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atlantablackRating: T+
Relationship: Celebrimbor/Sauron
Word Count: 3,263
Content Warnings:
Summary:
In the end, what stops him are Tyelpe’s hands.
Jesus Christ, it's like I’m going insane
I've made gestures and overtures
That blew up in my face
I know it's nobody's fault, right?
Like, people just change
But maybe somehow we can changе the same
And I said
Fuck it, let's work it out
'Causе I love you for whatever that's worth
And I've never seen it work
But I wanna make it work
when love has gone | Sam Nelson
☀︎
In the end, what stops him are Tyelpe's hands.
A stupid thing really after all he's done already. Certainly Tyelpe would think so if Sauron told him why he had simply stopped moving. But knowing that it's stupid doesn't stop something painful and barbed from settling in his throat and bringing him to a halt.
In the very back of his mind he already knows this is a doomed project. Tyelpe will not tell him where the rings are. He knows he will die regardless and this means that even the threat of destroying his hands, the thing most essential for his craft, will mean little as well. Why worry about one more broken thing when in the end it will all be meaningless.
He's been still for too long he knows. He can feel that Tyelpe has stopped bracing himself for pain and is staring at him instead. He had squeezed his eyes shut when Sauron had picked up the hammer and then clenched his jaw when Sauron had run a delicately threatening finger down the back of his hand.
Just tell me where the rings are, love, he'd said, the endearment still so natural in his mouth. Don't you want it to end? All you have to do is tell me this one thing.
Predictably, Tyelpe does not tell him. Unpredictably, Sauron had clicked his tongue in a way that preceded pain and then had found himself frozen, unable to bring himself to bring the hammer down.
It's stupid. It's weak. These arguments are doing him no good but he has no others. Tyelpe's death has been a given from the moment he made the master ring. Has been a given from the moment he set him in chains and began crooning threats into his ears.
But for some reason, it is only now, thinking of breaking his hands beyond all return, that it really spears through him that Celebrimbor Fëanorian will never create anything else until he's reborn in Aman. And then he'll be too far away for Sauron to see what brilliant, mad ideas he manages to create all on his own. It is not a pleasant thought.
This is…an untenable situation. And yet, he needs to know where the three rings are that his annoyingly brilliant Tyelpe has made and hidden.
But, a terrible voice whispers, you will destroy his hands and kill him and still, you will have no rings. A truth he is ignoring. There are, in truth, many things he has been ignoring.
He sets the hammer down, turns Tyelpe's hand over and traces a finger down his palm. He's held these hands before. Knows them very well. Knows the way they look wrapped around a hammer and clutching a quill rapidly scribbling down a new idea in the middle of the night. Knows the way they pressed against the false hröa he'd worn and pulled pleasure from him. He had told himself that did not complicate matters. As if the weakness that had curled through him every time he pressed a kiss to these hands had not complicated matters. He had told himself, repeatedly, insistently, desperately, that the first kiss had simply been another manipulation. Admitting that it was simply something he had wanted would complicate matters.
"Annatar," Tyelpe whispers, all he can manage, besides screams, with the way his throat is ravaged.
Sauron closes his eyes. Holds Tyelpe's hand between his and tries to think. He needs the rings. He does not want to hurt Tyelpe's hands. But if he does not then he will have to admit that. If he does not. Is he not already admitting it in his hesitation?
He needs the rings but there is no path that leads him to them. He opens his eyes and presses his fingers to Tyelpe's pulse, turns his hand back over and has to swallow down a startling burst of emotion when Tyelpe hesitantly curls his fingers around Sauron's hand.
Always so terribly good at sensing even the slightest of Sauron's weaknesses and pressing on them, even though he'd never known quite what he was pressing on. He likely could have made the master ring a few centuries ago if Tyelpe hadn't kept pulling doubts to the forefront of his mind through doing nothing other than being himself.
He does not want to break Tyelpe's hands. He does not, he admits to himself, even want Tyelpe to die. His mind is so bright, a flame that had merged so well with his own. Who else could claim the ability of keeping up with him? Of outsmarting him even, as infuriating as that is.
