Chapter Text
Celebrimbor peers down over the side of the wall, only the upper half of his face exposed, eyes blown wide. He looks remarkably akin to a rabbit peering out of its burrow, nose twitching, sniffing for a predator.
Does that make Mairon the wolf?
“Celebrimbor,” Mairon calls out, but his words have the opposite effect of what he desires as Celebrimbor ducks back down, out of view. Damn. Mairon takes a step forward and tries again, calling out, “Celebrimbor, I-“
He’s interrupted as something is cast down from the wall. Instinctively he falls back, swiftly putting a few steps between him and what was thrown. It proves unnecessary as the projectile crashes to the ground several feet in front of where he had been standing. The object-a box, plain, wooden-bursts open when it strikes the earth, shattering to splinters. A marvelous chorus of clinking rings scatter across the ground.
Mairon presses his lips together in a thin line.
“You have what you desire,” Celebrimbor calls out from above, the first and only words he has spoken to Mairon since arriving at the wall. “Now leave.”
…This is unexpected.
It would be easy, of course. It would be easy to stoop down and collect the rings, to depart from these lands with the offering Celebrimbor has cast down at his feet. It would be easy to pay Celebrimbor no further mind, to turn his back and return to Mordor triumphantly.
He had come prepared for war and siege. To go back with the prize he had desired and no blood shed was a great victory indeed.
But something had bothered him when he had arrived in Eregion, and it bothers him now, staring up at the wall that surrounds the great city. Mairon tilts his head to one side, the thin line of his lips slowly deepening into a frown.
The land has been unnaturally still since he arrived. Even if his arrival was not unexpected, Mairon had anticipated seeing at least one elf before the walls surrounding Ost-in-Edhil had risen into view over the horizon. Upon arriving at the wall, he had expected signs of a city prepared for siege. Yes, the gates are closed, but his arrival was not met with a wave of arrows. He had simply been permitted to walk directly up to the wall, at which point Celebrimbor had barely shown himself. Mairon had anticipated at least some resistance. Even of Celebrimbor relinquishing the rings is what he had desired, the lack of opposition is bizarre.
It is too quiet.
Even when he closes his eyes and focuses, the only noise he can hear is Celebrimbor’s breaths from somewhere above. Even if they are attempting to be deliberately quiet, it should be impossible for an entire city to be this still. He should hear something from beyond the walls. Shoes upon stone, wood crackling in the fireplace, the sound of hammers in the forge.
Something is wrong.
He is standing at a crossroads now. Collect the rings, as he had intended, and leave Celebrimbor to the silence. Or…
…
There really is no choice here, is there?
He steps over the rings. He can always return for them later, when his curiosity has been satisfied.
His skin ripples as he does so, bones compressing, proportions shifting, glossy black feathers erupting forth. Between the end of one step and the start of next, his body is a fraction of the size, and with a flap of newly formed iridescent wings he takes flight. Several swift, calculated beats bear him up into the air, allowing him to just crest just over the top of the wall. Not so many that he overshoots his target, nor so few that he smashes into the side of the wall. His talons clack against the stone as he lands on the parapet, and Mairon stands tall, wings tucked at his sides, surveying for any signs of life.
Save Celebrimbor, there are none. The city is dead.
Not in a literal sense, mind you. If every person within the city had somehow expired before Mairon had even arrived at the gates, that would be even more alarming. There are no dead bodies lying in the streets, but nor are there living people. Even when he takes a few seconds to tilt his head and adjust his gaze to sweep over every road he can see, he finds no one.
No elves. No animals. No life.
Mairon lowers his head, peering at Celebrimbor where he sits, hunched over upon the floor only a few feet away. He is not wearing any armor, instead forgoing defense for the familiar brown apron of his forge attire. His hair is disheveled and free flowing, lacking the tie he usually uses to keep it away from his face, something Mairon had failed to notice earlier. There is a knife that Celebrimbor holds loosely in one hand. Not a sword, but something closer to a blade for cooking.
There is a dullness within Celebrimbor’s eyes that gives Mairon more pause than the knife.
“A cowbird?” Celebrimbor questions dully, glancing away. “Fitting, I suppose.”
Mairon tilts his head to the side, trying to catch Celebrimbor in that small space where he can see him with both eyes to better take in his features. He looks…. Pathetic. Pitiful, yet somehow despite all the times Mairon has seen him openly weep, he sheds no tears. Mairon takes a small, cautious hop forward, and when Celebrimbor does not attempt to drive him away, risks another two.
“What do you want?” Celebrimbor asks, his voice flat when Mairon apparently strays too close to be ignored. “There’s nothing left for you here.”
Mairon is tempted to alter his shape back, to ask Celebrimbor what has become of this place since he was last here. The once thriving city is desolate in all ways but physical. Yes, the buildings still stand tall and proud, but it is empty. Despite lifting his head up to look down onto the streets, there is no one there. Even if they were all hiding within their homes, the windows are not closed and barred. He can see into some houses, yet no one is inside.
