The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

The Doom: Part One

The first time Celebrimbor met Annatar was on the main road outside Ost-in-Edhil, as he was returning from Moria (1), still relishing the memories of the vast halls carved deep within the mountains and the prolific veins of mithril gleaming in the rock. As a smith himself, he could not help but marvel at what a strong yearning for making and exploration could bring forth: the Naugrim had transcended mere delicacy with their mastery over metal and stone, achieving greatness even where they had once been criticized for lacking “a sense of delicate beauty.”

It is said that the most successful deception is always rooted in the utmost understanding. Reflecting on it later, he knew it was no mere chance that had drawn his attention to the man.

The scene of that doomed evening remained vivid in his memory: half the sky burned red with the sunset, and a man stood tall and straight by the roadside, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the rolling hills in the distance. His unbound hair, cascading over his shoulders, shone like molten gold in the fading light, concealing the dust and weariness of travel. From the side, the man’s silhouette was so strikingly perfect, so reminiscent of a statue his grandmother might have crafted, that for a fleeting moment, Celebrimbor believed even the river of Time had slowed to linger upon him.

Sensing his gaze, the golden-haired man turned. After a glance at the banners flying high in the twilight, his piercing eyes fixed on Celebrimbor. “Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion?”

Though spoken with the cadence of inquiry, the man’s tone betrayed certainty. Finding this both intriguing and faintly disingenuous, Celebrimbor decided to respond in kind—with a question of his own.

“You are neither of mortal nor of Even kind,” he said, remaining on horseback, his lips curling and voice dripping with condescension. “Could it be that I actually have the honor of meeting the famed Annatar, whose gifts have thus far interested no one?”

To his surprise, the man appeared entirely unaffected by the mockery. “The worth of my gifts is not meant for all to understand.”

He let his mocking smile deepen. “Do you claim that Lindon is too dull to recognize your talent, and so you must seek your equals in Eregion?”

At this, the man gave a low, amused laugh before speaking. “Celebrimbor son of Curufin, Head of Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Lord of Eregion, and the last of the mighty House of Fëanor in Middle-earth.” Ignoring the provocation, the man recited his titles as though they were facts of profound significance. His eyes sparkled with challenge as he continued, “I was only wondering if you would also be the last maker in this mortal land.”

He lifted a hand to stop his squire from rebuking him. Turning his attention more seriously now, he studied the man and those grey eyes: at first, they seemed so clear that one might think they could see to the very bottom of them, but a closer look revealed their unfathomable depths. He blinked and then burst into laughter. “Then come with me. I am now curious about what my cousin must have missed.”

Since he rarely had the patience to engage with ordinary folk, the news that he had brought a stranger into the city quickly aroused widespread interest. Many found contrived excuses to visit the guildhouse, even though it was already night, eager to catch a glimpse of this enigmatic guest as early as possible. Celebrimbor observed the farce in silence, making no effort to intervene; yet when he finally led Annatar into his sitting room and took a seat, he noted with some disappointment that there was not a trace of embarrassment on that handsome face

“Coming all the way from Lindon to Eregion, what on Arda do you have to say?” he asked bluntly, prepared to send the man away if his words proved empty. But Annatar did not boast or bluster. Instead, he simply sighed, long and deep.

Though the man appeared to be in his prime, the sigh spoke of experience spanning thousands of years, carrying a weight so sad and so true that Celebrimbor almost regretted his earlier sarcasm.

“A mighty king is Gil-galad, and wise in all lore is Master Elrond, and yet they will not aid me in my labors. Can it be that they do not desire to see other lands become as blissful as their own?” (2)

Annatar spoke each word with the deepest regret, his tone carrying just the right trace of frustration.

“But should Middle-earth remain for ever desolate and dark, whereas the Elves could make it as fair as Eressëa, no, even as Valinor?” (3)

A silence fell. The crackling of firewood in the hearth became the only sound in the chamber. His face remained unperturbed, though his heart raced as he stared at the man before him—so confident and energetic a moment ago, now seemingly tired and forlorn.

“My lord, Lady Galadriel is here.”

The silence was broken by this unexpected report from his assistant. So she has heard of it too, he thought, and suddenly felt an inexplicable satisfaction. “Tell her I am coming,” he replied. Glancing back at Annatar, he was not surprised to find concern in the man’s eyes.

“Do not worry. I will return soon,” he assured him absently, before pausing as if reminded of something. Leaning closer, he kept his smile on his lips, though it did not reach his eyes.

“And you would do well to remember this,” he said softly. “Gil-galad is my cousin, and I know him better than you ever can. Do not let me hear you speculate about him again.”

Chapter End Notes

(1) I have chosen to use Moria in the narrative, as the Elvish name Hadhodrond—a translation of Khazad-dûm—is far less familiar to most readers. It is worth noting, however, that the name Moria did not come into use until after Sauron waged war upon the Elves and the West-gate of Khazad-dûm was shut. (Yes, I am aware that the inscription on the West-gate includes the word Moria—a small mystery in itself.)

(2)(3): adapted from The Silmarillion.