The Unread Visions of a Higher Dream II: The Light Under the Mountain by Prackspoor  

---

III.1

In which a reunion of friends turns into the revelation of a vast divide.

---

III.

 

Time passed slowly in the wake of Durin's Day. Hadhodrond was left almost completely empty and dark, with almost every single Dwarf gone to keep their vigil in the Halls of Waiting. All shops were closed, the doors of taverns and community halls were barred, and the windows of most houses were dark. No laughter or clamour was in the air, and when Annatar walked through the abandoned city, the only sound he heard on the wide, empty thoroughfares was the eerie sound of his footsteps echoing back from naked walls and out of dark alleys.

Ironic, he thought, how the Dwarves had gone to remember their dead, and left the city of the living a ghost town.

The few of Celebrimbor's non-Dwarven friends who currently resided here in Khazad-Dûm had stayed behind as well, but without Celebrimbor at his side Annatar felt neither familiar nor welcome enough among them to venture into their groups. Besides – in the end, it was not their company he truly desired.

Annatar ended up haunting the library quite often over the following days. Initially he had been pleasantly surprised to find that Baldur had stayed behind, being too old and frail to subject himself to the strain of the Wake. Being able to at least visit the library seemed like a nice prospect at first, but Annatar quickly discovered that half the appeal of roaming the different levels and locating books like treasures was talking to Celebrimbor about them. In the end, after leafing through books for hours on end without seeing the writing on the pages, he left the library more discontent and angrier than he had gone there.

By the end of the third day after Celebrimbor had left, Annatar felt truly bereft of his friend. Angry as he might be at the elf, he still missed the bright presence of the Noldo's mind against his own, their thoughts and ideas blazing like comets through each other's heads, intermingling and glittering like stardust. Thrown back onto himself and his own ideas alone, Annatar felt bored and restless. The beauty of Dwarrowdelf and its many wonders was dulled by Celebrimbor's absence and no longer held any fascination for him.

He had not seen or met with Durin again after their visit to the crystal caves, but at the king's behest he had refrained from descending the grand staircase to the level of the necropolis. Durin had never wavered in his polite tone towards him, but the unspoken message that he was not welcome in the City of the Dead was clear nonetheless. It rankled Annatar, but he had accepted the order with outwardly grace and had not acted against it.

Besides, for all that he was awaiting his friend's return, he did not want to give anyone (not Celebrimbor and especially not that dwarf Fundin) the impression that he had been waiting for Celebrimbor at the gates of the necropolis, like a dog sitting on his master's porch, waiting to be let it in.

Still, when the Wake drew to a close and at last the procession returned from its seclusion in the Halls of Waiting, Annatar watched the return of the tens of thousands of dwarves from the highest of the Dwarven city’s numerous clocktowers. The procession trickled back into the dark city and into empty houses like blood flowing back through veins, and soon the city was pulsating with life, light, and clamour once more. Torch-bearers entered houses and manses, and window after window lit up as shops reopened and doors were thrown open, filling Hadhodrond with light and life. Now that the time of remembrance was done, the time had come for feasts and revels, for celebrating life and the harvests of earth and stone.

Annatar watched the lights, the music, and the movement, listening to the clangor of joy and life that drifted up to his vantage point – the sounds and images softened by his position far away. Save for the bells tolling at his back, as it were, calling out to the other towers all over the city and joining their song to those of their sisters.

In the end, he pushed himself off the railing that ran around the platform of the clocktower and descended the steps. He ambled down the main thoroughfares for some time, listening to conversations and songs, and taking in the din of living beings and smells of feasts that were being prepared. He thought to bide his time for a while longer at least, but quicker than he had thought, he found that he had traversed the city and the palace, and he was now standing before a familiar door.

For the last few days, the room behind it had been empty and cold, but now Annatar sensed the presence of someone there even before he lifted his hand to knock. He did not have to wait for long until the door swung open and Celebrimbor greeted him with a wide smile.

“Annatar!” he exclaimed. “It is good to see you!”

“You as well,” he replied, but trailed off, his eyes wandering from Celebrimbor's face down his shoulders and arms. He was – not exactly thinner than Annatar remembered – but he appeared to be less than he had been before: emaciated, drained in a way that could not only be ascribed to deprivation of food and sleep. It was an effect that was mental rather than physical: for all his smiles, Celebrimbor was wounded, diminished in a way that he had not been before, and the stink of incense and cold stone and death was all about him.

