The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

Epilogue

The attack began at sunset, and by shortly after midnight, the city gate had been breached.

Fires erupted, painting the night sky in a foreboding red. Orcs flooded the streets of Ost-in-Edhil like a relentless tide. The defending Elves were forced to retreat to the city square, gathering at the Guildhouse of the Mírdain for a final stand.

Before the enemy troops could close in, Celebrimbor ordered the gate to be opened and strolled out alone, his sheathed sword dangling casually from his hand.

“Tell your master to come here,” he demanded, his voice rising. “Annatar, Gorthaur, Sauron—whatever he chooses to call himself.”

The hordes clamored, and a few bold ones charged forward, eager to capture him alive. But before they could approach, bowstrings sang, and darts rained down in torrents from above—fired from crossbows far surpassing the power of ordinary bows.

“This is undeniably an abuse of our art, but necessity leaves us no choice,” he murmured to himself as the hail of arrows ceased, not even glancing at the fresh pile of fallen bodies at his feet.

The Orcs quickly adapted, drawing countless crude bows and arrows from every direction, all aimed at him—a lone, conspicuous figure.

“I would think twice if I were you,” he said, finally turning his gaze to them, his tone laced with sarcasm. “For I am Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, heir to the House of Fëanor. Tell your master to come here—I will not wait long.”

And he did not have to wait long, either.

A figure darker than the night emerged from the shadows as the sea of enemies parted. The once-fair appearance was now concealed beneath black armor, a spiked helmet, and a grotesque mask. Fear rippled through the ranks like wildfire as the Dark Lord strode forward.

“You wished to see me, Celebrimbor,” he said, his voice unchanged from the days when he had feigned friendship and mentorship.

“I believe you wish to see me more,” Celebrimbor corrected him with a straight face, “After all, you have come to Eregion for the Rings of Power, have you not? And I am the only one who knows where they are.”

He could not tell if it was just his imagination, but the eyes hidden behind the mask seemed to narrow, as if weighing options. The familiar voice rang out again, earnest and sincere, carrying the power to sway hearts and minds with ease. “If you change your mind, we can still be partners; you and I can accomplish more than anyone else in this world.” So I said, and so I say again.

As if in agreement, Celebrimbor’s lips curled ever so slightly.

Seeing this, those eyes lit up, and the voice softened. “So, where are they? Where are those Rings of Power?”

Silence fell. Even the flickering of the torches seemed to hesitate, as if the entire world was holding its breath, waiting for his reply.

“In the deep waters,” he said, innocent, “in the airs of heaven, in the fires of the heart of the world.” (1)

After a brief moment of dead silence, the Dark Lord erupted in fury, and even the stars above seemed to dim. “You are a fool to provoke me, Celebrimbor. I have a thousand ways to break you; death you may yet crave from me as a boon.” (2)

“So, what are you waiting for?”

He laughed, unsheathing his long sword. In the midst of fire and darkness, it glittered, willful and proud.

-The End of the Main Story-

Chapter End Notes

(1) Adapted from The Silmarillion, which recounts the fate of the three Silmarils.

(2) Adapted from The Children of Húrin, referencing Morgoth's threat to Húrin.