The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

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Extra: Lost But Won

Extra Chapter:

Lost but Won

He did not know how much time had passed.

The world, as Celebrimbor knew it, had split into two irreconcilable halves: before his capture and after. The endless, unimaginably cruel torment came in unrelenting cycles. Time and again, his fëa struggled in vain to break free, only for his consciousness to surface from a lightless abyss, awakening anew each time to the grim truth that he remained trapped within this battered, broken body, ravaged beyond recognition.

He had always known, deep within, that the enemy’s threat was no empty taunt: Death you may yet crave from me as a boon. (1)

He could no longer discern whether it was day or night. Where his eyes had once been, there were now only hollow sockets. Those eyes, which had once gazed upon the purest and highest light, undimmed even in the deepest shadows, had been the first to draw his tormentor’s hatred. In the vivid clarity of Elven memory, the horror of that moment lingered, as sharp as if it had only just unfolded: black iron, heated to a fiery red, inching ever closer—until searing pain struck, and a veil of darkness descended. He could no longer recall how long ago that had been, for in the face of an inescapable eternity, the line between an age and an instant blurred into nothingness.

Yet, that did not mean he was entirely unaware, nor wholly blind and deaf to the world around him. In time, it was as though a long-hidden door had opened before him, granting him passage beyond the tangible world—one he had once seen, heard, tasted, and touched—into another indescribable realm. He called it the Unseen. Seamlessly intertwined with the tangible world yet fundamentally distinct, its existence had long been a faint whisper at the edges of his perception. Only after losing his sight did it fully reveal itself, becoming an undeniable truth—the primary reality upon which he now relied. (2)

And in that reality, he knew—knew with absolute certainty—that a change had occurred. He was no longer alone. Another presence had entered the space around him, emanating a familiar aura of danger that pressed closer with each passing moment.

It was him.

Before he could react, something was cast before him. Instinctively, he turned his head, catching the faint clinking of metal as it struck the ground from that now-distant, tangible world. It was not a single object but several. Though small in form, they carried a weight that spoke of purpose far beyond their size.

“All the remaining Rings are here,” said the voice. “Do not imagine that your silence will leave me without recourse.”

“Those you have already defiled—returning them is of no consequence,” he replied, laughing—a sound that dragged him abruptly back to the tenuous grip of the tangible world. The searing pain struck without warning, making him tremble, yet his demeanor remained unshake. Each word spilled forth with gushes of blood from the corners of his mouth, each breath lancing through his chest with needle-sharp agony. “But what is not yours, you shall never wrest from me.”

“Truly?” The voice laughed, its tone layered with ominous meaning. “We shall see.”

Before the words had fully faded, his surroundings shifted. Everywhere, fire raged—crimson flames rising and writhing, twisting like serpents, surging skyward in storms that clawed at the heavens. Waves of heat struck him like a physical blow, and in the next instant, it was as though he had become a living torch. Through his crusted, blood-clogged nostrils, the stench of burning hair and flesh seeped in—nauseating, suffocating, and inescapable.

Every nerve in his hröa screamed in unison, each sensation stretched to its unbearable limit. His mind felt as though it had been cleaved apart by a searing blade, leaving behind only a desolate void. His mouth opened of its own accord, but no sound reached his ears. Instead, the blistering air rushed in, like molten fire, scorching his throat and setting his lungs aflame.

Amid the all-consuming inferno, a voice, cold as a shard of ice, cut through the flames and pierced his mind, striking deep into the very roots of his being.

Do not forget—you have already revealed the whereabouts of the Seven.

Do not forget, he replied, mustering every shred of his scattered will, to me, they are no different from the Nine.

Still so arrogant. The voice laughed again, its tone shifting abruptly—sharp and mocking. But do you truly believe you are beyond my reach?

The inferno receded, and his prior reality returned, though the torment had taken on another form. Struggling through the transition, he felt his shackled wrists suddenly grow scaldingly hot. A searing grip forced his tightly clenched fist open, prying it apart with burning hands. Moments later, something smooth and cool slid onto his finger.