Annatar only barely suppressed a flinch and he had already opened his mouth to ask how and when and why? – then he spotted the dwarf Fundin sitting in the armchair that Annatar customarily occupied whenever he stayed with Celebrimbor. This at least gave him a good excuse when Celebrimbor threw him a puzzled glance at his sudden stop.

Meanwhile, the dwarf caught his glance and rose, giving a curt bow from the waist as he said, “At your service, Aulëndil.”

“At yours,” Annatar replied curtly.

Fundin nodded again, then gathered his belongings, which had been lying on the table in front of them: a waistcoat, a small notebook, and a mechanical pencil that allowed him to write and sketch without having to carry around an inkpot. Annatar vividly recalled Celebrimbor's own collection of these pencils, and most of all their astounding tendency to get lost in the organized chaos of his workroom.

“I think I will be taking my leave now,” the dwarf said.

“There is no need,” Celebrimbor offered. “You are welcome to stay, and we could plan the excursion to the Deep Paths, if you want – ”

Fundin did not even stop gathering his things. “Thank you for your offer, but I find that the Wake has exhausted me.” He pocketed his notebook and pencil and put on his waistcoat. “I would like to go home and rest, which would no doubt do you some good as well, and we can speak of all else later.”

“If you want to rest, certainly,” Celebrimbor said and held the door open for Fundin, appearing a bit confounded at the dwarf's sudden haste to depart.

“I do, and I advise you to do the same,” Fundin said. “Fare well until then, my friend.”

“Good evening,” Celebrimbor said. “I will come to you tomorrow, if you wish.”

“As you like.” And with that, the dwarf was gone.

When the door had shut behind him, Annatar turned to Celebrimbor. “Well, you two seem to have sorted out your differences admirably fast.”

Celebrimbor frowned, and his easy smile faded a bit. “Yes, we have. Is it of any issue to you?”

“No,” Annatar said with a shrug. He strode over to a bookshelf, took a book, and placed it back without having so much as looked at it. “So, how was your sojourn into the underworld?” he asked, his tone deliberately nonchalant as he sat down in his accustomed chair.

The smile returned to Celebrimbor's face, but it didn't come as easily as usual, and there was a visceral pain hiding behind it. He took a seat in the armchair across from Annatar. “It was … interesting. Exhausting, but first and foremost, impressive and interesting. You must know I cannot tell you the most of it, as I was sworn to silence regarding the sacred rites. But Annatar – I found healing down there.”

Annatar watched him through narrowed eyes. “You don't look healed.” The vision of Celebrimbor that he had had in front of the necropolis, dead and entombed, tried to creep back into his mind, but Annatar locked it away with a violence of spirit that left his head aching on a level beyond even his control.

“The healing that death gives is hardly soft and comforting. But there is comfort in closure, and deliverance in confrontation – in a way.” Celebrimbor watched his own hands, as if some hidden truth was inscribed upon them, slowly opening and closing his fingers, while his muscles and sinews moved under his skin. “What surprised me is how … how beautiful it all was. I cannot tell you too much, Annatar, but it was different than anything I had imagined. Not mournful like a wake of the Eldar would have been, where we would have only wept for our loss. This wake – there was hope in it, and less finality than I would have expected – and yet even that finality was comforting rather than saddening.

“It is nice to think that when you grow weary of this world there might be a door open to you that you can walk through,” he continued quietly. “That beyond, there is a homely place waiting for you with a fire in the hearth, and all the pain, all the losses and the wounds you carry – you leave them behind as you step over the threshold. And it is not like the halls of Mandos, an in-between, where you just wait until you are released back into the old world once more – it is a different, more final leave-taking. You go on and into another world from whence there is no returning, but that need not be a bad thing. To know that there is an exit, should you wish for one –” He looked up all of a sudden, a slight, sad smile upon his face. “I am sorry, I am rambling. I'm not sure I am making sense.”

Annatar was staring at him, and he did not take care to hide the look of open revulsion upon his face. “I am quite certain you are not.”

At those words a transformation seemed to take place with Celebrimbor. His exhaustion vanished, and there was suddenly tension in the lines of his body where there had been none before. “Why are you always so scathing when it comes to the matters of mortality and death?” Celebrimbor demanded. “Are you so unable to respect something that your nature does not allow you to understand?”

