Inglorëa by sian22

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

 

I gave up the Seven first.

 

It was a moment I never thought to meet but his minions, hooting and cackling with glee, slavering in their excitement, knew they had found the first breaking point and I, to my utter shame, could not hold out a moment more.

 

Where are they, Filth?

 

They returned me to my cell, limp and soaked in black despair; tossed me down upon the flags like a soiled, discarded rag and in my heart that was all too near the truth.  I am not a soldier but I am my people’s lord, and this first act of abasement caught me between the hammer and the anvil.  I could not fade and I could not hold, and so, in my mind, I searched for crumbs of absolution.

 

They were only lesser rings.  Not a journeyman’s first efforts, but neither were they tempered with a master’s steadiness. They would influence and reverberate but not suborn.  Durin and his folk---Children of mighty Aulë, strong as solid stone---would surely be proof enough.

 

Valar forgive me.

 

 I so wanted it to be the truth. 

 

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For the Nine I held out longer.

 

When first his servants assailed me before the gates of the Mirdain I fought with all my might vainly and hopelessly, for they were too many and I too weak, and they grappled me in ugly, iron chains.

 

In the aftermath, some care was taken to not inflict any more damage than already done. The cool, damp cell was somewhat tolerable as prisons go.  I had a pallet and grey wool blanket.  A tiny window set with iron bars.  A chamber pot.  Even a crude spoon for eating with.  “At least I am alive”, I thought, and set about sharpening it in secret, hatching inchoate plans of flight and hoarding this glimmer of hope to myself.

 

How naïve it seems from this side the year.

 

Of course they threatened the tools of my craft. 

 

Without eyes I could not behold the curves of beauty.  Without hands I could not shape and thus the moment came again--hard and pitiless like iron.

 

This time, fearing more deeply what would come to pass, I left myself. With a fëa tethered but lightly to hröa, days and blows passed like endless roiling storms until…

 

I broke.

 

Again.

 

“Nice and sharp she is.”  The legion of other cuts were of no account but the oddly thin-faced chief jailor’s stinking breath gusted up against my face, his black dagger piercing at my cheek.  

 

I had to give something up else risk the greater secret slipping out.

 

Such simple things, the Nine: bands of white gold and mithril with little ornament but made with growing skill.  What will happen to them?  Will he keep them for himself or bind the unwary with their greed?  Will he make a company of Captains to spur his legions on?

I know not, but it can be nothing good. 

 

Nienna. mist grey and pitying all who weep, wash me with your silver tears.

 

 

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How long has Vana’s tapestry unwound since?  Weeks?  Months?  I have no sense of time.  Stars wheel within my blood but I no longer see their dance.  Long before they stopped up my window and there is none here to ask for news.

 

I will not sully myself with Black Speech. 

 

Is it the gate of winter now?  I do not feel cold but the blains, red and swollen, adorn my feet and unbroken fingers like an itchy, evil lace. They will only worsen as the Dunedain’s Mettare comes.  ‘Go away’, I plead, maddened by them more than the lice, but then, I still. 

 

Remembering.

 

If it is cold then months have passed.

 

Good.  Let time run like a river in Spring’s spate and bring them ever closer to their goal.

 

I have sent the Three away.  Two to Ereinon and one to Artanis.  Leagues and leagues they have yet to pass for we in Eregion are overrun by the Enemy and they must not go openly, nor in the hands of a messenger any should expect.  They are not of the One but still a part mastered by it, and the pull of Shadow could be too strong.  There is only one in whom I trust their might: Aiwendil, master of shapes and changes of hue.  By ways long and secret, neither straight nor swift, he will take them to new homes: Lindon, with its scent of the Western sea and tang of red Uinen’s tress upon the rocks; Caras Galadhon, of golden bloom and carpets of sweet-scented elanor.

 

Even here the memory of climbing the great mallorn trees can make me smile.  The muscles of my abused face protest but my lips do quirk a little—both Lorien and Lindon are beautiful.  And safe.  And sure.  Or as any realm of the Eldar can be when even the strongest--Nargothrond and Gondolin--can fall.

 

I turn then and press my cheek against the freezing stone, take up my spoon in my left hand to distract myself and scratch a filigree against its face.  It does not do to think of Rings. The Three, powerful and eternal, last bulwark against the One, must not be too much in my mind. 

 

He is subtle and I am losing strength.

 

Inexorably.  Inevitably.

 

I fear that more than any single thing.

 

Even the opening of the door.

 

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“Filth…confesssss… “

 

“Never!  Never!”  I cried and this time they set a different test.   I was in the earth, their earth, pouring into my nose and lungs, deep and dank and heavy; I was in their earth, choking, fighting for scraps of air through a river of cold regret; buried so far I could not breathe and then, another voice:

 

Peace, my son said the deeps of the sea where Ulmonan glitters like a pearl.  Peace, I am here and will succor you; and the bucket beside became a waterspout, rose up and drenched my face, and then they let me go for water they still fear, here.

 

On the muddied floor I closed my eye but it was only sleep, not death.