“I sent them all away,” Celebrimbor whispers, somehow catching the question in Mairon’s body language. Mairon turns his head back to Celebrimbor in time to catch him sigh. “When you… When I discovered what you had done, I sent them to other realms. They are long gone.”
The explanation to his unasked question only confuses him further. Yes, on the surface, Mairon supposes it makes sense. Celebrimbor could have easily assumed Mairon only cared for the rings, and would have been accurate in that assessment. By leaving them here and sending his people away, Celebrimbor could easily avoid unnecessarily bloodshed.
But it does not explain the initial resistance, if Celebrimbor planned to relinquish the rings so easily. It does not explain why Celebrimbor would send his people away, yet wait with the walls for Mairon to come.
It does not explain the knife.
He had not paid it much mind before, having identified it quickly as barely a weapon and hardly a threat. It has only one sharpened edge, making it ineffective for stabbing and practically useless in combat compared to a sword. Even unarmed, Mairon is confident in his ability to disarm Celebrimbor of the knife before he could even be scratched by the tool.
So why does Celebrimbor cling to it, when he does not even wear armor to defend himself?
“I am the only one left,” Celebrimbor continues, apparently content to talk to himself when Mairon lurks in the form of a bird. “If you linger because you need to satisfy some lust for blood, I only ask that you start and stop with me. I’ve given you the rings. Leave the other realms be.”
“So quick to martyr yourself,” Mairon remarks, shifting back into a more familiar shape in mid-air as he hops off the parapet. His feet touch the stone lightly, and he stands over Celebrimbor, arms clasped behind his back. “Have I ever given you any indication I crave violence?”
“Please do not do that,” Celebrimbor whispers, sparing only the briefest of glances at Mairon before he looks away and presses a hand to the side of his head as if nursing a headache.
“Do what?” Mairon asks, tilting his head to one side in question.
“Look like that. Look like him.”
“I am him,” Mairon counters, silently wondering if Celebrimbor has been seized by madness. When did he send his people away? It has been nearly a century since Mairon created the One Ring which now sits comfortably upon his finger. Has he spent all of that time alone? Or has his solitude only lasted a few days at most? Mobilizing an entire realm does take time, and Celebrimbor had no indication of when exactly Mairon would arrive. Perhaps he had aired on the side of caution. “We are the same.”
“I know,” Celebrimbor replies. “I simply do not wish to see my greatest regret again in my final moments.”
“Why are you so certain you are going to die here?” Mairon asks softly, trying to ignore the way something in his chest shifts and coils uncomfortably at Celebrimbor’s words. It is a feeling he cannot name, but settles within his throat like a stone. Celebrimbor merely hums noncommittally in turn, still refusing to look at him, fingers shifting, grip adjusting on the hilt of a blade clearly useless for combat.
And yet….
And yet.
“Celebrimbor, please,” Mairon says, voice firm and commanding as he reaches a hand out between them. “Give me the knife.”
Celebrimbor’s fingers twitch, but even as he moves his other hand away from his face he does not look to Mairon. His gaze remains fixed on the knife, the knife he drags into his own lap, staring at the blade. Had Mairon not flown up here to have his questions answered, what would Celebrimbor had done?
Mairon is swift. Both faster and stronger than Celebrimbor to be sure, and should he need to wrestle the blade away from Celebrimbor he is certain he will be able to do so. But would he be able to stop Celebrimbor in time if he turned the blade on himself? Mairon is no healer. If Celebrimbor managed to hurt himself, would he be able to fix it?
Celebrimbor shifts and Mairon braces himself to lunge for the knife, but instead of plunging it into himself Celebrimbor turns the blade around and silently presents it out to Mairon hilt first. His head remains bowed, but through stands of dark hair Mairon can see the dullness of his voice stains his eyes.
Slowly Mairon curls his fingers around the hilt of the knife. His fingers brush against Celebrimbor’s, and for a moment, it feels as though they are back in the forge once more, any other tool being traded amongst their hands. A muscle in Celebrimbor’s finger twitches, and then he relinquishes the blade completely.
All without actually looking at Mairon.
Nevertheless, Mairon takes great satisfaction in throwing the knife over the side of the wall. It is only when he hears it clatter against the rocks below that he allows himself to focus on Celebrimbor once more. Celebrimbor has lifted both of his hands now, cradling the sides of his head, hunching further in on himself. Yet he does not weep. Poor, emotional Celebrimbor does not cry.
Something inside him has been crushed, and Mairon was the one to break it.
Mairon curls his hand into a fist, and the ring on his finger no longer feels like his greatest triumph as much as his greatest mistake.
“I am sorry,” Mairon whispers.
“Alright,” Celebrimbor murmurs in turn. His tone is still completely devoid of emotion, and for a reason Mairon cannot truly understand it hurts like a physical wound to hear him speak so.