“What is there to respect?” Annatar spat. “The mourning? Rotting corpses in tombs, crying widows and children? The loss of lives? Forgive me, I'm not romantic enough to find the higher meaning in that.”

“What there is to respect, Annatar, is the inevitable fate of all mortals. Of me.”

Annatar looked at him – Celebrimbor's unusually pale face, his drawn expression, and beyond that, the quenched fire of his very being – and for a moment, that vision rose unbidden in his mind once more: the lifeless form of Celebrimbor being entombed under marble and stone, like the Dwarven friend Celebrimbor was grieving for. Hands that had never been meant to stop moving folded over a chest in absolute stillness, and in that chest a silent heart that had never been supposed to stop beating – a life extinguished and its mortal remains forever entrapped under miles of stone, alone in a cold crypt until the mountains themselves were eroded away by the black winds at the end of time itself.

For a moment Annatar was overwhelmed by this vision of stillness and death, and he felt his entire being revolt with repulsion and unwill. His hands twitched involuntarily, a helpless, aimless expression of wanting to move, to act, in order to do something about this future that he would not allow to come to pass.

“Annatar?” Celebrimbor asked, leaning forward with a frown on his brow.

Annatar's gaze snapped up, distraught. Even seeing his friend alive and well did not suffice to chase the terrifying image from his mind, and it took him a few moments to remember their conversation and where they had left off. Impulsively, he leaned forward and took Celebrimbor's warm, strong hand in his own.

Annatar traced his thumb over the elf's knuckles, then fastened his grip around his fingers, feeling the microscopic shocks of electricity hurrying along his nerves, the rush of blood through his veins, carrying the echo of his strong, slow heartbeat. Alive.

“Annatar, is everything all right?” Celebrimbor repeated.

Celebrimbor looked down at where Annatar still held his left hand in his own, and slowly put his right on top of them both.

“I used to think we were so similar,” Annatar said quietly. “The dreams we had, the visions we shared – there seemed to be no difference between you and me. When we looked at the world, we seemed to see the same: what it was, and what we wanted it to be. And yet these past days have made me wonder whether we do not live in two entirely different worlds, describing our cosmoses in languages that are foreign to each other and ascribing different meanings to the same things.”

“Like what? The meaning of life? The meaning of death?” Celebrimbor offered, a wan half-smile playing around his lips.

Annatar gave him a hard glance and pulled his hands away. “There is no meaning to death,” he all but spat. “Death is the end of variation and development. Death is a standstill and the sum of lost opportunities. Death is nothing but a waste.”

Celebrimbor's smile faltered. “Death is a natural part of life, and I don't see how it would do either of us any good to deny that.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Annatar snapped. “Desirable, even, to take the world as it is, to put your hands in your lap and just accept whatever future has been laid out for you, advertising utmost annihilation itself as a natural part of life.”

“Annatar – I am mortal. However far removed from the Edain our kin might be, we still have this in common. Our souls might not leave the circles of this world, but we are bound to our bodies and they die just the same.”

Annatar threw him an angry glare. Disappointment was welling up within him like a poisoned fountain, and it was hard not to let his temper take over and spit venom. “Why the reverence of Death as something natural, something holy? Either life is natural or death is, but not both at once. Why do you shy away from naming death as the unnatural thing it is? Why are you so reluctant to fight it? You had no such reservations about seeking cures for other ailments, and if Death is anything at all beyond a perversion of life, it is just another illness to be cured.”

Celebrimbor threw him a disbelieving look, like he had been asked to explain number tables to a master of mathematics. “Death is not something to be fought, Annatar. Even we Eldar have learned not to delude ourselves in that respect.”

Annatar leapt to his feet, unable to contain his agitation. “You have in your mind this conjured image that death is natural and that it is just – like a slave who has been whipped by his capricious master so often that the slave himself believes this must be the natural order of things, which you are so fond of quoting. For why else would he be beaten if not for that reason? It is not something he can change, it is something out of his control. Thus, so as not to despair, he invents reasons for why the world is as it is, and tells himself that his torment has meaning.”

He paced up and down, gesturing wildly, and the words – the poison that he had kept bottled up inside him ever since he first learned of the Wake – now finally poured forth.

