GULA
"You are mine, little one."
His master's voice is so devastatingly tender; it sends a dark swell of desire rolling up through him. And how he gasps in delight as his master kisses him, he sends a mewling cry of pleasure pouring down his master's throat as so slowly his master pushes him down upon the bed, as he parts his thighs, raises his hips, as with such exquisite care his master enters him. So hotly, so slickly his master's stomach presses up against his own, so powerfully his master holds him down as his back arcs into that sensation.
Ashen hands grip about his wrists; a bleating, panting series of whimpers ripple over his lips as he feels his master withdraw, and so gently, so lovingly then he feels his master push back into him.
Deeply his master kisses him, languidly he rolls his hips, and every nerve in him shrieks out its ecstasy with each new contact. His cheeks flush pink as his master builds his rhythm, his fingers clench into desperate, trembling fists about the sheets as those wondrous sensations swirl and meld and stoke within him, and through the lingering press of their lips he can feel his master smile.
Tenderly, fiercely, their lips part; a jagged moan of arousal scorches up his throat as his master's mouth wanders, as a simmering constellation of biting, nipping little kisses trails down over his jaw, runs down the side of his neck.
"You are mine," his master breathes, with one fluid roll of his hips pressing yet harder up inside of him, and the filthy groan of pleasure that erupts then from his throat could have brought the mountains toppling down around him in their shame. His master's thrusts rock him into the bed, every flex of muscle only pushes him down further, deeper, harder, faster, and into that sordid well of sensation he simply melts.
His eyes flicker shut in his rapture; his master's breath tingles over his neck, over his lips, every buck and coil of his hips sends such seething delight coursing up through him.
"Mairon," his master croons, over and over again his name pours from his master's lips, slick and deep and low and visceral, and with each utterance such happiness, such completeness flows through him. His master is here, his master is his, in all of his sweetness and all of his pain he is his, and a moan of adoration tumbles from him as once more his master breathes his name.
But slowly his master's voice changes, some subtle quality in it shifts, hot and torrid still it is but it becomes tinged with something else, something strange. And between his thighs his master's rhythm falters, it slips and regains itself but somehow then it is made different.
"Mairon," his master pants, and something dreadful now sounds in his voice, something vile, and so desperately he wishes to claw it from him, to recoil, to mend what has been done. And gradually each thrust up inside of him becomes painful, loving still but sharp, gutting and wrong and hurting. "Mairon, please. We don't have much time…"
"No," he moans, pain sends the word leaching from his lips, and as he squirms his master's fingers become biting upon him, they close like manacles about his wrists. "No, stop…"
A spray of dust comes shivering down from the ceiling; it veils his master in a deathly shroud of grey. And below him the bed, the stone, the earth, it all groans, it seethes and rends and tears in its agony, and as he feels its convulsions he rides them, he snatches their momentum to try to push his master from him. Every muscle in him trembles with the effort of it as he writhes; his shoulders lift from the sheets only a few inches before his master slams him back down, and the dull impact of flesh upon stone knocks the breath from his lungs.
"Stop…" he gasps, he pleads, as the ache of that force seeps through him, deadens him, immobilises him but for the scrape of his back across the bench with each agonising thrust up inside of him.
"It is too late."
His master's voice is horrifying, thin and torn and warped, and with every ounce of failing strength left to him he tries to pull away as his master rams into him, as his master hurts him. Every instinct in him screams at him to move, but he can't, he just can't, he can only lie there paralysed as the dust comes shaking down, as the screams flicker through his ears, as the bellows and horn-calls and that chilling, awful scratching fills the chamber. He can only lie there on that cold stone bench and be split apart.
"S-stop…" he sobs, the tears fall hot and stinging down his cheeks as he lies there pinned, as he lies there aching, as his master's every grating move against him brings only soreness, as every slam up inside of him is a violation, an abuse. And the screeches only come louder, the horns blare out their triumph as he starts to bleed, the door buckles under their fury, it rips from its hinges and he screams as his master comes inside of him, as it tears him apart…
x x x
The candles dotted about Annatar's bedchamber burst into incandescent little gledes of flame as the Maia's eyes jolted open, as the breath caught in his throat, as he scrabbled up into a sitting position amid the tangled sheets. The cool night air seemed sticky upon his skin, he pressed a hand tenderly to his lower stomach and he winced at the soreness that he found there as the last reverberations of that dream, that awful, cloying dream, quivered through him.
He exhaled one slow breath; gently he unclasped his hand from his stomach, and as the ache gradually began to dissipate from him he settled himself more comfortably against his pillows. The scrambling horror of his mind slowly smoothed over into serenity, the talons of the dream grew blunted, and more sagely then he glanced about his bedchamber.
The moon shone through the gauzy curtains that were draped over the arched doorframe that led out to his balcony; it hung like a smudged, silvery orb upon the fabric that rippled in the cool night breeze. For a while he sat still in his bed, emptily he gazed upon its ephemeral form, and a sudden shiver of loneliness clawed through his heart.
The city was too quiet at night, he thought. The wind moaned over Eregion's high fells; it snatched up what sounds of quiet industry or goodly chatter that might prevail and it dashed them to the merciless rocks. It shredded what impious noises might dare to challenge the silent night, and it sent a chill through Annatar's heart. These lands were no allies to him, he thought sadly. This city would never be his home.
