Author's Note:
You may have missed two updates before this.
Annatar
Even while he served Morgoth, the forge was his place for solitude.
He loved the heat from the fires, the scent of smoke and flames in the air, and the steady rhythmic hammering of numerous smiths at work. He had forgotten; his forge while he served as a Lieutenant did not possess any such attributes.
He had forgotten how it was like, to converse about his craft for hours on end. The Elves awoke a desire in him that fell in slumber during his long years of leadership. For once he was not feared. For once he was not looked upon with revulsion.
"There," someone called out behind him. Annatar tore his eyes away from the forges and left the balcony. Celebrimbor stood by the anvil, holding up a sword in his gloved hands. There was a satisfied smile on his face. "What think you?"
Annatar pulled on his own set of gloves and took the sword from him. He studied it in long silence before he looked up in approval, a small smile on his face.
"Perfect," he answered simply.
He had plans; there was no possible way he could change them. But for now, he wanted that happiness and that feeling of belonging.
If only for a moment.
Author's Note:
A part of me would like to think that somewhere deep down, Annatar received some form of happiness with the Elven smiths.