In an instant, he understood what it was, and a fear unlike any he had ever known surged through his heart.

He had been forced to wear a Ring of Power—one now bound under the dominion of the One.

He suddenly opened his eyes, greeted by moonlight as clear and pure as water, bathing the room in silvery brilliance.

Dazed, he lifted his head, finding himself slumped over the desk by the window. Outside, the dark ridges of the mountains framed the lake beneath the ink-black sky. The water, deep and mirror-like, resembled an unblemished piece of black jade, adorned with scattered stars, as though the heavens themselves had been cast upon its surface. It was impossible to tell whether the heavens mirrored the lake or the lake mirrored the heavens.

Was I asleep? he wondered, feeling as though he had just awakened from a long dream. Strangely, he could recall none of its details, though for Elves, the line between dreams and reality was rarely distinct.

He stood, perplexed by the unfamiliar sensation of solid ground beneath his feet. Before he could ponder it further, voices floated in from the outer chamber.

“That will not do. It was not part of the contract.”

He quietly approached the open door and saw the visitor shaking his head emphatically. Telchar—it was Telchar, the renowned Dwarven craftsman. In Thargelion, beneath the Blue Mountains by the shores of Lake Helevorn and the fortress of Rerir, his name was known to all.

“The agreement we made with your brother? We will never sign a second one like it,” the Dwarf declared. Yet the other party in the negotiation remained calm. “Then perhaps you would consider reasonable terms of exchange.”

The great smith from Nogrod scoffed, his expression dismissive, though his eyes gleamed with interest. “Exchange? I doubt it. We have seen all your tricks before.”

“What you have seen are merely the ‘tricks’ of Nan Elmoth. Surely, you are aware of how Noldorin craftsmanship compares.”

A sudden dizziness overcame him, and he closed his eyes briefly to steady himself. When he regained his senses, the conversation had already moved on. He caught only the tail end of a sentence:

“…how to refine your methods for protecting doorways—I fear I am no expert in such matters. Why not consult my son, Celebrimbor?”

With effort, he lifted his head and forced himself to look toward the source of the voice. Almost as if sensing his gaze, the one seated across from the ornately dressed Dwarf turned to face him. The features, the expression, even the light in his eyes—everything was rendered with unsettling perfection.

“But you are not him,” he murmured, his voice barely audible even to himself. “You underestimate him, as you underestimate me.”

When it came to knowledge and craftsmanship, his father had never known humility. And in such realms of mastery, who could rival Curufinwë Atarinkë, son of Fëanor?

A silence as heavy as iron followed his words. Then, without warning, the surroundings began to ripple and distort, like a reflection in water shattered by a stone. Everything that seemed solid fractured and dissolved, the space collapsing inward into a bottomless vortex, devouring itself. Before he could react, he was swept away, powerless against the spiraling depths…

He opened his eyes, and before him stretched an endless sea.

By the shore stood many Elves—golden-haired and dark-haired alike—their armor, whether gleaming or battered, still marked by the stains of fierce battle. Upon the sea, white ships with unfurled sails departed one after another, carrying the surviving Elf-friends into the distant waves. Above them, the brightest star in the sky shone, a guiding beacon of enduring hope.

He stood upon the cliff, facing the cold, damp sea breeze, his gaze fixed upon the horizon for what felt like an age. At last, he turned back to the lands of Middle-earth behind him, beholding nothing but endless desolation and ruin.

Why? Why must the far shores beyond the sea now be the only haven? The Hither Lands, the mortal world, the realm of twilight—if they are to be so utterly forsaken, why labor so ardently once to shape their form?

“Then why did you refuse the pardon? You could have passed over the Sundering Sea and returned to the Undying Lands.”

Another figure appeared beside him. The Lady of the Golden House of Finarfin now stood at his side, her golden hair and white robes shimmering with a radiance that only deepened the stark desolation surrounding them.

“What about you?” he countered instead. “Why did you refuse?”

Because the price of the pardon is submission.