His home had been taken from him.
His lip curled sourly, his gentle gaze out towards the moon curdled into a scowl, and a familiar glow of anger kindled in his stomach. Long ago it had been, but it might well have been yesterday for all the solace that time had brought him. For the Noldor in their arrogance, in their selfishness, in their bloodstained pretences of divinity had marched upon him that final, ruinous time. Their piteous whining, their slaughters and their tantrums had finally moved the idle Valar to act, to make unjust, hypocritical war upon him and his people, to raze from them their kingdom and cast them broken and mangled to the cruel claws of the world.
These elves, Annatar thought bitterly, they seek only to possess, to devour in their greed.
Fitting then, he smirked thinly, and the candles about the room crackled with his wrath. He would reap what hateful seeds that so long ago they had sown. He would scythe through them until their entrails bloodied their grand houses, until the streets ran foul with charnel, until –
A strange noise from the balcony yanked him from such thoughts, and quickly he roused himself from his bed, casting aside the gauzy curtains until he stepped fully into the outdoors. The stone was icy under his feet, the breeze lapped at his loose bed-trousers, and he crossed his arms over his bare chest as he frowned out towards the distant horizon and the red streaks of the coming dawn.
Yet as he glanced about he could discern no source of that noise, and he was almost about to retreat back into the warmth of his bed when a slight scuffle sounded from somewhere above him. Instantly he whirled, his eyes darted upwards, and came to an unexpected lock upon the beady gaze of a plump raven that perched atop the shingles of his roof.
He sighed then in relief, yet no small amount of puzzlement raced through his mind, and he leaned back upon the balcony's railing as the bird swiftly took flight, arcing about in a wide circle above his head before fluttering to stand upon the railing beside him. Curiously it gazed at him, its inky eyes examined him, until with a very contented-looking wriggle it shook itself, stretching and re-folding its glossy wings as it stepped tentatively towards his arm.
"You are a long way from home," Annatar murmured, looking down at the raven with something akin to fondness in his eyes. Not all birds were loyal to the Windlord, that he had learned in ages long past. For amid his shadowy halls carrion birds of all sorts were like to roost, they had scoured the skies above the mountains and plucked from them the Valar's spying eyes. Some subtle scavengers had dared even the nests of the Eagles themselves, the cunning corvidae would snatch up eggs and crack them open to feast upon their innards. Upon wings dark and swift, messages between the strongholds of the North had been passed, and beside him now the raven tokked. Its head tilted as it gazed up at him, and it shuffled a little closer, its long talons tapping upon the railing as it walked.
The bird nudged gently at his arm with its beak, and a strange chittering sound clattered out of its throat. Almost reproachfully it stared up at him, and wearily then Annatar sighed.
"Soon, youngling," he murmured, outstretching his hand to allow the raven to perch upon it. Eagerly the bird stepped to him, it preened itself proudly as he turned to lean facing the horizon, and its feathered chest puffed out like some glorified little general as he spoke to it.
"Soon," he said, and his eyes glimmered red in the glare of the dawn as he promised it. "Our time will come again, and we will be as kings in these lands, as warlords of blood and marrow and revelry."
The raven's eyes gleamed, it cawed a triumphant little tok into the air, and at it Annatar smiled.
"Now," he said, "you are a clever one indeed, if clad even in this form you have recognised me. You wish to be of service to me? Then gratefully I will command you. Gather your brethren, sweetling. Take flight now, and from the far corners of Ëa bring those who are yet faithful. Bring those who will hearken to their lord's command, and slake your beak in the blood of those who will not."
The raven's claws dug little furrows into Annatar's hand, and so deliciously that sting served to move him, it served to guide him in his treacheries. For before him the raven inclined its noble head, and eagerly it turned to the lightening skies.
"Go now, youngling," Annatar said sternly. "May the shadows serve to speed your wings. For to you this now I swear. Soon we will be glutted. Our enemies will pay for what they have stolen from us."
From his hand the raven leapt, its proud wings unfurled and caught upon the breeze, and with a caw it sped away east, his grand little vassal set abroad in all the perils of the land. Gladly Annatar watched it go, and silently he bade it luck.
Slowly then he wandered back to his bedchamber and began preparing from the day, though the hour yet seemed cruelly early. The Council of Ost-in-Edhil was called for a meeting, fortunately freeing him from Celebrimbor's clutches for the day. His other projects and consultations amid the Gwaith-i-Mírdain could hold for a while, he mused, arranging himself before a tall mirror set into the corner of the room and running a comb through his slightly sleep-mussed hair. Perhaps it was time to uncover what other amusements the court of Eregion might hold.
An arrow thudded into a man-shaped dummy at the furthest end of the archery range, sending a small puff of straw-dust billowing into the air with the impact. Annatar squinted balefully after his arrow, appraising its heron-feather fletching left quivering in the dummy's chest. It had been extremely pleasant to discover that even after centuries of disuse his skills were not far diminished from the days of his might, yet these Elven arrows fitted oddly to his string.
