Cast All Away by Zdenka

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

The heat is too intense; the gold before him shines too brightly, until his eyes ache with it. He knows he is growing weary, his thoughts no longer clear; but he cannot, he must not give up his purpose until the end.

The heat again, burning against his skin. Celebrimbor closes his eyes and thinks of snow.

He remembers his first sight of the ground covered in white sparkling heaps, that looked solid but gave way under his feet, and his delight at the nip of frost in the air. It was the first time he was allowed to travel with his father and grandfather outside the land protected by the Valar. The light of the Trees was subdued by distance and the crisp, cold air made the stars seem brighter. He chased through the snowdrifts with Huan, laughing when he fell, and when they finally came inside there was hot cider and a warming fire and all his family gathered together. Rain and snow and rough terrain were adventure, or at most discomfort; they did not yet know danger.

In Valinor, the seasons were gentle. It took time in Middle-earth, time and too many mistakes, to learn the ways of seasons under the Sun and Moon. Even so, the seasons did not always obey their own laws. It was the depths of winter in Himlad, and each twig was encased in a layer of ice like crystal that clinked together in the wind. When fire rolled through the mountain pass at the Dagor Bragollach, the ice melted from the trees like a sudden spring thaw; half-disbelieving, Celebrimbor saw the snow turn to steam and all the trees alight with yellow and orange flame like a mistimed autumn. When he looked back, the retreat underway, he saw black clouds of smoke hanging over the land.

In the fierce rush of battle and the long, terrible retreat, in the sharp fear for his kin, he did not have time then for grief. He mourned later, for the cool plain between the rivers that he loved with a deep and abiding love and for the many fair things they had built there. If anywhere east of the Sea was his home, it was there, in his father’s domain. But he never returned to Himlad, and now all those lands lie under the wave.

The flowing Fëanorian script seems to waver before him, the letters twisting like snakes. It should not be his grandfather’s letters, not for this—yet another thing turned awry—but Fëanor’s pride burning in Celebrimbor’s spirit, Fëanor’s skill in Celebrimbor’s hands is what has brought them here. The craftsman still wields his tools carefully, with intent concentration. Celebrimbor feels sweat trickling down his face, but he cannot raise a hand to wipe it away. Another touch of pressure. Gold and red, red and gold, and darkness behind his eyes—

The twining shapes on the endposts of the bridge gleamed brightly in the autumn sunlight: two golden serpents and the golden flowers which they held aloft and devoured, the work of Celebrimbor’s hands. Celebrimbor glanced at them once as he passed by. He could hear the tread of the horses and foot soldiers behind him striking lightly upon the bridge as the gathered host of Nargothrond crossed over, though the sturdy stonework did not tremble. Celebrimbor turned his face forward to where the banners of the House of Finarfin were lifted above them, golden rays spreading outward like the sun.

In guilt, in anger, in defiance, Celebrimbor had pledged his loyalty to Orodreth after Finrod’s death; and when the King called them to battle, it was his duty to obey. Though Orodreth wore the crown of Nargothrond, he knew it was Túrin’s will that led them forth. Fell and fierce Túrin seemed as he rode at the king’s right hand, his black sword at his side. At his gesture, the column turned obediently up the river toward the plain of Tumhalad. Túrin did not seem to notice the sunlight on the flowing water or the squirrels stocking their hoards, the trees brilliant with red and gold beside the river or the pale polished blue of the sky. Celebrimbor had scant hope for this battle. He had seen the dragon as a great shadow against the light, when sudden flame came against Himlad. He feared that the hosts of Nargothrond might wither like dry leaves in that flame. And yet, he thought, looking around him at wood and water and sky, and yet it is beautiful.

He spares a moment of pity for Túrin, his guilt and his grim purpose, but thought is slipping away. The pressure builds upon his mind, his spirit; he is caught and held motionless in the dark, lit by a single burning flame. He no longer knows whether it is day or night, but he catches the memory of sunlight and clings to it. Sunlight streaming through the windows, comforting-warm on his back and his hair—

High midsummer; he stood in the House of the Jewel-smiths, a fresh breeze blowing through the windows, and one of the smiths brought his newest work for Celebrimbor to look at. Celebrimbor took the golden two-handled cup and turned it carefully between his hands, examining the fine details of the engraving, the twining leaves and delicate flowers. He smiled at the smith and opened his mouth to praise the craftsmanship. And suddenly words tore through his mind like darkness and flame, like fire sweeping through the mountain pass, like the ice-cold fear which fell under the shadow of the dragon’s wings. Ash nazg durbatulûk—He did not know whether he cried aloud. The cup fell from his hand, clanged loudly and rolled on the floor. Everything seemed both distant and very clear; the moment seemed to last forever before he tore Vilya from his finger. When his eyes cleared from the afterimage of flame, he saw his own horror reflected on the other smith’s face.

He felt then a chill at his heart that nothing would remove. The leaves might bud again, once or a hundred times; yet their winter was upon them, the bare and leafless day. All their works, all they had built here would fail and fade. He stood motionless, he did not know how long, bowed by anguish and shame; and then he drew a deep breath and began to consider how his peaceful city of craftsmen might be turned into a camp of war.

Ost-in-Edhil fell. As the city was taken, street by street and hall by hall, as the crashing of falling masonry echoed in the distance, as smoke rose overhead in a black cloud, Celebrimbor took his sword and set himself before the doors of the House of the Jewel-smiths. Sauron would look for him there—Annatar, who he had once believed was his friend.

Sauron had him dragged through the streets, to show off his prize and to make Celebrimbor see what had been done to his city and his people. Celebrimbor laughed aloud when he recognized the golden cup, streaked with dried blood and tossed carelessly aside on the ground. Sauron wished him to despair, but too late. Celebrimbor did not have his cousin Galadriel’s foresight, but he knew and accepted his death long before: the day those words burned through his mind, when the Ruling Ring was placed on Annatar’s hand.

That Ring burns before him now, a fiery circle of gold. How often has gold obeyed him? Melted, crafted, shaped to the form he desired—but this gold cares nothing for skill or subtlety; its power beats against him, harsh and bright. He can no longer speak his denials aloud, only form the word with his lips. Sauron reaches for him again, and the bright gold is wet with blood.

Two Ages of the Sun and his childhood under the Trees all seem to shrink and blur, then expand again, the memories jumbled together and taking new forms like shards of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. The doors of Formenos, blackened and burned, hanging askew on their hinges— His mother  trembling as the torchlight shines on his father’s and uncles’ faces, their drawn swords; “No,” she whispers over and over, “no—” The crown of Nargothrond, cast from Finrod’s hands, clangs and rolls on the polished stone floor— Standing on a twisted  and broken coastline, he watches the last ships sail away, carrying the white and golden banners of King Finarfin, and he thinks, Now this land is ours— The stone towers of Ost-in-Edhil, raised with love and labor, are falling like rain, melting away like snow— until at last everything comes to a stop.

---

Chapter End Notes

Warning for torture and major character death.

the cool plain: the meaning of the name Himlad

and now all those lands lie under the wave: From one of Treebeard’s songs in The Two Towers, “Treebeard”

Ash nazg durbatulûk: “One Ring to rule them all” in the Black Speech. Gandalf recounts at the Council of Elrond how the smiths of Eregion heard Sauron speak these words and knew they were betrayed.

yet he knew their winter was upon them, the bare and leafless day: adapted from a line in Galadriel’s lament: “O Lórien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day” (The Fellowship of the Ring, “Farewell to Lórien”)