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He’d been fine for—centuries, really. Celebrimbor had grown up in terror, been bathed in the blood of everything he’d cared about as a child, existed without any form of peace no matter what he’d done to escape it, but there’d been nothing for so long. No monsters lurking in the dark since the First Age ended.
Celebrimbor had never truly escaped the fear of what lurked beyond his sight, but he’d. . . relaxed. Allowed himself to hope. Allowed himself to find a comfort he’d never had before, once a century had passed unmolested. And it felt wonderful. Enough so that, once Annatar came, he dared to trust.
Oh, Annatar was clearly hiding something about his origins. Maiar didn’t just leave Valinor anymore. They most definitely didn’t go to the doorstep of someone infamous for not trusting Maiar to plead their case. Celebrimbor knew Annatar had probably been a servant of the Enemy’s. But no one else thought so, and he was trying to prove himself better than his blood, so he agreed to try without much effort.
He couldn’t sleep for a week from anxiety, but it was fine. He jumped at every shadow for months after, but it was fine. Everything was fine.
But Annatar didn’t do anything untoward. And, as the centuries went by, Celebrimbor . . . persuaded himself his tormentor was truly gone. They had to be. They never would have been able to contain themselves for this long. And Annatar . . . Annatar had had plenty of opportunities to make him uncomfortable, but he wouldn’t even walk behind Celebrimbor unless he’d proven he didn’t mind. Something about his demeanor and history making him suspect he could startle easily, and not wanting to accidentally injure him from moving at the wrong moment. It was nice.
Comfortable, even.
The thought of anyone being near him terrified him, but he . . . Celebrimbor didn’t want to be alone because he was scared anymore. He’d never had a choice before. He hadn’t been able to get close to anyone, had been scarred afterwards because of it all, and even the thought of having to open up about it so that they would be understanding of his . . . issues would make him panic until he nearly fainted from lack of breath. But . . . he didn’t want to let them be the only person who’d ever touched him. Who’d ever been close to him. It was what they’d wanted, and the thought of confirming to their wishes even now was worse than everything else combined.
Celebrimbor kissed Annatar in the sunlight.
He cried afterwards out of fear, but Annatar didn’t seem to mind very much. He didn’t say anything about it, anyway, or push him into doing anything he didn’t want to. Instead he just stayed in Celebrimbor’s line of sight, close enough if he wanted him but far enough for privacy.
It was wonderful.
This was wonderful.
Annatar was so kind to him, letting him make the first move in everything. He didn’t care when Celebrimbor froze up for no apparent reason. He didn’t try to force anything he didn’t want or hadn’t initiated multiple times before Annatar tried. He wasn’t so alone anymore.
But . . . there were some things that just filled him with dread. And he didn’t want to complain, he didn’t want to say anything negative at all, considering how amazing Annatar was with all his stupid issues, but . . . Annatar liked doing things for him. He’d never tell him to stop, because it was something people normally did when they wanted to be nice and Annatar put up with so much, but he just . . .
Smiling at him for cleaning up when he hadn’t asked it or for giving him something was its own type of torture.
But that wasn’t the only issue. And—there were so many reasons for this, Celebrimbor knew there were, but none of them did anything to stop him from bolting whenever it happened. Annatar was a Maia. Of course he slept less than Celebrimbor did. And of course, since they . . . had a relationship, he would want to stay nearby when he wasn’t sleeping. It was normal.
But whenever Celebrimbor woke up in the middle of the night, facing a wall, and felt a warm body behind and around him, he was tossed back to . . . then. His instincts screamed at him to run and, just as when he tried to force them out, he obeyed. He couldn’t not.
Sometimes he wondered if he should admit to Annatar what was wrong, why he couldn’t just be happy, but he . . . this was his shame to bear. His own reminder of the monsters that hid in the dark.
He’d never escape his past. Things still lurked in the dark corners, making him worry he was being watched, but he wasn’t as alone as he’d used to be and that—that made those instances a little easier to attribute to paranoia alone. Having the Rings to focus on helped.
And then Annatar left.