His own bow he had brought with him out of the deepest foundations of Lugbúrz as its slow construction continued in his absence: a splendid recurved weapon with slender arms of polished yew wood, and a core fashioned of the ivory tusk of a colossal mûmak slain in the deserts of Far Harad, its head gifted to him by the chieftain of those lands in tribute. The kingly weapon then he kept strung with dark horsehair, and it had served him well upon his long journey west. Yet his arrows had been depleted amid the wilds, and from the store-master of Celebrimbor's armoury he had borrowed a fresh quiver some weeks before.
Slowly he plucked up another arrow and nocked it to his string, rolling out his shoulders as he sighted for the dull ink-mark that denoted the target's sternum. Fluidly he aimed and drew, the bow hummed with pressure in his hand as the arrow scudded through the air and embedded itself with a satisfying crunch into the dummy. A fair shot, he judged it, yet imperfect. These arrows seemed almost to squirm against him, they shuddered and quailed as they were set to his string, and it was only with a concentrated effort of will that he could master them and send them soaring true.
The pallid sunshine limned his bare arms in its radiance, his customarily rich attire cast aside for the freedom of movement that a sleeveless jerkin might provide, and he reached for another arrow. As he nocked it, faintly he was aware of footsteps descending the marble stairs to the shooting galley, but he paid little attention to them. His eyes narrowed, the gold in them gleamed as he found his mark, his string drawn and the pressure left coiling through the muscles of his right arm as for a moment he held.
"What are you doing?"
The unmistakeable tone of Celebrimbor's voice sounded from behind him, yet the elf's words seemed strangely ephemeral; they scarcely served to distract him as he focused his will upon the arrow.
"Practising."
With a victorious grimace he let the arrow fly. It buried itself with an immensely satisfying thud into the dummy's straw head, clean through the ink mark that denoted an eye socket.
A gleeful, sadistic light seemed to blaze for a moment in Annatar's eyes as he turned towards the elf lord, yet quickly it was smoothed away into friendly regard as readily Celebrimbor smiled at him.
"You have no mean skill with a bow," he remarked appreciatively, his gaze shifting to the numerous arrow-shafts that punctured the unfortunate dummy.
"Thank you, my lord," Annatar replied softly, and almost coyly he glanced down at the bow in his hands. "I have always enjoyed hunting, when my work would grant me leisure. For it is such a thrill, is it not? To chase, to pursue… To outwit. Many creatures we would hunt, the fleet and the swift. The arrogant…"
"What?" Celebrimbor's voice sharpened at that last, rather disconcerting, turn of phrase, but Annatar smiled at him with such genial pleasantry that quickly he was soothed.
"I jest," the Maia purred. "For whom has not hunted the stag who thought himself uncatchable, the boar who thought himself indestructible? They learn of their folly in the end, as do we all."
A thin smile quirked at Celebrimbor's lips, he was not entirely sure that Annatar's words were all that they superficially seemed, but as if sensing his dissonance Annatar stepped forward brightly.
"Would you care for a try?" he asked, his magnificent bow proffered in his hand.
"Nay," Celebrimbor said affably, shrugging down at himself and the heavy, billowing robes that garbed him. "I am hardly attired for sport. Continue, I bid you. I would see what you can do."
Readily enough Annatar turned, taking up a fresh arrow and raising his bow. Yet even as he drew he could sense the lord's gaze lingering uncomfortably across him. Far too easily did it rest upon the play of the corded muscles in his arms, upon the curve of his hips as he twisted, and it took all of his concentration to bite down the disgust that came clambering up his throat.
Swiftly then he loosed, the arrow flew, and embedded itself at a slightly crooked angle through the dummy's stomach. Annatar tutted in vague dissatisfaction; a serviceable shot, yet hardly elegant, but behind him he heard Celebrimbor scoff.
"A shame," the lord said teasingly. "Perhaps you are not as good a shot as you think you are."
Irritation glowed in Annatar's stomach, slighted pride scratched beneath his skin, and almost without thinking he whirled about, he grabbed an arrow and nocked it, with a vicious growl sending it whizzing through the air not a millimetre's breadth from Celebrimbor's ear.
"Am I not?"
The percussion of the arrow's passing seemed to graze across Celebrimbor's skin, for a moment utter shock gripped him and it rendered him speechless. Yet swiftly that paralysing surprise faded from him, a rather unlordly splutter of affront burst over his lips, but with it some sordid skewer of delight punched through his stomach.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed, and at such an unexpectedly crude word to come tumbling over his lips Annatar's grin widened. "Fuck… Annatar, you - … What - what sort of a game do you think you are playing at?"
"An amusing one."
The Maia's eyes glittered, yet for the roguish charm of his voice Celebrimbor felt his throat begin to tighten, he felt the familiar flush of arousal prickle through him, and desperately he tried to squash it back down.
"What… what if you had missed?" he said shrilly, a look of such delightful outrage plastered over his face as his hand instinctively came up to rub at his cheek, to run in self-reassurance over the intact helix of his ear.
"I did not, my lord," Annatar replied evenly, before turning to nock another arrow and send it flying towards the dummy, spearing it through the throat.
"But what if you had?" he insisted, but even to himself now his words sounded forced as his initial furore began to drain away.