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I was such a fool.

 

His voice was beautiful.  Smooth and sable and utterly mesmerizing in one so fair and free with his talent, who bore gifts and smiles, and praise that warmed me more than it should.     

Though Gil-galad and Artanis received him not, in Ost-in-Edhil we did.  I had learned much in my days of smithing--of mined metals and gems from the Dwarves of Moria; of settings and design from Enerdhil of Gondolin; yet I had not his skill.  Beauty melded to bright metal with power woven in. 

 

It was the height of craft and learning.  I set aside my doubts and watched as our new High Smith spread joy throughout the halls.  My Brotherhood was entranced. They had a thirst for knowledge and Annatar was a well; making the metal dance, thrum with possibility and turn it to something much more than simple ornament. 

 

I stood at the back of the crowded forge and watched the air shimmer with each blow and came to see something else.

 

He was also a master of doors.

 

Some were feints: wide open, beckoning thresholds too alluring to resist, and some were locked. An artificer--in the true and original meaning of the word—he showed so much and yet told so little of himself, and in my heart the flame of disquiet grew.

 

 “Will you not take a hand at the cross-peen, Celebrimbor? Make a trial of your own? Surely you do not wish to be lesser skilled than your guildsmen?”

 

“Let others essay first.”

 

Lord of Gifts?  Servant of Aulë? Beloved teacher?  He was all this and more.  Worryingly so. Yet even when my Lord and Lady turned their backs on him and left, I was too uncertain to speak out. I said nothing.  Watched and waited; learned with all the rest to make the metal bend instantly to the forger’s will, sing with energy and promise.

 

I did not flinch when he would take my hand and pull me to the bench for always I had some excuse. Cardonil needs more time.  Accounts are due next day.  I met that angelic smile with outward deference; bided my time until he left for parts unknown and I could work in peace.

 

I knew exactly what I should make.

 

We, the Firstborn who remember the beauty of the Undying Lands, watch the dry leaves fall and flowers fade each season and regret.  No Spring can redress it, no fleeting burst of life can assuage the eternal ache, and so, I took my own unsullied tools, my own rough skill, and made three Rings of Power.  Tempered them with Sirannon’s snow-fed springs.  Felt the note of joy inside--an atonement, if you will, for the evils done by my house.

 

Narya, red and gold; for the Silmaril cast by my uncle into a burning pit. A ring of Fire to set courage and strength and hope in sinew; to preserve the bones of earth; to honour the ardor of Aule’s craft.

 

Nenya, mithril and adamant; a ring of Water for the second stone flung into the sea.  Shining as a star upon the waves, glistening like the shells of the Ulumuri; a shimmer that can conceal; preserve unstained and hide from evil; to honour Ulmo who loves so the First and Secondborn.    

 

Vilya, gold and sapphire; mightiest of the three; a ring of Air for the third set into the sky to sail with Vingilot.  Blue as the Veil of Arda, as the Elder King’s great staff; to envelop and protect, heal and preserve; honouring Manwë who preserves unwithered the peace of Valinor.

 

They were a challenge.  The greatest and hardest work that I had done, the fairest rings in Middle-Earth; wrought in secret; apart, I believed, from his binding spell.

 

How very wrong I was.

 

It was all a trap. 

 

And I walked my people into it.

 

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“Filth, confesss…or we shall fly your body like a flag.”

 

Somehow this latest, heinous threat left me quite unmoved for the moment the One declared itself we knew that we were lost. Those who wore Rings put them off, durst not use them or give them up, and He, more terrible than we could countenance, came upon us in open war.  Eregion lies in flames and still he searches; celebrates each inevitable discovery, crows loudly of it that I know their fate.

 

They can take my hröa, beat it, burn it, turn it to a fearsome banner of direst warning, but I am unafraid.  Whatever they do to me, the Three will remain untouched by him, pure and uncorrupted. 

 

This time when the lashing ends, I swim up through the river-mud of throbbing pain and catch the vinegar-sharp scent of regret, wondering what it means. Grief for my people?  Shame at my stupidity?  Anger at my cowardice?

 

Yes and yes.

 

And then I laugh. 

 

It is also the stinging brew they cleanse me with.

 

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I am the last of my father’s house and yet I am my mother's son.

.

Those who knew Tirion’s glistening walls and diamond streets remember her--an elleth of a wholly different look and temper from my father Curufin; so much that it amazes me that she, quiet and kind, mild-eyed and soft in heart, would cleave to one high-hearted and ever bold.  He was his father’s favourite—alike to Fëanor in all ways and from him I have my father-name and skill.  If he is steel—strong and durable, yielding only at extremes--I am silver--enduring, but not showy or vain. Delighting only in that my work honours Eru’s song.

 

She refused his pleas. Serving Estë as she did, she would not leave, and I, a youngling barely past majority, was torn.  Wishing to stay with her and yet mindful of my father’s admonition to always look to the honour of our House. 

 

I stood on a Swanship’s deck with a chill foreboding snaking up my spine but also a yearning in my heart.  I wanted skill.  I am my father's son in that.

