiving light of day.  The sun burns Celebrimbor’s eyes, so unused
to such brilliant light, and he cries out, burying his face in Annatar’s
chest.  

For once, Annatar says nothing.  He holds Celebrimbor to his chest, carrying
him delicately, with a tender care that Celebrimbor no longer has the energy to
detest.  He walks over a blighted field,
carrying Celebrimbor to the very edge.
“Look, Tyelpe,” he says, shifting his weight so Celebrimbor can.  

Celebrimbor opens his eyes and looks out on a black-clad
host, ranged as far as his eye can see.
Each soldier, from the meanest orc to the highest lieutenant, bears the
red eye of Mordor, of Sauron, of Annatar.
It is only then, faced with the totality of Annatar’s victory, that
Celebrimbor despairs.  “I see,” he
whispers, his throat protesting the abuse.

“What is it that you see?”

There are tears in Celebrimbor’s eyes, burning the ruined
skin of his cheeks.  His vision blurs,
and sobs wrack his crumbling body; he trembles pitifully in Annatar’s
arms.  “The error,” he murmurs, barely
able to form the words, knowing it is what Annatar needs to hear.  “The error of my ways.”

“I knew you’d see it,” Annatar says, and there is little
victory in his words.  “It’s a shame it
had to be so late.”  He is silent for a
moment, surveying the field with the same unhurried interest with which he might
have watched the stoking of a fire in his forge.  Then he looks down at Celebrimbor, and there
is pity in his gaze, and tenderness, and love.
“Ask me again,” he says, shifting his weight so that Celebrimbor’s head
rests against his shoulder.

“Please,” Celebrimbor whispers, his cheek pressed into the
warmth of Annatar’s skin.  “Please just
let me die.”

Annatar bends his head and kisses Celebrimbor’s
forehead.  Then he nods, and hands the
body in his arms to the servants waiting behind him.  

They bind his broken body to a pole and raise it high into the
blistering air.  His head swims, his mind
roving wildly through the constant haze of pain.  He looks out over the field, and he sees the
vastness of Annatar’s army, the inadequacy of his own.  Too little, he thinks sadly, and too
late.  A stab of guilt wracks him, then,
and he thinks it more painful than all he has suffered before.  

He watches as the arrows are nocked, eyes following the
tensing of the bowstrings.  He knows he
should feel anger or sorrow or fear, but he doesn’t.  He watches the arrows fly, racing toward him
almost faster than he can track, but he is not afraid.  The black-fletched shafts bury themselves in
his arms, his stomach, his chest, and Celebrimbor feels nothing but
relief.  Soon enough, he feels nothing at
all.