With one arched eyebrow Annatar turned back to him, such innocent mischief glistened in his smile as he drawled, "Then I would be apologising profusely, my lord. Yet as the matter stands…"
Celebrimbor scoffed as haughtily as he could, he drew himself up to his full height and imperiously he looked down upon the Maia. Yet for all of his inflations of grandeur, with a glance Annatar undid him; what resentful words he might have snapped withered in his throat, they sank into the simmering pit of desire that bubbled within his stomach. So golden Annatar was, so pure; so fey and fickle and infuriating and untouchable, so desperately Celebrimbor wanted to please him, and that confusing twist of emotion found him averting his eyes as the Maia met his too-overt stare.
"Well," Celebrimbor eventually muttered, the words huffed into his collar. "No harm done, I suppose…"
"Of course not, my lord," Annatar said smoothly, but elegantly he bowed. "I apologise if I have caused offense."
"No, Annatar," Celebrimbor sighed, and graciously he raised the Maia from his obeisance. "The fault was mine, my friend. I – I overreacted… Think no more upon it. Let no tensions mar the air between us. Now, if you might excuse me. The rapacious needs of my people beckon. We host a party of Gonnhirrim upon the turning of the week, and matters of relations must be seen to."
"An excellent occasion, my lord," Annatar said, and the slight look of relief that moiled across his face sent Celebrimbor's heart soaring. "I look forward to it."
For a slight, awkward moment Celebrimbor paused, eagerly he awaited what more might flow from the Maia's lips, but as Annatar fell silent he swiftly caught himself. Amiably he nodded, he bade Annatar good day, and the tantalising smile with which the Maia treated him gnawed at his thoughts for far longer than might be deemed prudent.
The coming of the Gonnhirrim, the Stone Lords, to Ost-in-Edhil's grand halls was no less decadent than expected. Celebrimbor's larders were laid bare; every manner of wine and mead and spiced liqueur was dragged up from the cellars, great haunches of beef and venison turned upon honeyed spits, platters of roasted pheasant and partridge were nestled atop the tables already groaning with breads, cakes and vegetables in a myriad array of dishes. No expense had been spared in providing the most sumptuous of banquets to host the Hadhodrim, for to cause offense or discomfort in the least to Ost-in-Edhil's chief trading partners would have been an grievous slight, and an intolerable failing of diplomacy.
Therefore the hall was bedecked in kingly splendour that hearkened even to the days of Tirion in its grandeur. Great silk and velvet banners hung down from the ceiling; they were blazoned across the walls. Silver stars shone alongside the crossed hammers of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and alongside them in brocades of richest crimson and gold were embroidered the sigils of the lords of Moria; the one-eyed boar, the carven diamond, the three axes, the knotted wyrm, and many more besides in majesty beyond count.
Laid lengthwise across the high dais, the lords' table commanded the room, and from its wide expanse the most honoured of Celebrimbor's guests had survey of the floor, where the lesser nobles and courtiers mingled in a lively, merry confluence. Upon a chair of burnished brass and plush ebony velvet Celebrimbor sat, his brow bound in a royal circlet of gold. Delicate strands of the metal dripped elegantly through his sleek hair, and a great ruby rested upon his forehead, its polished facets glimmering richly in the light as he talked amongst his guests. In dark, flowing robes of fur and silk he was arraigned, and animatedly he spoke with the noble Hadhodrim who sat upon his right; stout lords with their long beards most opulently braided, teased with ribbons of gold and glistening mithril, and laughter and wine flowed warmly between them.
Upon Celebrimbor's left Annatar sat, dressed no less finely in elegant robes of gold and cream, and coolly the Maia's eyes skated over the hall as he took a thoughtful sip of wine from his goblet. The Gonnhirrim were a strange people, he had swiftly decided, brusque and loud and raucous if his infrequent dealings with Narvi had taught him anything, but warm and fast in friendship, and in this city they displayed a readiness for talk and fair trade with the Quendi that he had long thought simply impossible. Never had he given them much thought in his designs, save for passing recognition of their existence, and faintly now he wondered if he had not committed a minor oversight. Never had the Hadhodrim sworn allegiance to him or to his master in the ages now lost, but they had only openly opposed him when foolish alliances with the Noldor had dragged them from their caves.
Perhaps, he thought, he should extend the invitation.
The Gonnhirrim guarded their secrets close, they turned their faces from the sky and opened their hearts to the earth, to its spoils; its metal and its gems and all of the beauty and wealth that such things could produce, and to that motive he could not profess himself to be unsympathetic. Yet for that idle observation, oh how he had exulted as a rumour had snatched past him earlier. The dwarrow lords muttered of dark things in the mountains, of wolves, of beasts, of omens; of prospecting parties who did not return from their ventures, of a pall of blood in their sacred Mirrormere.
With an air of sorrow he had listened, he had nodded compassionately at such grave news, and it was all that he could do to keep the triumphant smirk from his face.
His servants, it appeared, had not been idle.
Yet from him now the conversations had turned; Celebrimbor was engaged enthusiastically with the lords upon his right, and though he glimpsed several other members of the council about the high table or scattered amid the hall, none looked to him for company. So for a while he simply contented himself to sit, but soon enough he found himself sighing down into his goblet.