“And just like that, because you do not have the means to overcome death yet, you seek to apply meaning to something that is ultimately meaningless, just as farmers say that a bad harvest is a divine punishment.” He stopped and looked at Celebrimbor. “But this is nonsense. Nature and life are simply as capricious as that – they do not reward you or punish you and nothing that happens because of nature has meaning. But you ascribe and interpret and reason and conjecture, just so you do not have to face the fact that the world cares as little for fairness as it does for all other things. Let me tell you this, Tyelperinquar: if you want meaning, the only way to create it is by shaping it yourself, and in order to do that you would have to acknowledge your delusion first. – But alas, you subject yourself to powers without goodwill or reason, and you tell yourself that you are better off for it. You tell yourself that it is meant to be this way, that there is something inherently noble in accepting death, and that in believing otherwise you would be trespassing upon grounds you are not allowed to tread!”

Celebrimbor had watched his outburst from where he sat in his armchair, fingers interlaced and watching Annatar calmly. He did not appear to be too impressed. “Are you done?” Celebrimbor asked. “Because in this case, I would like to get a word in on behalf of the affected party, before you continue to disparage the way we mortals have arranged ourselves with our fate – a fate that, I might add, has nothing unnatural about it, no matter how much you might argue against it.”

Annatar narrowed his eyes, then sat down across from him once more. “Fine. Say your piece.”

Celebrimbor leaned back. He closed his eyes for a moment, as he usually did when building up an argument in his head, then opened them again. “How do I begin? Well, you talked about meaning a lot, so perhaps we should begin with broad strokes, and start with the metaphysical and philosophical angle. I, for one, have a hard time believing that the three Fëanturi¹ would even exist if Death had not been foreseen in this universe. It stands to reason that the existence of primordial forces tied to Fate is a fairly strong philosophical indication that death as a facet of Fate has a deeper meaning. Those metaphysical implications aside, the existence of Death is a fact and we have to accept this reality, whether or not we decide to like it, which brings us straight to the reality of the world as it is: death has been in this world from the very beginning and likely always will be as long as there is life.”

Annatar scoffed at this, but Celebrimbor continued, unperturbed.

“Secondly, death brings about not only loss, but above all change, which is the very engine of development. Sometimes you have to let a beloved idea die in order to implement another, better one – as you well know from our works. Sometimes the one who has to die is an old master, so that a new master might replace him. When I speak of this like that, I should add that I speak not as an individual. As an individual, I very much possess the desire to live and retain my place in this world. But when I look at the broader picture – thinking in terms not of decades, but centuries and millennia and of peoples rather than individuals, the conclusion I come to is this: change is what allows us to evolve, and what allows us to better ourselves as a species to an extent a single being could not. And death is the ultimate, most undeniable catalyst for change. Look at the Atani, Annatar – their lives are brief and rushed, and yet they are already overtaking the Eldar in every respect that counts. The fact that they live and die so quickly means that their lives are all the more busy, and that they adapt to change quicker and better than we do. Knowing that their time in this world is limited gives them an urgency and motivation to invent and create that an Elda, who has all ages of the world to begin his work, can never understand. Death and change and progress are inevitably intertwined – and one day, the Eldar might be lost due to this, because we cannot keep up.”

Annatar snorted. “Ridiculous. The Atani are inferior to the Eldar in any way that is meaningful, and using them as an argument for change frankly defeats the purpose.” His fingers dug into the upholstery of the armchair, and he knew that he had to be careful not to tear the fabric.

Celebrimbor watched him, his eyes dark, his expression unreadable. “I think it illustrates the purpose very well. The Atani thrive, whereas the Eldar are already in decline, our long lives and accumulated wisdom notwithstanding. What does this tell us if not that long lives are no longer the key to happiness?” He sighed. “In Aman we might have been able to live forever without loss or pain, but this world is not kind to those who dwell too long in it. At some point you stop living and you only survive, clinging to life – for another day, another year, another century. What good does it do if we can endure for all eternity, but are forever unable to heal? What good does sunshine do when it only burns our eyes in the end, and any taste of joy and happiness turns to ashes in your mouth?”

Annatar looked at Celebrimbor, appalled. “Is that how you think of your life? To hear you speak, you must indeed have little to live for in this world!”

