The Last Maker by Ecthelion

The Decision: Part Two

'Who are you?'

Suddenly questioned, the golden-haired man who had been studying a piece of rock looked up, with a most appropriate combination of surprise and puzzlement on his flawless, fair face.

'Where are you from?'

Celebrimbor pressed on before the man could reply, eyes fixed on him, determined to accept no prevarication but a clear and direct answer.

Holding his gaze, the golden-haired man slowly straightened. When standing tall and strong again, to his surprise, the man broke into a smile - a smile that had belonged to someone else and once dispersed for an entire people the darkness of the night as well as the gloom on the road ahead, though Celebrimbor did not know it.

'I have been waiting for you to ask me, Celebrimbor.' said the man, with undoubted dignity. 'I am Annatar who once served Aulë; I came from across the Sea.'

Such an answer was not far from his earlier speculation, though he did not expect the man to admit it frankly. '...If you truly serve the Lords of the West, why did you come to Middle-earth? Have the Powers not decided that they would abandon this land and leave it all to the Children of Ilúvatar?'

'In the past, even under the Prophecy of the North Ulmo had acted on his own and reached out to you.' His aggressiveness only deepened the man's smile. 'Surely now we can do better.'

'So you came here on your own despite their decision?' Reasonable as it sounded, he still found it difficult to believe. 'You said you served Aulë, but how can he—'

'Of course he can,' Annatar interrupted him, voice gentle but firm, 'We are makers; and no one knows us better than the Great Smith himself. Remember: while we are still finding our ways to decorate this world, he has already created a new race for it.'

Again, he was rendered speechless, but he was unable to lower his guard regardless. All his doubts seemed to be addressed by Annatar's words, however, all the thoughts in his mind did not fall into place but became even more chaotic. By an inexplicable instinct he knew that he had overlooked something, something very important. 'But—'

'Celebrimbor.'

Annatar interrupted him again. From behind the long table where a variety of rocks and stones were displayed, the man walked towards him, grey eyes now bright like silver fire, as if he had seen through his inner conflict. But as the man came closer, his heart started racing, and the same instinct almost sent him turning to flee. However, the instinct to stay and face the challenge prevailed. He forced himself to stand his ground, and the man stopped at a distance of several steps.

'You and I share the urge and yearning; that is all. Please keep this in mind: the order to which I belong had existed before the World was born, but we have willingly chosen to be bound by the World for the entire time it endures. Do not underestimate our love of it.'

Mind swimming in thousands of thoughts, he returned to his study. Not until he sat down did he notice a letter on his desk, marked as from Mithlond. Very well, he thought, after Ereinion, now comes Círdan. Rubbing his forehead, he took the letter and opened it, and put it back where it was after perusing it.

Over the long ages the Lord of the Havens had witnessed vast changes of the world, and thus now seldom interfered with general affairs, especially after Gil-galad came of age. If Círdan decided to write to him, he must be truly concerned.

Do not act out of obsession, for it only leads to your own loss and destruction. Thus said the letter at the end.

He was not pleased by those words, but he knew better than to be offended or hold it against the writer. If one had witnessed the blood and fire of the First Age, the long and terrible wars over the Great Jewels, and how a blasphemous oath had worked against those who had sworn it, it would be impossible to remain silent seeing one from the same heritage acting seemingly rash again.

However, Círdan should have known that everything he had witnessed in that Age was also witnessed by him, Celebrimbor of the House of Fëanor.

Círdan said what he said, because he does not understand us. He has neither crossed the Sea to the Blessed Realm nor chosen a path of exile and left it. He cannot understand my forefathers and me, for he is not a maker.

Curufinwë Fëanáro had the ambition of preserving the purest Light and the highest beauty and he achieved it; but his creation took possession of him, and in the end he was blinded by his love of it. Curufinwë Atarinkë lived his life by a deliberate choice: to be a shadow and follower of his father and pursue his unrivaled making, even though it meant taking an unbreakable oath and giving up his own talent and self as a maker.

But he, Celebrimbor, was different. Free from ambition, legacy, and vengeance, he finally took the liberty of focusing on life itself. Humble as it seemed, it was his wish to simply create a missing link to complete a cycle, the cycle that would incorporate fire, stone, metals, and gems into the nature where they came from, so that the making of the hands could become the guardian of air and water, flowers and trees, birds and beasts: the guardian who could hold off Time.

If the fair and good were all doomed to be lost, could he not at least try to prolong their life?

He wanted a shelter in this mortal land where his people could linger and find peace and rest: like Aman shaped by the Valar, like Eä created by Eru.