"You do not like?"
A strongly accented voice sounded upon his left, and blinking in surprise he turned to acknowledge the heretofore-silent dwarf who was seated next to him. Bright almond eyes stared up at him from beneath a geometric circlet of gold upon its brow, rosy cheeks were flushed merrily with heat and wine above a short beard braided into two elegant prongs at the chin, and the dwarf stared pointedly up at him. "You do not like?"
For a moment Annatar paused, unsure of quite how to reply, but words slowly trickled to him. "I – "
"Ah, it is no matter," the dwarf laughed over him, patting him merrily upon the arm as for a few perturbing moments he struggled for an appropriately decorous response. "Men-folk, my people, such grand feasts they like. But it does not please so well we of Durin's daughters."
Sagely Annatar nodded, but an instant later his brow furrowed as the dwarf's words truly sank in.
"Daughters?" he repeated incredulously, swallowing hard around the mouthful of wine that had caught in his throat in surprise.
Swiftly, surreptitiously, he glanced over the grinning dwarf, and beneath the swell of sumptuous velvets he fancied that he could discern a more womanly shape. Fancy or no, he told himself sternly, it would not do to be insulting among such company, and apologetically then he smiled. "I am most terribly sorry, my lady. I did not realise…"
"No," she chuckled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "You fey-folk never do."
For a moment Annatar was silent, some grievously bewildered look must have passed over his face as the dwarf stroked the braided tips of her beard, for most heartily then she laughed, and she said, "I am called Aldvís."
"A pleasure," Annatar purred, swiftly casting his puzzlement aside as the conversation tilted back towards normalcy. "I am named Annatar, my lady."
A roar of noise engulfed the hall for once brief moment, and where Annatar blinked in consternation at the sudden din, Aldvís remained quite unfazed. "You are smith, here?"
"I am," he replied, leaning in close as the percussion of that roar yet bounced about the walls. "And yourself?"
"A smith also, yes," she smiled, twisting about to present an ornate silver ring inset with a gleaming emerald upon her chubby forefinger. "Rings like this I make, for my lord Durin under the mountain. I am…" Here Aldvís' voice faltered, her face pinched as she sought for the word in the Sindarin tongue, and at her Annatar smiled encouragingly. "I am… captain of his ring-makers. This how you say, yes?"
"You would be the chieftainess," Annatar proclaimed, and Aldvís giggled as he took her hand gracefully within his own, as he planted one cheeky kiss upon the great ring on her finger. "The ring is exquisite, my lady, yet not so fair as its maker."
Aldvís' cheeks blushed an impressive shade of crimson at his words, and daintily she withdrew her hand, turning instead to take a cooling sip of wine.
For a while then they spoke amicably, suddenly glad of each other's company. Aldvís fondly told of the wonders of her realm; the subterranean gardens where the shale splintered and whirled into roses of petrified stone, the great fountains of spring-water delved from the living rock where her kindred would gather and be merry, the catacombs of stalactites that lurked in the darkness like the serrated teeth of some slumbering beast, and only the bravest of her kind dared those deadly shards of stone for the gemstones that seamed them.
Where she faltered in language Annatar aided her, with genuine pleasure he listened to the adoration in her voice as she spoke of her home, yet a strange melancholy gradually clutched at his heart.
So suddenly, so bizarrely he wished that he could cast aside his illusions, his hollow inventions of himself. He would but once stem the lies that flowed over his tongue. He would tell her of the barren lands that he had come to love, in all of their ugliness and all of their splendour; the fiery plumes of Orodruin's wrath, the cavernous depths of his mines beneath the Ephel Dúath, even the grey waves that lapped upon the shores of Núrnen in the south of his realm. She would like them, he thought sadly, for what greater marvels of geology existed in these lands, in these times?
Yet purpose bound him to his lies, coldly he sluiced such desires from him, and if his smile grew frosty as he spoke of his deeds within Celebrimbor's halls then Aldvís did not seem to notice.
The hours rolled by, the hall swelled with merriment, until as the sun was dipping below the horizon a quiet was at last called. A space before Celebrimbor's chair was cleared upon the table, and a large, ornate chest was borne up the steps of the dais by four dwarves decked in shining livery, the kingly sigils of the Longbeards picked out in richest mithril over their breastplates. Before Celebrimbor they laid the chest, then withdrew and bowed deeply in unison.
"A gift from the Lord Durin the Third," one of them spoke in a gravelly tone, "King of the Khazâd, Lord of Moria, the Dwarrowdelf, and the realm of Khazad-dûm. In token of the friendship and trade between our peoples he presents to you, Lord Celebrimbor Curufinwion, these gifts; worthy heirlooms of our people and a symbol of allegiance in this age."
At Celebrimbor's gracious beckon the herald stepped forward, he lifted the lid from the chest, and all peered curiously towards its contents.
Upon a plush base of black velvet, four grand knives were arrayed in the shape of a star, their blades extended outwards, and even Annatar's eyes widened as he beheld the skill of their craftsmanship. For each dagger was carved of a differently coloured stone, and together they formed a rich rainbow of colours upon the dark velvet.