“That is not true, Annatar,” Celebrimbor said wearily. “It is just –”

“It is not? Why, it doesn't sound that way!” Annatar snorted disdainfully. “To hear these words from your mouth – listening to you, one would think that you have been cursed! The mere thought! You were given an opportunity: you can live long enough to see the change that you desire to bring about in this world! What other mortal race can say the same? You should count yourself lucky – ”

“I should count myself lucky?” Celebrimbor interrupted harshly. “Do you honestly believe for a moment that being immortals in a world filled with death means that we are the lucky ones?”

Celebrimbor stood suddenly. His eyes had gone hard and dark when he looked down at Annatar. “What is lucky about outliving everyone you ever knew and loved, and know that you are forever destined to remain behind, tending to the growing number of memories and graves that your friends leave behind? What is lucky about being so strong that you know exactly how much pain and torment must be inflicted on you before your body can finally release its hold on your soul? What is lucky about having to carry the weight of your sins forever, with no chance of returning to innocence?”

Celebrimbor stood there for a moment, unmoving and just staring down at Annatar, before he slowly let out his breath and sat down again. He brushed his hands over his brow and when he spoke next, his voice was calm and quiet once more. “No, Annatar, there is nothing lucky about this. We Eldar were not made for eternity, and even we can't endure here forever. I have seen too many of us wounded and tired, until the weight of centuries became too much to bear. I fear this is the inevitable fate of our kind on these shores – we do not die, but we keep accumulating losses and wounds until we are too tired and broken to continue on. This world does not reward those who overstay their welcome.”

“Then it is the world we must change in order to conserve your life, simple as that,” Annatar said matter-of-factly. “Your answer in the face of difficulty cannot be to simply not try in the first place.”

Celebrimbor threw his head back and laughed. It was a raw, wounded sound, painful and utterly humourless. “Do you think we didn't try? You don't know us very well then, my friend! Oh Annatar, you should have been with us when we first came to these shores – how we clung to life, how we fought and bled and endured just to see another day in our futile hunt for our pledged cause! You should have seen what it did to us! Do you think my grandfather would have chosen to leave the world as he did? In the end, smitten by three Balrogs of Morgoth, he still wasn't ready to die, but even his will was not enough to keep his soul chained to his body. It tore him apart at his very core and I am afraid to even imagine what his shade in Mandos must look like. But even before, do you think that what he did could be called living? He was a ghost, Annatar, haunted by his oath and his crimes, and haunting Beleriand in turn, and when he finally died it was a relief for him and the world.

“His sons are chained to life even now, long after they should have been eroded away by pain and hardship, and look at what has become of them. There is only so much life that can flow through our veins, Annatar, and only so much pain and loss we can bear. We can stretch our lives and thin them out, but in doing that, we destroy ourselves. I know what it did to my grandfather, my uncles… even my father. They lost themselves. Perhaps we could have been immortal in Aman, but –not these shores, Annatar. Here, death is a gift, the door that you keep open for yourself when all other ways are closed to you.”

Annatar shook his head. “There is a strength in endurance that cannot be found in species that flare and die like sparks from a fire. I can't believe – I refuse to believe that there is nothing for you in this world that is worth staying for.” He looked Celebrimbor directly in the eye. “And if it must be me who puts this world in order so that you can live forever in it, then so be it. I'll do it, just to prove to you that you are wrong.”

Celebrimbor looked at him in disbelief. “This is not at all like you, Annatar. I thought you wanted to change this world. Now you sound like one of the Valar, sacrificing change for preservation.”

Annatar shook his head. “Change for the sake of change is worthless. Why throw away what is already good? You have the ability to hone your minds and abilities over hundreds of years – would you honestly say that this is not better than to exist as a mere spark? To flare briefly only to vanish almost immediately, your life come and gone in the mere blink of an eye, leaving others to begin where you once began learning – all in the vain hope that they might build something worthwhile from the rubble of a tower that is torn down at every turn?”

Celebrimbor frowned. “The claim that a civilization is thrown back to the very beginning at the start of a new generation is as unfounded as it is wrong – you yourself know of the empires rising in Rhûn and Harad, with cities and machinery the likes of which we have never seen. Believe me, Annatar: long after there is nothing left of the Eldar, long after our towers have crumbled, our walls fallen, and our bones turned to dust, Man will still adapt and rule and spread – and perhaps even harness the sun and moon and stars where we did not.”