Mairon dwells there for several moments longer before he lowers himself to the ground. Celebrimbor does not move even when Mairon sits alongside him and, after a brief consideration, shifts closer to allow his shoulder to touch Celebrimbor’s.
Celebrimbor does not lean against him as he did in the past, but he does not pull away either. It could be seen as a victory, but if it is one it feels hollow.
“I am sorry,” Mairon repeats, turning away to gaze out over the dead city. If Celebrimbor had not surrendered the rings, he had been prepared to lay siege to it. To burn it. “Truly.”
Somehow, its current state feels worse.
“Alright.”
“It was never my intention to hurt you,” Mairon adds. He had hoped it would be easy, that all he would need to do was slip the One onto his finger and the elves would surrender. Even then, he had expected resistance to be minimal in the face of what was clearly the best for them. He had not expected to have his mind brush against Celebrimbor’s and to feel a wave of panic and fear in response before the connection had gone silent.
“Alright.”
“Celebrimbor my friend, please. Speak to me. Tell me what I can do to help you.”
“Please don’t do that,” Celebrimbor mutters, shaking his head, fingers blanching from the pressure he drives into his own skull. “Do not say such words. It is already impossible to bear looking at you, I cannot stand to have you call me that as well.”
Mairon gazes at Celebrimbor, and for the first time in his long life his heart aches with feeling. Not shame, though it sits in a similar way in his throat. Not fear, not for himself. No. He stares at Celebrimbor, and he grieves. He grieves for the loss of light in Celebrimbor’s eyes, the loss of his smile, the loss of their friendship. He grieves for the choices he made that brought them to this point.
They does not seem worth it any longer. He had desired a world that would be better, that would be perfect. But it is only sitting here now, shoulder pressed against Celebrimbor’s yet the elf refusing to lean against him as he usually would, that he realizes no world can be perfect without Celebrimbor in it.
“Very well,” Mairon relents. He falls back into silence and allows Celebrimbor the little privacy he can spare him by turning his gaze back over the dead city. He shall not leave him, not like this. Not when he knows what Celebrimbor will do if left to his own devices. But if Celebrimbor wishes him not to speak, he can grant him that.
…He is bad at this.
Perhaps, if he were elf or man, he could comfort Celebrimbor more. Perhaps his attempts at apology would feel more genuine. Even to Mairon’s own ears they sound like another falsehood.
“Just take your rings and leave me,” Celebrimbor whispers. “They are useless to you now anyway. I have spread the word far that Annatar was captured, and that the Dark Lord corrupted his craft. No elf will ever wear them again.“
“You did not tell them the truth?” Mairon asks in surprise, glossing over Celebrimbor’s demand for him to leave entirely. He shall not be doing that no matter how frequently Celebrimbor protests until he is certain he will not throw himself over the wall or stick his head into a lit forge. But the fact Celebrimbor lied is bizarre. Why would he?
The rings are not useless. He could simply present them to a dwarf or perhaps a man instead.
“If I had told them, they wouldn’t have agreed to leave,” Celebrimbor explains blankly. “Annatar is captured and Celebrimbor dies at the hands of the Dark Lord, trying to free him. It is a much nicer end to the story than Celebrimbor dying like a fool.”
It is wrong, the way Celebrimbor refers to himself. Detached. Cold. Clinical. It makes Mairon’s skin crawl, and he leans his shoulder slightly against Celebrimbor’s, trying to coax him away from such thoughts.
“I am not going to kill you, Celebrimbor.”
“Celebrimbor dies trying to free him,” Celebrimbor corrects, though his voice is still disturbingly detached and his words no better.
“You are not going to die, Celebrimbor,” Mairon insists more firmly, reaching out and catching Celebrimbor’s wrist in a hand. He yanks the hand away from Celebrimbor’s head, and the motion causes Celebrimbor to jerk and finally turn to look at Mairon.
His gaze is dull and lifeless and wrong, and Mairon hates it.
“I don’t think that is your choice to make,” Celebrimbor whispers.
“It is now, as you clearly cannot be trusted to make the choice for yourself,” Mairon retorts sharply, rising to his feet and dragging Celebrimbor after him. Celebrimbor does not resist, yet does not offer any help either, simply sagging bonelessly in Mairon’s grip, hand above his head, and Mairon hates that as well.
Enough. Enough of this. He will not leave Celebrimbor to his terrible thoughts, nor will he continue to sit here and let Celebrimbor wallow in his misery.
“You think I would let you die?” Mairon asks. “You think I would kill you? I care for you Celebrimbor, and you will not be leaving my sight until you understand.”
He takes a step backwards, and as he does so he drags Celebrimbor along with him, away from the edge of the wall. He takes a step backwards, and as he does so he steps away from the rings which still lay scattered upon the ground, long forgotten.
Mairon takes one step backwards, and Annatar takes one step forwards.