True gifts

He asks to be called Annatar which means the Lord of Gifts, and Celebrimbor agrees. This man who is not a mere man, not a mortal man, does bring gifts. Those gifts he brought have nothing to do with the Rings, and when Celebrimbor realizes that, he feels ashamed and embarrassed, as if he was caught doing something inappropriate not only for the Lord of Eregion but for the Noldor that he is. Those gifts are not the ideas that are about to change the whole realm, and neither those gifts are the advice Annatar is ready to provide showing the skillfulness that amazes the best smiths of Eregion. Those gifts are small and dear to Celebrimbor, and his heart selfishly desires to believe that the gifts are meant for him and him only. The smile that hides in the corners of his lips. This smile is faint and vague, it trembles just like the water surface when the night breeze is rising. His smile is the first gift, and even though Celebrimbor truly believes Nenya with its adamant to be one of the purest things his eyes rested upon, the smile of Annatar is far more beautiful than the first Ring. The High King of Elves picked Vilya, with its sapphire, the second Ring that Celebrimbor connects with the Air and, to be more exact, with the Sky itself. Wisdom and strength that gives Vilya its deep blue color is nothing compared with the vast and cold beauty of Annatar’s eyes. Those eyes usually look through you and beyond, and it’s understandable to a point. But when they look at you… you are in the center of the Universe at that moment, and you are the only thing that matters because the Lord of Gifts shares eternity of his gaze with you. His touch is fire that even Narya, the third Ring, fails to match. Cirdan claimed that Ring, but the fire that blossoms on Celebrimbor’s skin when the long and sensual fingers of the Lord of Gifts touch his wrist or rest on his shoulder in the innocent way of a friend, the Friend, claimed Celebrimbor, and that is bad, that is shameful, and he can do nothing about it. Narya burns when light touches it. Celebrimbor is burning all the time, and the fire hurts, the fire teases. The fire kisses. “Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,” Annatar takes the place beside him. He smells of trouble, he smells of storm. Celebrimbor lets the man that is not a mere man see the sketches he is working on. “This is the first of the seven, isn’t it?” “There will be no first,” Celebrimbor replies. “The first too often means greater than the others. These rings should not be compared… they are the one, even when divided by seven.” “I love that about you, my friend. The wrath and madness that claimed Fëanor is well balanced with the gift of eloquence and sensitivity to beauty,” Annatar laughs, and Celebrimbor sheepishly laughs along, shaking his head. “You’re way too generous with your words and praise, Annatar…” he tries to laugh it off but inside Celebrimbor knows it’s true. He is sensitive to beauty… and that sensitivity will be his madness. “Do not let me distract you from your work, though.” “You are no distraction to me. Stay, friend… by my side.” After all, madness is in his blood.