Celebrimbor didn’t want to be clingy, didn’t want to make Annatar do something for him, but he . . . he could swear the night had eyes again. He’d work late and end up turning around every few minutes, certain someone was standing behind him. Layers helped. Layers, and keeping his back to a wall whenever he was truly alone, with lights everywhere he could get away with it.
He threw himself into his work. The Three were meant to make the world better, but he also pictured them as a way to make him feel more secure. To make a foothold where he didn’t have to rely on anyone else to feel less scared of the world. Making them took so much out of him, but working on the concepts was relaxing in and of itself. So much so that he managed to fall asleep onto a pile of paperwork later the same night.
Celebrimbor woke up in his bed, a conspicuous lack of ink on his face.
His heart sank.
Nothing else unusual happened in the following days, but he . . . this wasn’t okay. Tyelperinquar knew it wasn’t. No one in Ost-in-Edhil would have moved him without his permission. Few would have even dared to wake him. But he’d just . . . thought it was over. It had been so long since anything happened. Before they wouldn’t accept a month without access to him without hurting him for it. They never could have let him be for so long.
All it took was one action and here he was, falling apart again. Turning back into the person who lost no matter how they fought because struggling always meant more pain.
It didn’t matter what they wanted, did it? They’d get it, just because he was too fucking weak to fight against the being that had haunted him his whole life. They knew how to play him. Of course they did, because they’d always been there. Waiting, lurking, until they could break through again.
It was terrible and wouldn’t do anything for him, but Tyelperinquar didn’t just want to give up. He’d never wanted to, but now he’d had a taste of a life without being watched. He couldn’t lose that.
They had originally only truly escalated once he removed access to himself, so Tyelperinquar didn’t. They’d liked being able to go near him and through his things whenever they wanted. It wasn’t easy. He spent half his time throwing up from stress, but he knew they’d attribute it to fear. It had always been from fear before.
Things happened again, any time he seemingly let his guard down. His area was neatened, anything he struggled with fixed, little presents left around him—his bed was a favorite—and they constantly proved their presence. But there wasn’t any violence yet. Tyelperinquar clung to that, even as he fell apart. If they knew what he was doing they’d have hurt him. They wouldn’t just let that pass unmarked.
The day the Three were created brought hope back, because he had a way to fight back now. He wouldn’t always be at their mercy.
And then Sauron revealed himself.
As Annatar.
Tyelpe couldn’t keep the Three nearby. His mouth tasted bitter as he watched his hope disappear, but he knew he’d lost from the moment Sauron reappeared. He’d lost long ago. Sauron was just playing with him, switching the game from sheer terror to allowing him to think he was in control. He’d never had any power. He’d never had anything. Not even himself.
He wanted nothing more than to die, but he’d ended up with responsibilities to people who didn’t deserve to die just because their lord couldn’t handle existing.
Tyelpe tried. He tried so hard. But he faced a war on his mind at the same moment as a physical war, and neither had ever been his forte. He couldn’t escape. Certain things allowed him a slight reprieve, like using the name Sauron had requested—Mairon—rather than ignoring him or insulting him, but it wasn’t real. They both knew it was just a game.
He lived in fear of what would happen when they lost and Mairon had him physically, truly physically, for the first time ever.
It was as bad as he expected, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. Just once. Once before he lost himself as well.
“Why?” Tyelpe begged, voice pleading despite himself. “Why did you ever—“ He couldn’t continue, couldn’t finish the sentence. He’d been stalked by Annatar since he was a child. Watched, followed, abused, violated—and he just wanted to know why. What was it that had made him chose his life to ruin? Him to hunt?
His sight swam with tears and the Maia stooped down. One slender finger traced his eye ever so slowly, collecting the liquid on the tip, and brought it up to his face as he stood. Mairon tilted his head, watching as a drop slid down, down, down, and then—licked it.
He smiled, and Tyelpe could feel his heart stutter. His breath caught in his throat as Mairon reached down away, tilting his chin up, so gently he could barely feel it. It would be easier if it were harsh.
“Because,” he said, clearly enjoying each word as his lips spread, just a hint of white visible between them. “You scare so beautifully.”