"Malachite, from the great foundries of Erebor, my lord," the herald intoned, indicating the foremost knife that crowned the star; its blade of polished verdant stone swirled through with ribbons of black and fine threads of gold.
"Azurite, from the last quarries of Belegost," the herald continued, and Annatar's gaze flicked to the handsome blade of cobalt blue stone before trailing onwards. The next blade shimmered with a strange iridescence; its surface crawled with a yellowish sheen of a sunflower's hue, yet it seemed dusted with a glittering spray of silver. "Ammolite, from Moria," the herald said, "and here red carnelian brought forth from the distant Orocarni Mountains and our kindred there."
A vibrant red blade completed the star, its blade smooth and bloody. Annatar leaned further forward to admire it, and as he did so his eyes caught also upon a neat line of obsidian arrowheads that dotted the bottom of the chest, which the herald then announced. All murmured appreciatively as they beheld the weapons, yet as the court settled themselves once more, Annatar heard the faintest huff of disapproval emanate from Aldvís' nostrils.
Celebrimbor nodded most courteously at such noble gifts, and richly he proclaimed, "You will send to King Durin my deepest of gratitude. For truly these are gifts beyond measure, and I shall keep them with pride in remembrance of our friendship."
Before him the escort bowed low, and as they departed, the courtly chatter began anew.
Celebrimbor dived back into conversation with the dwarf lords upon his right, and to Annatar's left Aldvís reached sharply forward and took a long draught of wine from her cup. Her eyes narrowed as she looked over the arrowheads once more, her brows crossed into a frown, and quickly she clutched to Annatar's hand.
He started slightly as her small fingers closed about his own, and as he leaned in towards her she muttered darkly, "These they should not give."
"Why so, my lady?" Annatar murmured, casting an airy smile about the room as a few curious eyes strayed towards their proximity.
"They… they are not good to give. There is danger in them."
"Danger?"
Aldvís' fingers tightened upon Annatar's hand, with repugnance she stared upon the arrowheads. "Deep they come from. In Khazad-dûm, in darkness. Too deep. We do not go there, but the foolish. Obsidian glass they find there, but other things too. Greasy flames that melt stone. Things that rumble, things that roar. I do not like them, Annatar. It is treachery."
Deeply Aldvís sighed, and ponderously she continued, "There is shadow in the glass. There is flame. There is evil in the earth that birthed them. They are not good things to give."
"I see," Annatar said smoothly, and hard he fought to muzzle the swell of excitement that rose in him. Shadow and flame, he thought, and oh how the possibility, slender though it was, elated him.
Not all had been destroyed in the cataclysm, some such as he had survived the scouring of their home and had been scattered, slinking back to his service in the later years or becoming wild and feral if they could not. Shadow and flame. It almost pained him to entertain the idea, yet the gravity of Aldvís' words gave hint to their truth. If but one of that mighty race had lingered, if but one scion of the Valaraukar yet remained, if it could be made obedient, then what glorious terror might he yet sow.
But swiftly he stifled such ambition, he forced the sharp gleam in his eyes to fade, and amiably he turned back Aldvís.
"I thank you for your words, my lady," he said, "yet I think that there is naught here now to fear. These halls are light enough, are they not? Some tiny shadow such as these might but tremble at their brightness."
Aldvís' lips pursed, she harrumphed loudly, but quickly her face cheered into a smile once more as Annatar made some flattering jest, and he steered the conversation elsewhere as the merry night rolled onwards.
The weeks turned, the Gonnhirrim stayed their welcome and provided their services, and in the wake of their departure Annatar resumed his works within the halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Still he would freely offer his advice in smithcraft to any that would ask, and for almost a month he laboured with Corannon to repair and modify their blast furnaces, through arcane spells and physical mechanics tinkering with small pieces of machinery to increase their temperatures almost dual-fold, and with such improvements Celebrimbor was delighted.
New works they were able to see begun, alloys flowed through those furnaces that were not deemed possible to construct within their previous confines, and with the influx of such industry among their people both lord and Maia found themselves at leisure. For long hours they would talk together, strolling about the upper walls and quiet streets of the courtesan's circle, or sit in friendly company under a leafy arbour of the gardens while languidly they worked; Annatar sketching new designs of rings and jewellery after the Dwarven fashions of which Aldvís had so fondly spoken, and Celebrimbor luxuriated in his company while fulfilling the many clerical duties of state.
Often they would ride together among Eregion's winding game-trails, or out across the wild fells, and as he grew more familiar with the rugged lands Annatar would begin to take the lead. Over the windswept bracken he would spur them onwards, down narrow gullies filled with trickling streams and cascading waterfalls he would lead, whispering softly to the horses to ease them down the slippery slopes, and he would give his mount its head as it scented for home. He would thrill in its excitement as it galloped across the hillsides, as it pounded up the great winding road and back into the city, and only then would he trouble himself to check that the elf lord had kept apace with him.
One such afternoon, in the drear, clouded light they both clattered back into the stable-yard, Annatar a few paces ahead as Celebrimbor leapt down from his horse. The ring of the horse's hooves against the cobbles drummed still in his ears, his heart thudded in his chest as he lead the sweaty, excited creature indoors to the stables proper. It skittered next to him even as he laid a soothing hand upon it, blowing hard through its nostrils with the exertion of such a reckless gallop for home.