 

Once in Middle-Earth, I followed the lead of my beloved uncle—Finrod Felagund, he of the Shining Caves.  He knew what virtue lay in toil and humility; that will alone cannot translate honour into substance if the thought inside is unmatched by deeds without. My father’s family would never win by the sword what they had lost by treachery and at last I broke with them.   Utterly. 

 

I turned away and sought out Gondolin.  Beyond the Echoriath a treachery long-foretold came to dire fruition but inside I was at peace; set my focus to creation; molding myself and apart as ever.  Dalliances bloomed here and there but never deeply or for long-- the fires of the heart never moved me as did the flickers of the forge—and my partners could not know how much a blessing that would be. 

 

I did not understand the lesson I had been taught.

 

Once, at the bleak shores of Araman, I stood by my father's side and quailed with him to hear the words of Mandos, solemn and terrible, declaring a doom that would follow, Age by Age, all who declared the Oath.  I crossed the Sea and held fast to my fraying pride, followed my uncles not from Nargothrond and yet still I did not understand.  

 

The reach of those ringing words.  Their eternal and subtle chains.  The portent of my father's naked sword, blood red before the torches' glow. 

 

'Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.'

 

'To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.'

 

I did not see.    

 

I, who swore no Oath, am the last work of my father and my grandsire and shall suffer the selfsame end.   

 

It is a bitter cup within the dregs.

 

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‘Filth, confesssss….”

 

They came each day to feed me now no sustenance but oily water, leavened by a steady diet of mockery and humiliation. The blanket was moth-eaten and breaking down. My little patch of sky was blocked.  There was nowhere to hide but inside my mind.  Each time they asked and each time I ran.

 

“Mind the alembic now, hold it steady, Inglorëa.’

“Yes, Master Enerdil Like this?”

“That is right. Watch and you shall see silver separate from the gold, the wisdom of Aule’s fashioning.”

 

Sometimes I grieved that there was none to call my mother name this side the Sea; none to call it at the last and give me hope, but perhaps that was just as well. 

 

Mandos judge me kindly.

 

I was silent then.

 

I may only gain my honour back by keeping silent now.

 

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The world was dark.  An irony that there was no shadow for there was no light.  All was chill and damp--it made me want to laugh how much I craved a bath at first and now I was soaked and shivering; burning inside with quite another fire.  Fearing the cold that rose more than the air, the last bits of the blanket lay underneath me; the softest thing I touched.  

 

The coughing, damnably, hurt most my broken ribs.

 

I was going to die there. Alone. Like a broken bird fallen on an empty mountaintop or a sailor sunk down in the deeps.  Salt tears burned my face, ran past the hollow of my chest to drop, one by one, upon the wool.  I lamented, but no echo of it shall pass beyond the mountains.

 

Perhaps that was fitting, too.

 

I still felt Varda’s kindling in my blood. Somewhere the sun lifted the sap to run in the trees.  Somewhere my people fought, and sang, and died.  Long before, I gave up singing to pass the time and so now I did what I could to remember the beauty of the things I crafted:

 

‘Speak friend and enter’--  said Durin’s Door below Silvertine that was the first marrying of my slight magic to mithril and my friend Narvi’s skill;  the Elessar, green as the verdant glades and glorious, with something of Anor at its heart.

 

I laughed a little madly for remembering even now instilled the urge to create. What do they make of my scratchings on the wall?  Settings and chasings and arabesques, row upon ordered row, becoming smaller and sparer with time.  When my ruined fingers would no longer move, I took the nail between my teeth and now I am too weak for even that.

 

I still devised them in my mind.

 

Suddenly, the foetid current stirred a bit and I felt a faint rush of warmth; cracked open the blood crusted in my eye to see--

 

a butterfly.  Manwe’s servant; so fragile a thing to be here where all is unyielding stone.  What portent did she bring with wings of gold and silver kissed by a sheen of blue and green and red.  Sparkling as clear air above the deep green-blue of water, all underneath the sun. 

 

Then, I knew.

 

They are the colours of my rings.

 

Oh, but I could weep if I only had the breath.

 

There came the barest brush. She swooped to rest as a kiss upon my brow and then alit upon one unbroken finger.

 

Safe. They are safe. And there is naught to forgive. What has been wrought shall turn in the end to gold.

 

A Elbereth Gilthoniel.  I felt light and thin.  And all of gossamer. 

 

I let my hröa go.

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Chapter End Notes

Celebrimbor has no known mother name.  His father name Telperinquar is Quenya for ‘silver-fist’.  I could not resist the urge: Inglorëa is a version of the Noldorin ‘gold-heart’.

Grateful thanks to Altariel, Carawyn, Gwynnyd and Haarajot at the Garden of Ithilien for encouragement and critters, and to Grundyscribbling and Gabriel Seven for lending their expert and supremely eyes from a Silmarillion perspective. Once again I am indebted to Wheelrider for her fearless and expert beta'ing-Is there an award for sprinkling commas? I hope so.