#(or rather he gets it into his head-somehow- that that was what Annatar was SUGGESTING he should do)

[themalhambird]

Annatar enters the forge that morning expecting to find Celebrimbor dithering and pacing still- ready to ply him with gentle reassurances , pry at injured pride - whatever it takes to make the Lord of Eregion act in defiance of his High King's supposed orders- and thus isolate himself from his allies without even seeing it. He had come close, yesterday evening. Annatar had sensed it. A rush of righteous anger, a half uttered proposal to write back to Gil-galad with a message of false compliance....

But something had made the elf stop, suddenly. He had begged Annatar to leave him think- and this, Annatar had gladly done. Celebrimbor is too clever- too compassionate- too proud- too self-effacing. He will have spent the night thinking himself into knots, and oh how Annatar will enjoy playing with the tangle-

The forge is empty.

Or rather, it is empty of Celebrimbor. A handful of smiths are present, either standing and conferring quietly, or else sitting and sketching.

The furnace is a cold, gaping maw within which no flames dance. Annatar knits his brow.

"What is this?" He demands, to the room at large. A few of the smiths look up, wide eyed. One of them- the blond haired she-elf Celebrimbor seems to regard with no small amount of favour, breaks away from conversation with two of her collegues and walks toward him. At an appropriate distance, she stops and curtseys. "Lord Annatar," she says. "Did not Lord Celebrimbor speak to you before he left?"

"Before he-"

Annatar gapes. It is undignified; he cannot help it. The last time he felt this much shock, the Moriander runt had just brought his master's crown down upon his back. The she-elf speaks again, placid and oblivious and her voice the quiet simpering of bright bells on a spring breeze. Annatar wants to burn her, wants to burn the whole forge-

"He has gone to Lindon to plead with the High King. He says if he cannot reason Lord Gil-galad into granting leave for dwarvish rings, he will get down upon his knees and beg- and if that fails he will entreat that at the very least, the three might be brought to Khazad-dûm- if King Durin will allow such aid from the elves. In the meantime, he bids us consider other means of aid. We think to offer supplies, but must consider how to do so in ways that will neither offend nor seem to take advantage- we have been speaking of ways in which light may be stored to give sustenance to the farms below ground- your input would be most welcome, my lord, if-"

"When did Celebrimbor leave?" Annatar interrupts through gritted teeth. He tries to draw back his anger- this may yet be to his advantage. He can catch up with Celebrimbor- accompany him to Lindon. Let the elf so overburdened with thoughts of his family's disgrace be horrified if the High King, the Peredhel, or the La- or she dare gainsay an emissary of the Valar. Let Annatar meet this Gil-galad, this High King of Elves, for himself, and see if he would not have him beneath his thumb as he had Celebrimbor! Celebrimbor could not have been gone before the daylight, so-

"Before midnight, he was gone; news had come from Lindon only two or three hours since, he said," the she-elf is looking at him with - sympathy? Why? "He had left word by way of a note in the forge-but our paths crossed by chance. I was coming from the stables as he was going to them."

"You did not think," Annatar near growls, "to stop your lord heading for orc-infested woods alone in the dark?"

"He wasn't alone, Lord Annatar- he took guards with him." Again, the sympathetic smile- as though that were some consolation- if Celebrimbor took guards, what excuse does Annatar have to go after him- to try and bring him back-? "My lord?" The girl drops her voice, speaking as though what she has to say now is not to be overheard. "Lord Celebrimbor is- he is often over anxious not to be a source of worry to his friends." She emphasises the word, as though it were some great conspiracy. "If he did not speak of his plans to you, it is more likely he thought to spare you a burden than that he paid you no mind at all."

He forces his face into a taut smile, and does not tear her throat out for the backhanded slight. "Thank you," he says, voice clipped. "For your wisdom. I must...consider matters; I will leave you to your work." He will not waste his considerable knowledge and talents peering at the busy work of apprentices- he barely bothers to acknowledge the she-elf's farewell curtsey with a stiff bow of his own head before he is out of the forge, out, out, and striding forth he knows not where beneath a veil of simmering rage.

[northeasternwind]

more Second Age AU, this time after sauron is found out and reacts violently and is ousted somehow lmfao

(Part 1) (Annatar) (Yelling about bodyguarding)

Talion is strong, but Celebrimbor fears for him.

His sleep is fitful, not at all aided by the pain he must feel every time he draws a breath, or releases one, and occasionally he lets out a whimper that breaks Celebrimbor’s heart to hear. There is little that can be done for his ribs except to wait and try not to injure them further, and for some time the medics keep him in a drugged sleep that Celebrimbor can only watch miserably.

If he were to die he would surely have done so by now, but to see Talion suffering and know that it is through fault of his…

He does not mean to leave Talion’s side for so long. Truly, he does not. But seeing Talion so vulnerable, so broken, so terribly hurt in his defense awakens a fire in him that he has never had much luck controlling. Celebrimbor retreats to his forge, and there loses all sense of time in his labor.