He stopped and stood still, suddenly fully in control of his temper once more. “I do not know what the Guardian of Change names himself,” he went on quietly, “but he must be powerful indeed, and the world would be poorer without him.”

Annatar did not reply to this for a long while, hesitating before finally speaking again. “Change carries its dangers. There is no change without loss. I am not against change – I just … do not want the wrong things to be lost.”

Celebrimbor nodded. “Then we must preserve those. But Annatar, are we still talking of life and death?”

Annatar gave him a pointed look. “We certainly are. And my point still stands – if the world is the problem, then the solution is to change the world, not to stick to your frankly disquieting habit of succumbing to death. And changing the world is something that can be done.” He caught Celebrimbor's eyes. “We have already begun to do that.”

Celebrimbor held his gaze, his eyes hard and unyielding. “It must be easy for one of the Ainur to judge the entirety of mortals from your pedestal. I do wonder whether you would believe life and death so easily solved if you had ever been subjected to them yourself.”

“Certainly,” Annatar said acidly. “My opinion is not dependent on my personal … circumstances. As I see it, you simply, and illogically, shy away from bettering your own lives while calling the means of doing so blasphemous. For you, it is just so very comfortable to accept the current state of things as a given.”

“And you are unable to accept the decisions of others if they differ from what you think is right,” Celebrimbor shot back. For once, he had raised his voice and the words cracked like a whip. “You rib and argue and scoff at things you know nothing about. You throw aside the concerns and feelings of others like you might bat away a fly, with no regard for their desires and needs.”

Annatar looked at him, taken aback. It was rare for Celebrimbor to lose his temper. His self-control was beyond compare, but when his patience snapped, it usually gave everyone around Celebrimbor pause – just as it did now.

Annatar was momentarily stunned, but then his own temper flared and he was just about to give an angry reply of his own when he noticed a sudden blaze out of the corner of his eye. The fire in the hearth was burning much higher and hotter than it had been built to. The temperature in the room had risen, and it had grown warm enough to make a sheen of sweat appear on Celebrimbor's forehead, although the elf did not seem to notice.

Annatar reined himself in. He breathed in, breathed out, and the fire burned itself down to a more normal blaze. This had gone too far, Annatar realized – he had just let the poison that had ensnared his mind take hold of him. What he hadn't foreseen was how much disbelief, how much fear, was intertwined with his anger. It was nearly enough to throw even him off balance.

“Accepting limits is not something I usually do,” Annatar said at last, his tone calmer now.

“I know,” Celebrimbor said.

“Do you, though?” Annatar asked pointedly. “I thought that you of all people wouldn't be so quick to accept some things as being set in stone either.”

“Well, what would you have me do?” Celebrimbor asked sharply. “Cry and rage against the inevitable? Go to war against – what? – Death itself?” He laughed. “It would make me the maddest of my kin yet!”

“Maybe we should,” Annatar said quietly, ignoring the last sentence. He looked down at Celebrimbor's hands. Strong, sun-tanned, alive – and yet his vision of the future that held nothing but a tomb and his dead friend crept into his mind, a shadow that laid itself over the present, draining the colour and life from his field of vision. He reached out and took Celebrimbor's right hand in his own hands. “More avenues are open to me than they would be to you alone, and together...”

Suddenly, a shiver went through Celebrimbor's hands and when the elf's eyes snapped up to meet Annatar's own, he knew that he had let too many of his own thoughts filter through the bond of their minds.

“Annatar, you are not seriously thinking about fighting death, are you?”

Annatar did not answer immediately. “Would that be so bad?” he said quietly, idly brushing the pad of his thumb across the back of Celebrimbor's hand and watching the play of light and shadow on skin as he did so. “Is death not just another force of nature waiting to be tamed?”

“Annatar,” Celebrimbor said warningly, “you cannot mean to try to go toe to toe with death itself.”

“What, you think I wouldn't do it?” Annatar looked up, attempting a mischievous smile, but it fell flat when Celebrimbor pulled his hand back, his body and mind withdrawing from Annatar at the same time.

The elf was regarding him intently, his shoulders tense and his features closed. “Annatar, you yourself told me once that there was no use in trying to overstep your limits when the only possible outcome would be for you to get hurt in the process.”