He has made his master ring indestructible to all but the fires of mount doom but — Tyelpe knows the making of the rings as well as Sauron does himself and he knows that if given half a chance there is a very good chance Tyelpe could simply unmake it. He is a threat. He’s always been a threat. The greatest gift had been Gil-Galad rejecting him in Lindon and sending him to Eregion, sending him straight to Celebrimbor’s open arms. The greatest threat has always been the way Tyelpe knows just as much as Sauron about the making of his greatest weapons.
He's the only living thing on this stupid continent that Sauron truly wants to live. That Mairon, flushed with the passion of smithing again in Eregion, wanted to live. Annatar is not real, but if he was, he would want Tyelpe to live more than any of them.
"Annatar," Tyelpe says again, hoarse but intense.
"You are making things very hard on me," he says, presses a lingering kiss to the back of Tyelpe's hand and drinks in the sound of his hitched breath.
He removes the shackle from Tyelpe's wrist so that he can keep hold of his hand as he crouches down to look him in the face. "We could make such beautiful things if you would only join me," he says completely unable to hide the wistfulness that steals through him.
Tyelpe's lips quirk in a sad smile. "We were making beautiful things. And you destroyed them."
Yes. He had. Eregion, by the end, had been nearly as much his as it had been Tyelpe's. And it had been beautiful and he'd destroyed it anyway. He refuses to let himself regret it. Traces a finger down Tyelpe's cheek and wonders if he isn't already.
But what does regret matter when he's already left a trail of blood in his wake. I need the rings, he thinks again. Closes his eyes and thinks, I want him to live. What a fool he is. What a fool Tyelpe is for, even know, holding onto his hand as if there is a chance for Sauron to redeem himself. His weaknesses were always so very easy to exploit. Even now he could turn both of their weaknesses into a torture all on its own. How cruel to give a sliver of hope and then shatter it. Worse, because for all he’d played that game with many prisoners in the past, Tyelpe will know that there was a sliver of truth in it.
“Could you unmake it?” he hears himself ask, opens his eyes to find Tyelpe staring at him with, not hope, but perplexed calculation.
“Unmake what? The rings?” The calculation fades away and leaves only perplexity.
“I know you can unmake those. Can you unmake the one I made? The master ring.” It’s pure curiosity. Feeling out a threat.
Tyelpe frowns, thinks about it for a long minute, mouths something to himself. “I… don’t know? Maybe. Can I see it?”
Despite himself he pulls the ring out from beneath his shirt, holds the chain out for Tyelpe to look at the ring dangling from it. He frowns at it, tilts his head, tips forward to peer at it as close as he can without touching. “Maybe,” he says slowly, feeling out the word. “I know the feel of your fëa better than most at this point I would say. It isn’t impossible but it would take me a while.” Despite the gravity of even the idea of unmaking it a bright spark of curiosity flares to life in his eyes, his fingers twitching against Sauron’s hand. He looks back at Sauron then, eyes very bright. “It would take even longer if I unmade it in a way that left your fëa unharmed.”
He does not let himself react to that. “You are a trusting fool,” he says tucking the ring back beneath his shirt.
Tyelpe makes a rasping, hacking sound that is likely a laugh. “I don’t trust you.” (truth) “I don’t even particularly like you anymore.” (lie) “But I can’t make myself stop loving you, which I suppose does make me a fool.” (truth)
He sighs, does not say the words back no matter that they lodge themselves in his throat. Hums a note of power and presses his hand to Tyelpe’s throat. Tyelpe flinches and then leans into him with a sigh. He hasn’t healed the damage but he’s soothed it, pushed some of the pain away. More weakness. If he left his ring somewhere else and came back he could push past this and continue where he left off. He’d poured so much of himself into the ring, but inevitably that means that he has poured not only his cruelty and his ambition and his violent need into the ring, but also every twisted piece of love he feels for this maddening elf. With it laying against his skin the emotions are just as close as if he never poured them out at all.