An exhilarated grin curled over Celebrimbor's face as he led the horse forward, through wind-raked, glowing cheeks he looked to Annatar who was lounging against his horse's shoulder, gently stroking the lather from its neck as it steamed in the cool air. So poised he looked, so regal; it set emotions to stir in Celebrimbor's stomach that for weeks he had tried to quieten, had tried to forget.
"Annatar," he breathed, the cold air seemed to scorch through his lungs as deeply he inhaled, as one final spike of adrenaline punched through him. "That was… that was amazing! How did you…"
"I am glad that you could keep up," the Maia purred, and at the honey in his voice such blistering arousal suddenly cramped through Celebrimbor's stomach that it was all he could do not to flinch with the force of it. So lascivious were his eyes, so light was his smile, and a blush that had scarce little to do with exertion began to creep up Celebrimbor's neck, it tinged the tips of his ears in rosy pink.
Hard he breathed, he scarcely noticed the groom that arrived and began to lead their horses away. He simply stared at the Maia in all of his aching, awful glory as he patted his horse upon its retreating rump.
A fond smile flickered over Annatar's lips as he turned back to Celebrimbor. But for his softness, the tilt of his hips was so dangerously alluring, the slight sweaty cling of his breeches between his thighs as so sordidly entrancing, and as the Maia then turned to leave a flare of jealousy burst in Celebrimbor's heart. That pivot upon his heel seemed just a bit too insolent, it was suddenly too much of a spurn, and hot, fierce desire blazed in Celebrimbor's stomach.
"Annatar, wait," he said, he commanded, and the slight curl upon Annatar's lips as he swung back around set Celebrimbor ablaze as he glimpsed it. Yet perhaps in that moment those fires burned too brightly; something visceral that for so long he had fought to cage ripped up from his stomach, a predatory smirk unfurled across his face, and with feyness to match any impudent Maia he stepped forwards.
The spurs of his boots clicked like talons upon the cobblestones as he stalked towards Annatar, and at the caustic, unearthly look in his eyes the Maia took one uncertain pace backwards. But oh how that split second of doubt caught across Annatar's face churned in Celebrimbor's heart, it rushed through him with writhing, victorious flames.
"Why do you recoil from me?" Celebrimbor growled. Something unhinged played in his voice, some terrible sheen of madness swum in his eyes as he forced Annatar back a pace, as in some perverse, creeping waltz he danced Annatar across the stable block's width with nothing but naked hunger in his gaze.
Annatar's back pressed uncomfortably up against a wooden stall, and though a grimace of displeasure flitted over his face, desperately he reined in the power that surged to his defence. It sparked upon his fingertips, it longed to be unleashed, to stop this, to end this, to make this elf bleed at his feet for ever thinking, for ever dreaming in his arrogance that he could possess him, command him, threaten him.
But with every ounce of his willpower he quelled that impulse, and bitterly he clung to the air of fragile, innocent passivity that he wove about himself.
He steeled himself as the elf closed upon him, his hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides as the elf's knee pushed in between his thighs, as Celebrimbor leaned into him with such ugly yearning in his eyes.
"I only wish to… to talk," the elf murmured, the words rolling almost drunkenly from his lips. A little harder he pressed into Annatar, near crushing their hips together with his bulk.
"So talk."
The Maia's voice was smooth, but cold was his tone, and haughty his gaze. His golden eyes were filled with nothing but revulsion.
"You…" Celebrimbor breathed. The air seemed almost viscous over his lips, Annatar's proximity seemed to only stoke that pounding desire within him, and before the Maia he dipped his head, his gaze slipping to the sweat-sheened muscles that cleft his throat, the curves of his pectorals beneath his shirt.
Slowly Celebrimbor's hand came up, his fingers trailed lightly over Annatar's thigh, and beneath his touch the Maia flinched away.
Such unspeakable disgust burned in Annatar's stomach, his knuckles shone white and bloodless with the effort of tolerating the elf's hands upon him, as he frantically bit back the black words of power that would leave the elf gutted and broken and gasping on the floor. But to Celebrimbor it seemed only a coy reflex, the flicker in Annatar's smile seemed only fleeting shyness, and more firmly he pressed into him, his fingers stroking over the curve of his hip, over the slant of muscles that played beneath his shirt.
"You are infectious," the lord whispered, heavily, headily, pressing himself forward to croon the words into Annatar's ear. And how Annatar shivered beneath him, and as his fingers tightened about the Maia's waist Annatar leaned forward in turn, pushing their lips together until there was but a shiver of space left between them.
"You are infected," Annatar hissed, and a sudden swirl of nausea twisted in Celebrimbor's gut. His head for a moment seemed to swim as Annatar withdrew from him, as Annatar pushed him away, and such scorned, bitter, hateful fury erupted within him a split second later.
For how dare Annatar refuse him?
He was Annatar's benefactor, he had welcomed him into this city where others would have spurned him, he had gilded his path to the highest echelons of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, he had taken the Maia's aid and seen him glorified for it, and how dare such generosity be refused.