Annatar leaned back, scoffing. “I was talking about your mortal nature when I said that.”

“I know,” Celebrimbor said. “But – Annatar – barring the likely actual impossibility of doing this – when you go against the cosmos like that – I fear for you to get hurt, no matter your powers, no matter your nature.”

“Well, I shall just have to become more powerful then, don't I?” It was only partly meant as a joke, as he intended for Celebrimbor to read it as a jest. But when he saw the worry, the beginnings of fear on his friend's face, Annatar felt his own expression darken, displeased.

“I was jesting.”

“You weren't,” Celebrimbor said quietly. “In fact, I think this might be the most sincere that you have been with me in this entire conversation. Annatar,” he said imploringly. “Whatever you are thinking of doing – don't do it.”

Annatar didn't answer, for the only responses left to him were to either displease his friend or lie to him.

An uneasy silence lingered between them.

“It is so easy to accept unpleasant things as part of ‘the natural order’ in order to justify not even trying to do something against them,” Annatar said at last, his tone scathing. His eyes flicked up to meet Celebrimbor’s. “I would never have thought to hear you say it.”

Celebrimbor frowned. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty for my principles?”

“No. I just expected something different from you than not even wanting to try.”

“Enough,” Celebrimbor said sharply. “You will not twist your inability to accept death and mortality into a weakness of me.” His tone was hard, cutting, and brooked no further argument. The sheen of the fireplace caught his eyes, turning their grey to shimmering bronze, and for a moment Annatar thought he could see a glimpse of what Fëanor himself must have looked like when the ships of Alqualondë were burning like pyres around him, the fire-storm visible from the far end of the world over the Sundering Seas.

Annatar forced the tension that had unwittingly taken hold of him from his shoulders. He lowered his gaze. “No. I will not. It was not my place to tell you this. Forgive me.” And he was sorry for angering his friend, even though he remained firm in his opinion that he was right. Also, his barb at Celebrimbor had been enough of a distraction that it had spared Annatar himself from making a promise that he would never have intended to keep.

You cannot make me promise to give up before I have tried fighting, Tyelperinquar. You cannot expect me to submit to fate and accept losing you without a challenge. You cannot make me promise not to try to protect you.

And he wouldn't. He felt like cursing himself for having missed it for so long; but for all the times that they had spoken about Tyelperinquar’s incarnate nature, it had taken Annatar more than a century and half, as well as seeing Celebrimbor surrounded by mortals in a passing world, to realize that he was, in fact, just like them. Perhaps with marginally more life force, yes, but otherwise just as fragile, just as finite, just as easily destroyed as every other incarnate creature. The ethereal, eternal surroundings of Ost-in-Edhil, where time seemed to pass only as a mere afterthought, had hidden it well.

But no more.

The thought of how often he could have lost Celebrimbor in the past was nauseating, but Annatar would not let things come to that point. Anyone of a lesser mind might be inclined to assume going up against time, death, and causality was impossible, but for Annatar – no, for Celebrimbor and him both – it would simply be one more project among many others that he had planned for the future. Perhaps marginally more challenging, and requiring a bit more creativity in utilizing and transforming the laws of the world they existed in, but still.

As it was, it was possible for something truly immortal to exist. The Ainur were the –for lack of a more fitting word – living proof of such a concept. And if they could exist, then – by extrapolation – a being like them could be created.

The key was power.

As it was, power was an issue that could be addressed. Would be addressed, what with the direction he had been carefully nudging their shared studies in for years now.

 

---

1 It is curious that Celebrimbor should name three Fëanturi, when most sources only ever list Námo and Irmo as Masters of Spirits. Since Celebrimbor's point is based around the argument of the Fëanturi being tied to fate, this strongly suggests that he counts Vairë as one of them as well. This could well stem from some more obscure Noldorin religious texts that were circulated in Northern Beleriand during the First Age. Those texts noticeably deviated from other, more popular sources in their interpretation of the Valar – for example whereas some texts saw Manwë and Melkor as twin brothers, less known treatises proposed that Melkor and Aulë had been created as twin brothers and later developed into two fundamentally contradictory entities: the Architect and the Destroyer. These texts were especially popular among Noldorin exiles, but later on spread to countries as far as Rhûn and Far Harad as well.