Bringing News by StarSpray

bringing news

Read bringing news

Celebrimbor’s home was nestled into the hills just west of Tirion, close enough for a pleasant morning’s ride, though he rarely came into the city. Supplies and food that he did not grow or hunt himself were instead sent out to him. His isolation had caused whispers at first, but by now the Noldor were used to their reclusive young prince.

Well, they had been. Now new tales were coming to Aman from across the Sea, and Celebrimbor was once again the subject of conversation, rehashing old stories and the occasional speculation of what he was doing now. For though he had been back from Mandos for many years, he had made no great work, only small trinkets—beautifully and expertly crafted, to be sure, but nothing like his works of old.

Cucuë made her way up the path, frowning a little as she noticed places where it was starting to become overgrown. She pushed aside trailing honeysuckle branches, and spotted at last the entrance to her son’s home. He had dug into the hillside after the manner of the dwarves, though the door itself was elven enough, made of solid wood and carved with starry motifs, and on either side grew thick-trunked holly trees like sentinels. Above the lintel arced a five-paned window of colored glass. The panes in the center and on either end shone red and green, depicting bunches of holly. The remaining panes on the left and right depicted in one the Star of Fëanor, and the other a pair of crossed hammers over an open flame. Celebrimbor had told her once that that was the sign of Narvi’s house. Narvi, he had also said, had died peacefully at a ripe old age long before Annatar had come to Eregion.

It was about Annatar—Sauron—that Cucuë had come to speak with Celebrimbor. He did not seek out news, and she was not sure that any had come to him on its own. She did not bother to knock, but called out as she opened the door, “Tyelpë?” There was no answer. The workshop stood empty and dark. The kitchen was brighter, and through it the hillside opened up again to Celebrimbor’s garden. Neat rows of vegetables greeted Cucuë as she stepped back into the sunshine, and her son himself was there too, kneeling amid a riot of flowers on the other side of the garden, pulling weeds. “There you are,” she said.

He looked up, a strand of hair loose from his braids falling across his eyes. “Ammë!” he said. “I did not know you were coming today.” He looked well-rested and content. Cucuë wondered if that was because he had heard, or because he had not.

“I have news,” she said, and he immediately set down his trowel. She went to sit beside him on the grass.

“Is it over?” he asked. “Did he—”

“It is over,” she said. “His Ring was destroyed, and he is no more.”

Celebrimbor closed his eyes, exhaling a long, slow breath. “How?” he asked finally.

“I do not know. The full tale has not reached us yet, though it is sure to be a matter of song. But your cousin Artanis is coming on the next ship to Avallónë.”

Celebrimbor’s eyebrows rose slightly at this news. “She will surely know everything.” He took Cucuë’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

“Your rings too,” she said, carefully, “it is said that they have lost their power as well.”

“Oh,” he said, “yes of course. He never touched them, but I used the arts that he taught me to make them. That’s all right. They were used—they were put to far better use than I dared to hope.”

They sat in silence for a time. The sun was bright, and birds sang in the trees. The scent of rich earth and sweet flowers hung around them. Finally, Cucuë said, “He is gone, and you are here. The night has passed.”

Celebrimbor smiled. It was a small thing, but steady. “Yes,” he said. “The night has passed.”