He was Annatar's lord, he was his master; Annatar should revere him, love him, obey him; he should be down on his knees begging for his touch, for his caress, he should be between his thighs with his pretty lips around his cock savouring every last moment of his attention…
A flare of lust scourged up through Celebrimbor's stomach, he near growled with the force of it, but in Annatar's eyes now there was nothing but disdain, and oh how deeply they cut.
Sense crashed back into Celebrimbor's mind like a warhammer, it drenched him in its chill, it seized the ravenous torrent of his thoughts and it stripped them from him, it dissolved them and crumpled them and shattered them in its impact. An acrid taste sizzled upon his tongue, his lungs seemed to suddenly unlock within his chest, and with what seemed like the first time in an age he blinked with clarity. He felt that terrible, fey mood pass and he was left with only himself.
And what shock, what awful, strangling regret smashed through him then as he beheld Annatar just standing there against the wall.
For the Maia, his ally, his friend looked at him with horror in his eyes. Crowned in innocence Annatar seemed, lovely and pure and fragile, and he had defiled it, betrayed it. The look of such subtle confusion, such childlike upset that crept into the Maia's golden eyes almost clove Celebrimbor's heart in two.
"Annatar," he whispered, his hands clenched at his sides with the vehemence of his apology, but at the poorly concealed expression of fright that marred Annatar's beautiful face quickly he softened, and such sorrowful regret bled through his innards. "Annatar, I'm sorry… I – I didn't mean…"
"There is nothing to forgive, my lord," the Maia murmured, but the words sounded hollow in his throat. Desperately, apologetically, almost blinking back tears of self-loathing Celebrimbor stepped towards him, but the flinch that rocked through Annatar's body brought him up short. For almost imperceptibly the Maia shifted away from him, his arms cinched in to cover himself, and with that tiny, horrifying motion Celebrimbor felt like someone had kicked him clean in the stomach.
"Annatar," he plead, he took one pacifying step backwards even as the words latched into his throat, horror hooked them there and guilt bound them tight. "Annatar, please. Please, I'm sorry… I didn't… I didn't mean to touch you like that, I didn't… I don't know what came over me. I don't know what – what possessed me. Please, Annatar, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"
Indecision wavered over Annatar's features, and imploringly Celebrimbor looked to him. But perhaps in that moment the damage was already done, such blind, rash actions could not be revoked, for with downcast eyes Annatar mumbled, "Please, my lord, I… I think I need to be alone for a little while."
"No!" A sharp spike of jealousy, of possessiveness, of cruelty, stabbed through Celebrimbor's stomach, and even as the word burst over his lips he froze in horror. Desperately he tamed the craving that ached in his heart, the violence that roiled just beneath it, and softly he continued, "Please, Annatar, please don't go. Not like this, not… I didn't mean it. I didn't. I'm sorry…"
Yet for his pleading, the Maia regarded him with injured eyes, and without another word he departed, swiftly rounding a corner and vanishing.
Alone Annatar left Celebrimbor among the empty stalls, and so fervently he hoped that the elf lord was hurting. As he stalked past the tack rooms and farrier's workshops, balefully Annatar wondered if emotions could somehow become tangible, if he could take this elf's ruinous ambitions and his guilt and his lust and his pride and somehow weave them all together. Some dark, choking thing he could form and ram it down the elf's throat, watch him writhe, watch him suffocate; some sharp blade he could weld and with it peel him apart, leave him opened and glistening; screaming, begging.
Yet curtly he dismissed such fantasies. Even should it be possible then such overt and malevolent puissance here would see him unveiled. A shame, he thought. The metaphor would for now have to suffice.
Into the grey light of the afternoon he emerged, and fondly he thought of the bath within his chambers, of washing the stain of the elf's touch from his skin. Though, he reminded himself, abhorrent as it was, such things must be endured. This was a game of his own making, and it would be difficult now to change the rules even if he so desired. Nay, sooner or later he would accept the elf's apology, he would brush it aside and continue on with his deceptions, until with the crawl of the weeks their fencing about each other might begin afresh.
Let the elf grovel for a while, he fancied. It might even be amusing.
With that thought set aglow within him, far more contentedly he continued his walk back to the manor, through the sprawling gardens and to the gates that delineated the house proper. His hand brushed upon their grille as he made to step through them, yet as he made to proceed, from behind him there was a rustle amid the trees, a flutter of wings and the thin snap of wood.
Slowly he turned, his eyes wandered upwards, and perched upon the upper branches of a nearby oak tree two ravens sat, staring down at him with their beady, enigmatic eyes. One cawed softly in its throat, it shuffled its wings in smug avian triumph, and Annatar grinned up at it in response. Its partner cawed then too; it cast an appraising eye over him before seemingly satisfying itself, and it puffed its chest up proudly before taking flight, wheeling once over the gates before retreating east towards the horizon.
To the remaining raven he looked once more, his original messenger, his proud little general, and he inclined his head to it in thanks before slipping through the gates. And a few moments later, out over the spires of the house he caught a glimpse of the raven streaking away to the north-west, its black body passing like a dark shadow over the sun.
Thank you as usual to everyone who's read this far! I hope you enjoyed this update (and the sneaky bit of Angbang that might have crept in there!) Until next time, theeventualwinner x