“Don’t bother trying to fight me,” he warns, releasing Tyelpe’s other wrist from its chain as well. Tyelpe sags with such relief that he nearly hits his head against the wall. Sauron ignores any feelings he has about that as well. Sits cross-legged on the floor, ignoring the filth, and considers Tyelpe, considers the problem. “Please tell me where the rings are.” He tries one more time. Tyelpe only graces him with a flat look as he rubs his wrists. Not that he had expected much else.
“I really should just kill you,” he says. Takes Tyelpe’s hand once more and swallows down a furious surge of emotion when Tyelpe grips his hand back.
“That makes it sound like you’re thinking about not killing me,” Tyelpe says quietly, his gaze is very heavy against Sauron’s skin.
He hums noncommittally, presses his mouth to the back of Tyelpe’s hand, and tries to think. He wants. He knows what he wants. Impossible dreams. Tyelpe will not even tell him where the rings are, he will not stay at Sauron’s side. He wants to have had this stupid revelation before he’d burnt everything to ground.
What does he want? He wants what he’s always wanted. Freedom. Power. Only now he wants Tyelpe as well and that rather conflicts with the other two.
“Annatar,” Tyelpe says, his voice so infuriating gentle.
“You do realize, I hope, that Annatar is not real,” he says, raising an eyebrow as he meets Tyelpe’s eyes.
He shrugs, winces at the movement. “He’s as real as Sauron. Annatar had a life, had friends.”
“He was a lie.”
“All of him?”
Sauron doesn’t answer that. It is clear enough that it was not all a lie. If it had been he wouldn’t be in this predicament.
In the end, he comes to no decisions. He heals some of Tyelpe’s injuries best he can and leaves him in the cell. Goes to his room to think and cannot. Goes and stares into Mount Doom, tries to fucking think, and cannot. Cloaks himself in darkness, goes and watches Tyelpe restlessly sleep, tries to think, and cannot. He has all these useless wants clogging his throat and no way to meld them with his current plans.
The logical path here would be to make a new plan. It’s what he would do if his wants were anything other than what they are. But to make a new plan that revolves around what he wants versus what he’s started. That’s not just a new plan. That’s a complete rupturing of his self.
He goes in Tyelpe’s cell, picks up the hammer, sits down next to where Tyelpe’s sleeping, and tells himself to just do it. Bring the hammer down. Clenches the handle until his fingers hurt and tries to talk himself into it. He cannot. He must. But he cannot. Tyelpe has already made the rings. Could unmake his master ring given sufficient time. What else could he make if he’s already reached such heights? What other beautiful, brilliant mad ideas could he bring to life if given a chance. Sauron wants to know. A bitter truth but the truth nonetheless.
He sighs in frustration and glances at Tyelpe’s face to find him watching him, gaze very curious. “You are infuriating,” he tells him, tossing the hammer away.
“I always have been according to you,” he says, sitting up slowly, teeth gritted like every movement still pains him. Sauron is admittedly not talented at healing. He can heal well enough to keep someone alive while he’s torturing them. But true healing is rather beyond him.
“Infuriating,” he says again, cradles Tyelpe’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads together. Tyelpe sighs, hands coming up to circle his wrists.
“I hate you,” Tyelpe says. (lie) He still leans into Sauron, starved for any touch that doesn’t hurt.
“I believe I am going to do something very foolish because of you,” he says the words very quietly, like that will make them less true. Like if he keeps it a secret they won’t get woven into the music of the world.
“In what way?” Tyelpe’s thumb is moving in small circles on his wrist. He wonders if he’s even aware of it.
“In every way. You’re—” he breaks off, laughs a bit. “They only imprisoned Melkor for 3,000 years before offering him clemency. How long do you think they would sentence me for?”
Tyelpe pulls back and frowns at him. “What is the point of imprisonment?” he asks. Amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth when Sauron simply stares at him. “It doesn’t fix anything. All it does is give you years and years to resent the ones who put you there. If you want to be forgiven do something fucking useful.”
