Chapter Text
"...you are responsible for the puppies, and if even one of them is underfed, you will be in great trouble," Sauron promised sternly, "and now leave me, I need to prepare for negotiations."
The Witch King bowed politely, turned, and walked away. The Dark Lord waited until his servant had disappeared around the corner. He had long since sworn off opening the door to his chambers in anyone's presence. Helkar seemed to suspect something, but at least he was smart enough not to voice his suspicions.
Taking a deep breath, Sauron opened the door. He entered and carefully closed it behind him. Only then did he cast a cautious glance around the bright chambers.
Oh, no.
Celebrimbor sat on the windowsill, reading a book on the herbs of Harad.
"What are you doing here, Tyelpe?" Sauron asked in a hoarse voice.
"I'm sitting on the windowsill, in case you haven't noticed," the craftsman replied sarcastically.
"I see. What are you doing on my windowsill?"
Celebrimbor put the book down and jumped lightly from the windowsill. He walked closer. He asked, tilting his head to the side:
"Aren't you glad to see me, Annatar?"
"The moment is inopportune," the Maia shrugged.
The Lord of Eregion laughed:
"Just admit you miss me. Otherwise, you wouldn't have dragged my corpse like a flag across Middle-earth. You only thought of burying me when your servants started looking at you strangely..."
Trying to ignore the chattering... something, Sauron approached the enormous wardrobe. What should he choose? A blue robe with gold embroidery and a gilded belt, or the same, but with silver?
"Choose the silver one," Celebrimbor advised quietly.
"I'll handle this without you," Sauron snapped. "Go away."
"I'm in your head," his friend said, spreading his hands. "When you really want me to, I'll disappear. I'm dead, remember? I'm not here."
The Dark Lord did remember... sort of. And meeting his murdered friend scared the hell out of him. But—he didn't want to admit it—the loneliness scared him even more. Especially now. Of course, nothing bad would happen, nor could it, but the thought of negotiations left a strange unease somewhere in his throat.
In the mirror attached to the closet door, Sauron saw Celebrimbor's figure slowly fade. The Dark Maia turned and begged:
"Stay. Sorry, I'm... rather nervous today."
"I noticed, Annatar. All is well," the apparition smiled broadly.
"You say, silver...?"
Tyelpe nodded, and suddenly very close, he ran his hand over the silken fabric.
"Gold is the color of power and strength. Such a display of might will irritate Ar-Pharazon. But silver is soft, calm, noble. It will show your willingness to compromise."
"You're right," Sauron nodded. "Perhaps we shouldn't even use blue, but green..."
"Take the blue one; blue is soothing. One of the Three has a magnificent blue stone. It's a pity you'll never see it." Celebrimbor's eyes twinkled with amusement.
"If you'd been so talkative before, you might have lived," Sauron muttered dryly. This innocent teasing was making him feel a little creepy.
He pulled out a blue robe embroidered with silver dragons and demanded:
"Turn away, Tyelpe."
Celebrimbor rolled his eyes:
"Who are you ashamed of? A creation of your own mind? I am a part of you!"
That didn't make the situation any less awkward.
Sauron quickly removed his simple black tunic and donned a robe over his weightless chainmail. Now he needed to weave silver chains and clear stones into his hair. He reached for the box.
"Wait," Celebrimbor frowned. "You're not going to change your appearance?"
"Why should I?" Sauron asked, puzzled. "I like Annatar's appearance. It worked wonderfully with you, I remember..."
Tyelpe looked at him for a moment as if he were a hopelessly stupid apprentice. And finally he said softly:
"Annatar, tell me, have you considered... how can I put this more gently... You see, when an elven ruler sees a refined, delicate creature and falls in love with him, he shares their labor and rest, fears to breathe on him, swears to cherish and protect him to the last drop of blood. But when a human sees a gentle and refined creature, he simply takes him."
“How harsh you are to mortals,” Sauron laughed.
"I have great respect for mortals, but this particular man, Ar-Pharazon, troubles me. He forced Princess Miriel to marry him to gain the throne. How voluntary do you think the consummation of the marriage was? Annatar, we don't know what this mortal will come up with. And approaching him in your finest form is a very dangerous idea."
Sauron paused for a moment, weaving beads into his golden locks, and looked at Celebrimbor. He said gravely:
"I am touched by your concern, truly. But I am a Maia. I slew Finrod Felagund, I vanquished you on the steps of your own forge. With me is the One—the greatest creation in the history of Arda… This mortal will not lay a finger on me without my consent."
"You're overweening," Celebrimbor shook his head.
"Shut up".
Sauron smiled at his reflection in the mirror, the softest, most gentle smile, one that could melt mountains. His golden curls fell in neat waves over his shoulders, and the stones and silver threads woven into them shimmered like autumn dew. A light blue robe accentuated his graceful silhouette.
"Do you like it?" Sauron asked.
"Such beauty is worth dying for again," Celebrimbor grinned, but the grin was humorless.
One last thing remained. The One. Sauron slid it onto his finger and shuddered with a sudden surge of strength. Power pulsed through his hand. Now no Ar-Pharazon could threaten him. The Lord of Mordor was ready to negotiate with Númenor.