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"This is not about you," says Annatar, his voice patient, tired. "You must understand that the shaping of the world is not, cannot be, about you and me, about whatever expectations you had of our friendship."
"It has nothing to do with the shaping of anything," retorts Celembrimbor. "All you want is for everything and everyone to bend to your will."
"That is the desired shape, yes."
"For what end?"
"Even you should know that."
Power over others is the end. Celembrimbor knows, if he does not understand.
"But you do understand. You want power over me, as over the witch of the woods."
"I wanted your company, as well as Lady Galadriel's. Regardless, she is completely unlike you."
"You keep confusing means with mere excuses. The lady's power is for its own sake. However much of it she might lend to the likes of you to do good, it will always be for her own sake, at the end. As the likes of you can only give, the likes of us can only take, and hoard."
"You would hoard me."
"Like she did with the prince of Trees. Fair little thing, but not nearly as clever; I'd much rather have you. But make no mistake: She would cast him away in a moment, were he to stand between her and the yearns of her heart—as would I."
"You see yourself as akin to the lady, yet things prosper and grow under he reign—while under yours? Living beings constantly exploited, tortured and killed for your petty amusement, and stolen light rots unseen in cold, dark pits."
"I'd might still find a better use for light, could I count on your cooperation."
"Keep me in golden cage as a spoiled favorite to visit at dull times. Why?"
"Since I've come to enjoy you, and would much rather see you smile than waste away forgotten in a dungeon with the rest. And why would you—" the spirit reaches closer and gently holds the elf's gaunt face—"why would you agree? Why betray all you've held dear to hide yourself under your foe's roof?"
The elf considers the question, earnestly attempts to find the answer within his heart—yet he cannot.