“What wrong did the House of Finarfin do, that we must now seek the pardon of the Valar, while the House of Finwë has dwindled to a mere shadow of its former glory? Once, I walked beneath the light of Aman the Blessed; shall I now find contentment upon an isle in the sea, far from the light that once guided my path?” (3)

Her gaze locked upon his, her grey eyes blazing like a star plummeting from the heavens.

“Here, I am mightier.” (4)

“Perhaps,” he said after a pause, reluctant to shatter the fragile illusion of the moment as he held her captivating gaze. “But you are not her.”

One as wise as she would not cling to the justifications of past errors to endure.

No sooner had he spoken than a deep red flickered in the depths of her grey eyes, swiftly spreading into a chilling pool of blood. Flames erupted around her, their shifting shadows twisting her visage in the firelight until it blurred and morphed into another face—one contorted by a cruel smile. Her lips parted, and the same phrase spilled forth, again and again:

“Here, I am mightier.”

An irresistible force seized him, dragging him into the heart of the fire. Scorching heat enveloped him, threatening to overwhelm his consciousness. Yet this time, amidst the raging flames, he perceived a strange anomaly. Without hesitation, he seized the fleeting moment, summoning the last reserves of his will to pursue it. In an instant, an icy chill enveloped him, as though he had plunged into a frozen abyss without end.

When he opened his eyes once more, a towering wall of waves loomed before him.

In his shock, his first instinct was to flee. Yet, before the thought could fully form, he found himself retreating with unnatural speed. By the time his wits returned, he was suspended high above, unmoored and adrift, gazing down upon the spectacular yet terrifying scene.

The sea surged forward in unrelenting waves, crashing mercilessly against a desolate, lifeless shore. With each impact, the waters advanced further, a ravenous maw consuming the shattered remnants of the land.

What he beheld was the end of Beleriand at the close of the First Age. The land where they had dwelt, fought, and loved was sinking into the depths of Belegaer, lost forever beneath the waves.

...Yet it need not have been fated so.

No sooner had this thought arisen than the vision shifted once more.

Amid the pitch-black void, a single point of white light emerged, and in an instant, it illuminated the cosmos. Suspended within the boundless depths, a newly formed globe blazed—vibrant and alive—like a radiant red sun breathing amidst the infinite expanse below.

He watched as flames descended and vapor rose, the globe cloaking itself in an enigmatic veil. It withdrew beyond the scrutiny of the divine beings who had existed before the dawn of creation, unwilling to yield its mysteries to their dominion. Floating above the dark void, he saw the mist part, revealing starlight and the first outlines of earth and sky.

Time flowed like a river, ever surging onward. Two mighty lamps arose, casting their radiance over the newly shaped world. At the heart of a vast lake, a green island shimmered with an otherworldly purity. Every blade of grass, every leaf, held a familiarity yet stood apart, distinctly different from the Valinor he remembered—for this was not Valinor.

Almaren, a voice whispered. From here, it could have been more vibrant, more efficient, more perfect... had I been the one to shape all things.

As if to demonstrate, the scene quickened. Speaking peoples awoke, roamed the lands, and set themselves to purposeful endeavors. Steel, stone, and timber were shaped into towers, fortresses, and bridges in unending cycles, spreading across the land, the sea, and even the skies…

He watched, mesmerized, momentarily forgetting where he stood. But just as he prepared to speak, faint notes reached his ears, like autumn leaves carried on a shrouded mist. Persistent and haunting, they grew clearer, more vivid, weaving into a melody, then a song—beautiful beyond words, yet steeped in ineffable sorrow.

To his astonishment, the flourishing world before him revealed its devastating fragility. Beneath the song’s lamenting melody, its splendor unraveled, thread by thread, until nothing but desolation remained.

Wolves howled, and the vision dissolved into ruin. A river bore an island; upon the island stood a tower. In the dungeon below, a mortal despaired, while on the bridge before the tower, a giant wolf lay bleeding and begging, defeated.

The island, the tower, the bridge—though he had never beheld them, they felt as familiar to him as if he had. He had heard them immortalized in countless songs of his kin, preserved from the sorrowful age of the past: The Lay of Leithian, Release from Bondage.

