The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

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The Doom: Part Two

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Galadriel did not wait for him in the small chamber he had set aside for important visitors. Instead, the Lady of the Golden House of Finarfin stood alone in the moonlit garden adjacent to it, her silky hair snaring the radiance of gold and starlike silver. Though he was well acquainted with her, the sight of her striking beauty made his breath catch for a moment.

“Leaves fall, and flowers fade.” She turned at the sound of his footsteps, her voice soft but tinged with sorrow. A faint shadow passed through her ever-steadfast, some might say adamant, eyes. Despite the encroaching darkness, countless roses bloomed at her side, their delicate petals illuminated by the pale light of the moon. “It grieves me that the beauty of this land will not last.”

“Perhaps; yet we may still restore it.” He approached her and gently drew a branch toward himself, studying the flowers. They were a fascinating, surreal blue, the color of a rare ore uncovered deep within the Mines of Moria (1). These blue roses had never existed in the Hither Lands before, blooming only in the immortal garden of Lórien across the sea. Without his and the Mírdain’s efforts, they would have remained forever locked in the distant memories of the Exiles—like so many other wonders beyond mortal imagining, gradually slipping into ancient dreams and fading into a long-lost past.

She exhaled a sigh. “In Arda Marred, not all may be restored. Some shall never return once they have departed.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, releasing the rose branch and turning to face her. In this Age of the world, few Exiles remained in Middle-earth, and she was the last he would ever underestimate. “Yet we may prevent them from passing too soon.”

“So that is why you decided to take in Annatar, whom Ereinion and Elrond have already refused,” she said, her tone not truly questioning. “But are you certain that his purpose aligns with yours?”

“No, I am not,” he laughed. “Thanks to you, my lady, I have not even found time to speak with him in earnest.” Then, half in jest, he added, “Should I feel honored or insulted? You hastened here under moonlight lest I be beguiled by a suspicious stranger, yet I cannot recall what I have done to make you deem me so easily misled.”

She did not smile. “You know Ereinion does not trust him.”

“My cousin is never lacking in prudence,” he said, still smiling.

“Nor does he lack wisdom,” she replied calmly.

“Ereinion is not like us.” His smile waned at last, irritation creeping into his tone as he began walking back toward the house. “He is not a maker.”

“And what of that?” she asked. “Perhaps makers are more easily tempted and confused.” Her voice remained unwavering, as though she were oblivious to the stiffness in his posture. “Think of your grandfather and your father, Celebrimbor.”

He turned abruptly, calling for his assistant. “See the lady out.” Without a backward glance, he strode off.

That night, he dreamed; in the dream, he saw someone he thought never to see again.

Swing, strike, and flip; swing, strike, and flip again.

Sweat dripped from the smith’s forehead onto the scalding anvil, sizzling into steam and evaporating into nothingness. The smith’s hand remained steady, controlling the force and angle of each strike with utmost precision. To the rhythm of hammering, golden sparks flew from the red-hot metal as it was turned time after time, gradually taking shape.

He watched closely, while a familiar voice came unbidden, calm and low, carrying a subtle power that could easily sway the minds of others.

Creation requires devotion. A part of you will pass into your making and dwell in it ever after.

It was the master of this voice who had opened a door of creation for him and led him into a realm of wonder. Yet it was the same one who had committed a terrible betrayal and fallen into utter disgrace.

All at once, the nearly finished blade fractured. The smith stayed his hammer hand, staring down at the ruined work, perplexed. As understanding dawned, he let the hammer slip from his grasp. Without a word, he turned away from the anvil, leaving flame, steel, and forge behind.

He woke, his breath shallow, and lay stunned for a long time, unable to convince himself it had truly been his father.

The last time they met was in a great hall, before the High Seat of Nargothrond.

He had fled quietly from the enraged crowd before the verdict was announced. Running all the way back to his chamber, he slammed the door shut behind him and stood trembling, teeth clenched. Consumed by anger, shame, and disappointment, yet unable to find release, he finally turned and struck the heavy door with his fist.

“Celebrimbor, are you there?”

He froze. It was Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth.

“My father has ordered your father and your uncle to depart at once.” Her voice, still breathless, betrayed the urgency of her arrival. “But what of you? What will you do?”

He turned slowly, pressing his back against the thick wood of the door. Sliding down slightly, he buried his face in his hands.

A knock followed a long silence. He stirred, drawing a deep breath as he straightened. A wind arose then, and the curtains swayed.

“I will not go with them,” he said at last, his voice hoarse, the words heavy on his tongue. “I have no such father.”

For a moment, all was quiet outside. Then, his father’s voice came, calm and seemingly indifferent:

“Telperinquar onya, namárië.” (2)

That was their final farewell, for he never saw his father again.

We have loved leaping flames and molten metal, as well as gems that gather light and dispel darkness, for we believed they contained the essence of the Secret Fire. Day after day, we have indulged in our craft and honed our skill, yet there seems to be no end. The further we walk along the path of exploration, the longer the road stretches before us. We have thought it so because we still have too much to know and learn.

But what if we are mistaken? Even the mightiest among us—my father and your grandfather—found only what lay closest to the truth, not the truth itself.

Not until that moment did he realize that Annatar’s voice bore an uncanny resemblance to that of Curufinwë Atarinkë.

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Chapter End Notes

(1) There is no record of cobalt ore in Moria; its presence is purely a product of my imagination.

(2) Telperinquar onya, namárië: Quenya, "Farewell, Celebrimbor my son."