Celebrimbor remembers his father’s fey moods. They say that his grandfather could sustain a mood for weeks, even months, and recall what he accomplished in that time. Celebrimbor and his father were less lucky: Celebrimbor only rarely remembers what occurs during his strange moods. The results are no less spectacular, however, and when he emerges from his subconscious activity Celebrimbor has created a full set of beautiful, splendid armor— perfectly sized to fit the one who has occupied his thoughts for so long now.

“Welcome back,” a voice says blankly, and Celebrimbor jumps nearly a foot to find a familiar dwarven figure supping at a nearby table, a vaguely amused expression on his face.

“Narvi!” Celebrimbor cries, setting his work down so he can greet his friend with an embrace. “How long have you been here? How long have I been gone?”

“Eh.” Narvi makes a noncommittal gesture. “Came soon as I heard. The Dark Lord himself! You’ve had a close shave, my friend.”

“I�� Not as close as Talion,” Celebrimbor admits. “He— He would not awaken when I— Do you know if—?”

“He’s recovering,” Narvi assures him, accepting Celebrimbor’s hug. “Been worried about you, though. Keeps asking if you’re really okay, or if everyone is lying to him.”

“I should reassure him then.”

“Hey! Not ‘til you’ve reassured me first!” Narvi cups Celebrimbor’s face in his hands, examining him closely. “Not too hurt, are ya? I know these strange elf trances of yours don’t much care for injury, so don’t go using that as an excuse to lie.”

“I have bruises, but nothing serious,” Celebrimbor tells him. It is something of a blow: he is mostly unhurt because Talion took the brunt of the damage, using his own body as a shield even knowing that Celebrimbor would recover faster.

Narvi nods. “Good to hear! But now I guess you’ve got business to attend to, what with having been indisposed for so long.”

Celebrimbor blushes faintly, looking back at the armor he has made. It is… beautiful.

“That for him?” Narvi asks, clearly already knowing the answer.

“I cannot give it to him,” Celebrimbor says. “It would—”

“Show favoritism, frighten him, make others jealous, whatever other excuses your silly mind can come up with,” Narvi dismisses. “You can’t just put it on a pedestal, Celebrimbor.”

“I will hide it.”

“That’s not what I meant! It’s meant to be used, Celebrimbor— ain’t your elf-magic finicky about what you do with it?”

“It’s not magic,” Celebrimbor argues, though he knows this is besides the point.

Narvi knows too. He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever you say. Point is, someone you love is hurt and now you’ve made something that can stop them getting hurt again. Give it to him.”

Celebrimbor hesitates. Narvi makes it sound so simple…

“Not now,” he says. “When he is better. I… will think about it.”

Narvi heaves a long groan. “Fine. That’ll be plenty of time to convince you, anyway. Now go hide that stuff if you want and git! You’ve got a whole kingdom and a boyfriend waiting for you.”

That is— unfortunately true. Celebrimbor does exactly as Narvi suggests, stashing the armor in his room and heading straight for the medical wing. He… He should check to see what has transpired in his absence, but the need to see Talion again, to ensure he still lives is much too strong. No one disturbs him as he walks.

The moment he enters and sees that Talion is still there, abed, alive, Celebrimbor’s heart turns over. Earlier it had seemed he would pass if Celebrimbor did so much as look away, but his lapse in attention does not appear to have done Talion any harm.

In fact, Talion is actually lucid, and his face relaxes in a similar expression of relief as his gaze falls upon Celebrimbor.

“Talion,” Celebrimbor says at once, and goes to him.

“Celebrimbor,” Talion greets weakly in response. “They said— but you never came, and I feared—”

Celebrimbor drops to a knee by Talion’s bed and grasps one of Talion’s hands in his, causing the mortal man to flush mightily.

“I am well,” Celebrimbor assures him. “I was merely— I was taken by a trance of sorts, and I could not control my actions— I am sorry to have made you worry so.”

“No— if you had no control…” Talion blinks, face creased in concern. “A trance? Does this happen often?”

“No, but though I have no control over it whatsoever I assure you it is completely harmless. Forgive me.”

Talion shakes his head. “There is nothing to forgive. I merely…” He swallows, and Celebrimbor cannot stop himself from following the line of his throat as the muscles work there. “I am glad you are safe.”

“And I am glad to see you are improving,” Celebrimbor says. “Last I saw you I feared you might perish at the slightest provocation. Even now I imagine the pain is unbearable.”

Talion’s blush deepens, but something in his expression hardens. “Then I am grateful for your strange trance, as it has saved you much unnecessary distress.”

I would rather have been here, Celebrimbor thinks, but that— that is too much like a confession, and the words do not find their way from his mouth.

“Rest,” he orders instead, rising to seat himself at Talion’s bedside. “I am well, and so you need only fear for your own sake.”

Talion sputters. “My lord, you have— there is an entire kingdom out there—”

“It can wait until you have found sleep again,” Celebrimbor assures him. “Rest, Talion. For my sake.”

Talion turns beet red, and Celebrimbor fears— but he settles back into bed, wincing minutely as he jars his injuries.

“As my lord commands,” he murmurs, already surrendering himself to oblivion.

“Goodnight, Talion,” Celebrimbor says quietly, holding Talion’s hand and standing vigil until he has found his slumber again.