“What would you have me do then?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
He does. He knows Tyelpe. Knows the principles he’d founded Eregion on. Knows his past, far better than Tyelpe had realized. Is he willing to pay the price? There is no point in letting him live if Sauron continues down the path he’s on. Tyelpe would die sooner or later regardless that way, by his hand or someone else’s. But is he willing to pay the price it would cost to let him live?
“Annatar,” he says softly, presses forward and brushes the lightest kiss against his mouth.
“Very manipulative of you,” he murmurs, doesn’t let himself follow Tyelpe’s mouth.
“That implies I have enough power over you to be manipulative with.” A clear question. A clear accusation.
“Is it not manipulation to try and tempt me with promises of a forgiveness you won’t give?”
There is a long silence broken in which he watches Tyelpe’s mouth and wonders if he means anything he’s saying. He’s done this once before. Stood in front of Eönwë and asked forgiveness. Had been denied it from the one he’d asked and told only to go west for judgement. He’d gone to find his own penance and found Tyelpe instead. Had been content until he hadn’t. If he didn’t mean it then, when he had a whole shining city and its ruler in his hand, how can he mean it now, with Tyelpe bruised and bleeding in a cell.
“I think I would forgive you many things I shouldn’t,” Tyelpe says finally sounding disgusted and furious. “But that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t have to work for it. I won’t be your fool twice.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid, he thinks. He’s being so incredibly stupid. He pulls back and grasps Tyelpe’s hand in his, tries once more to convince himself to just break something. He’s very good at breaking things. Traces his knuckles and tries to think of them shattered. Instead finds himself thinking about forge heat and Tyelpe’s mouth slick and hot against his, hands in his hair and smudging coal and ink onto their skin where they’re grasping at each other. Presses on the thin skin between thumb and pointer finger, tries to think of what a perfect spot it is to pin someone down, and instead thinks of Tyelpe pushing his thumb into Annatar’s mouth, eyes blazing with heat.
“Well,” he says, mostly to himself. “I suppose I’ve lost this war before it’s even properly began.” Looks back up and finds Tyelpe staring at him, mouth parted in shock, and his eyes blazing with all the hope he’s been pushing down.
“You,” Tyelpe starts, stops. He licks his lips and tries again. “You’re being serious. You’re actually being serious.”
He hums, spends a moment considering the words. Turns them over in his mind and wonders if he is. Looks at Tyelpe and his goddamn mouth and all that goddamn fucking brilliance hiding beneath his skin and knows that yes, yes he is. “It would have been a very good trick,” he says, because he thinks maybe he could have broken Tyelpe with this if he’d had a mind to. “But it seems as if I am, in fact, serious.”
Tyelpe stares at him, fingers gone lax in shock. Sauron smirks, pulls the chain holding the master ring over his head and considers it for a moment. He supposes if he is truly going to go through with this absolute absurdity then he may as well go all in. He slips the chain over Tyelpe’s head, watches the ring thud against his heart, and feels something very vicious and hungry tear open in his chest at the sight.
He cradles Tyelpe’s face close, whispers, “Unmake me,” against his mouth, “we’ll see how well I’ve done earning your forgiveness when you’re done.”
Tyelpe makes a wretched noise and kisses him, bites at his lip until they both taste blood. “You fucking bastard,” he gasps, “You absolute fucking bastard.”
Sauron doesn’t deny it, only tilts Tyelpe’s face and kisses him properly. Pours every bit of sincerity he can into it. He will not bother with regret, there’s no point. But he thinks, maybe, just maybe, he can offer himself and mean it this time. He couldn’t for anyone lesser but Celebrimbor who made the rings and betrayed Sauron before he could betray him. Outsmarted him when Sauron had forgotten what it felt like to be outsmarted. Yes, maybe. As stupid and as weak as it is, he thinks he’ll stake his future on that maybe.
Tyelpe, his tears staining Sauron’s hands, squeezes his wrists, and like a fool, kisses him back.
☀︎
Originally posted on AO3
