The Last Maker by Ecthelion

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The Doom: Part Two

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Galadriel did not wait for him in the small chamber he designated for important visitors. In the garden adjacent to it, the lady of the Golden House of Finarfin stood alone in the moonlight, silky long hair snaring the radiance of gold and starlike silver. At the sight of her striking beauty, though well acquainted with her, he still could not but hold his breath for a second.

'Leaves fall and flowers fade.' she heard his footsteps and looked back at him, with a touch of sorrow in her ever resolute, some might even say adamant eyes. At her side, countless roses were blooming despite the night. 'It grieves me that the beauty in this land cannot last.'

'Maybe; but fortunately we can still recover it.' He walked to her and, pulling a branch to him, examined the flowers: they were not of a common crimson but a fascinating, surreal blue, like the color of a rare ore discovered in the Mines of Moria. (1) These blue roses did not exist in the Hither Lands before, and only blossomed in the immortal garden of Lórien on the other shore. If not for the effort of him and his Mírdain, they would have been merely preserved in the distant memories of the Exiles for ever, like many other wonders beyond mortal imagination, slowly sinking into thousands of ancient dreams and eventually settling into a long-lost past.

She sighed. 'Not everything can be recovered in Arda Marred. Once departed, some will never return.'

'Maybe.' he let go of the rose branch and turned to her. There were few Exiles remaining in Middle-earth in this Age of the world, and among them she was the last one he would underestimate. 'But maybe we can prevent them from passing too soon.'

'So that is why you decided to take in Annatar, who has been previously rejected by Ereinion and Elrond.' she said, without asking him for confirmation. 'But are you certain that his goal is aligned with yours?'

'No, I am not.' he laughed. 'Thanks to you, my lady, I have not even found time to really speak with him.' then he protested, half in jest. 'But should I feel honored or insulted, Lady Galadriel? For you rushed here late at night lest I should be deceived by a suspicious stranger, but I cannot remember what I have done to make you think I can be easily fooled.'

She did not play along with him. 'You know Ereinion does not trust him.'

'My cousin never lacks prudence.' He still smiled.

'Nor does he lack wisdom.' She replied calmly.

'Ereinion is not like us.' Finally a little irritated, he smiled no more and started walking back towards the house. 'He is not a maker.'

'So what?' she asked. 'Maybe the makers are more easily tempted and confused.' As if she had not noticed his back became stiff at her words, she pressed, voice relentless. 'Think about your grandfather and your father, Celebrimbor.'

He turned abruptly and called his assistant. 'See the lady out.' With that, he strode off without looking back.

That night he had a dream; in the dream he saw someone he thought he would never see again.

Swing, strike, and flip; swing, strike, and flip again.

Sweat drips from the smith's forehead onto the scalding anvil, sizzling into steam and disappearing altogether. The smith's hand is incredibly steady, controlling the force and angle of each strike with ultimate precision. To the rhythm of hammering golden sparks fly from the red-hot metal, and the metal is tossed and turned time after time, gradually taking shape.

He watched attentively, while a familiar voice came to his ears uninvited, calm and low, with a power that could easily sway other minds.

Creation means devotion. A part of you will pass into your making and live in it ever after.

It was the master of this voice who had opened a door of creation for him and led him into a realm of wonder. However, it was the same one who had carried out a most terrible betrayal and fallen into total disgrace.

All of a sudden, the blade near completion is broken. The smith holds his hammer hand in check, looking down at the remains of the work, a little puzzled. As the understanding grows, the smith drops the hammer and turns away from the anvil, leaving flame, steel, and the forge all behind.

He woke up and was stunned for a long time, unable to convince himself that it was truly his father.

The last time they met was in a great hall, in front of the High Seat of Nargothrond.

He fled quietly from the enraged crowd before the verdict was announced. Running all the way back to his own chamber, he slammed the door shut behind him and trembled, teeth clenched. Burned by anger, shame, and disappointment but finding nowhere to vent, he finally turned around and punched the heavy door.

'Celebrimbor, are you there?'

He froze. It was Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth.

'My father...has ordered your father and your uncle to leave as soon as possible.' Still panting, she obviously hastened here. 'But what about you? What will you do?'

He slowly turned his back to the door. Leaning against the thick hardwood, he buried his face in his hands.

A knock on the door came after a long silence. He stirred, took a deep breath, and straightened himself. A wind arose then, and the curtains billowed.

'I will not go with them.' he said, voice hoarse, and words seemed to be stuck in his throat. 'I have no such a father.'

It was quiet for a moment outside, and then came his father's voice, seemingly indifferent and unaffected:

'Telperinquar onya, namárië.' (2)

And it turned out to be their last farewell, for he had never seen his father again.

We have loved leaping flames and molten metal, as well as gems that flame light and dispel the darkness, for we have believed they are the essence of the secret fire. Day after day we have indulged ourselves in the making of our hands and perfected our skills, but there seems to be no end of it, for the more we walk down the path of exploration, the longer the road becomes ahead. We have thought it is because we still have too much to know and too much to learn.

However, what if we are wrong? Even the mightiest of us all, my father and your grandfather, only achieved something closest to the truth, not the truth itself.

Not until then did he realize that Annatar actually had a voice closely resembling that of Curufinwë Atarinkë.

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Chapter End Notes

(1) Actually there is no record of cobalt ore in Moria, so it is purely my imagination.

(2) Quenya, 'Farewell, Celebrimbor my son.'