At first, he was bewildered, but slowly, understanding dawned. As he reflected further, the truth struck him, and an indescribable elation surged through his being. Unable to contain it, he burst into laughter—a deep, unrestrained laugh. The vision, fragile as clay, fractured and splintered under the force of his mirth.

In the heavens above, a wheel of fire suddenly appeared, its flames erupting and spiraling outward to devour the skies. At its center, a slit opened—unblinking, like the eye of a cat—fixed intently upon him.

It struck him like a blow, yet his laughter did not falter. What felt like an eternity passed before he returned to reality—the tangible world he knew best. Only then did his battered, torn body wrench his laughter into a fit of rasping coughs.

Across from him, his tormentor, momentarily stunned, began to regain his composure. The figure who had worn countless guises—Mairon, Sauron, Gorthaur, Annatar, Artano—stepped forward, his once-assured voice now tinged with an undeniable tremor of disarray and urgency.

“Why do you laugh?”

“I laugh,” he replied, his mirth fading as he lifted his head, the empty hollows where his eyes once gazed turning unerringly on the figure. “Because I nearly allowed myself to be deceived by you once more. But it matters not, for henceforth, you shall deceive me no longer.”

How pitiable you are—once a masterful talent under the tutelage of Aulë, now brought low, reduced to naught but lies.

“Provoking me serves no purpose, Celebrimbor,” his tormentor said softly.

Yet Celebrimbor could sense the sudden flare of wrath—a frustration so raw, so desperate, it spilled over like wildfire when faced with the incomprehensible. The reaction brought a faint smile to his lips.

You were wrong from the very beginning. You sought dominion over all things, to command the beings of this world as you desired. You saw the potential of the Firstborn and spared no effort to deceive us into forging the Rings of Power, only to craft, in secrecy and solitude, the One Ring to rule them all, believing it would bind us to your will forever. Yet you failed to grasp one truth: the Rings you so coveted were double-edged blades, their purpose to amplify the innate abilities of their bearers. That alone was enough to yield results beyond your calculations.

“Death you may yet crave from me as a boon”—yet the power to make such a claim is not yours. You could not conquer Finrod and his companions when they stood before you, bereft of all arms; how, then, could you hope to subdue one who bears a Ring of Power?

You have always known that for my people, eternal servitude to you is but an empty threat, a hollow illusion.

I am ensnared by my obsessions and have committed wrongs beyond redress; my only hope is that those who come after will learn from my folly. But as for you, you shall not have your way. At least here, in this moment, you cannot stop me—you cannot stop me from relinquishing this physical form, to free my fëa from the chains of your bondage.

He laughed again. A sudden chill on his wrist, a fleeting pain, followed by an unnatural lightness—he knew what had happened, but he did not care. As he had expected, once the shackles of deception and illusion were cast aside, he was no longer bound to his battered and broken body. The tangible world dissolved, unveiling the Unseen in its full clarity, no longer grey and hazy but vivid and bright. Freed from all physical constraints, his consciousness unfurled like a blossom opening to the light, layer upon layer, savoring the living world one final time before answering the call from beyond, long overdue.

Perhaps my next study shall be of death itself, he thought. It has always been spoken of with dread and abhorrence by mortals, yet now, as it truly approaches, it seems to offer liberation—a final release.

-The End-

Chapter End Notes

(1) Quoted from The Children of Húrin: Morgoth’s words to threaten Húrin.
(2) The worlds of Seen and Unseen: Refer to The Fellowship of the Ring (Book 2, “Many Meetings”): “And here in Rivendell there live still some of his chief foes: the Elven-wise, lords of the Eldar from beyond the furthest seas. They do not fear the Ringwraiths, for those who have dwelt in the Blessed Realm live at once in both worlds, and against both the Seen and the Unseen they have great power.”
(3) Adapted from Galadriel’s words in Unfinished Tales.
(4) Quoted from Unfinished Tales: Galadriel’s words.

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