The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

The Decision: Part One

Celebrimbor heard the noise coming from his workshop long before he reached it, the unmistakable sound of continuous, rhythmic striking. Frowning, he searched his memory and was certain no one had been granted permission to use the space that morning.

He did not bother knocking before pushing the door open. Narrowing his eyes against the wave of heat that poured out, he prepared to reprimand the intruder. But when his gaze fell on the scene within, the words died in his throat.

A man stood at the anvil, his movements revealing a mastery of technique and skill beyond reproach. Unlike the Elven-smiths, he wore no leather apron or protective gear. His bare back, slick with sweat, glistened under the glow of red flames and cascading golden sparks. Each strike of the hammer revealed strong, toned muscles, flexing in perfect rhythm, so flawless in form that even the most critical eye could find no fault.

Celebrimbor might have mistaken him for someone he had once admired, someone long lost to the history of the First Age, had his gaze not caught, just in time, the long golden hair neatly bound with a leather string.

Fortunately, the man had his back turned and seemed unaware of his momentary confusion.

“If I am not mistaken, I still lead the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.” Celebrimbor drew a silent, steadying breath and found his voice. “Annatar, your arrogance is truly beyond my understanding.”

The man paused but did not turn around. “Perhaps what I have to offer is beyond your understanding as well.”

These words failed to provoke him; instead, they stirred a laugh. Celebrimbor was widely recognized as the greatest Elven-smith in Middle-earth since the dawn of the New Age. Even the proud Dwarves of Moria had been compelled to respect his unmatched skill, though not without first testing and challenging him.

“Why not tell me what you offer?” he asked, half-teasing, more amused than annoyed.

Annatar did not respond with words. Instead, he set down the hammer, lifted a glowing piece of metal from the anvil, and turned. With a confident smile, he held it out in offering.

It proved to be a gold bracelet, one that appeared ordinary at first glance; indeed, by Noldorin standards, it might even be deemed poorly fashioned. He did not take it at once, noticing the layer of dust still clinging to it. Annatar chuckled, casually wiping it clean with stained fingers, as if responding to his deliberate hesitation.

Celebrimbor curled his lips, ready to reach for it with a retort on the tip of his tongue. Yet, the moment the bracelet touched his palm, his thoughts scattered, and the will to mock evaporated.

“How did you…?” he began, only to stop himself, biting his tongue. Pride and scorn momentarily set aside, he inspected the piece, still warm to the touch.

By the time he looked up again, Annatar had set the tools aside. The man met his gaze in silence, but the burning light in his eyes and the simple, unadorned bracelet in his hands conveyed more than words ever could.

It is only a prototype, far from perfect. Grant me more time and work with me. Together, we might achieve more than anyone else in this world.

For the first time since they met, Celebrimbor found himself speechless, recognizing the sincerity in Annatar’s offer. There was something unusual about that gold bracelet—a faint but undeniable sign of life.

He never spoke of that incident in his workshop, but from that day onward, he acquiesced to Annatar’s presence in Eregion. Annatar, in turn, altered his demeanor. Now presenting himself as a proper guest, he no longer tested his host’s limits or abused the privileges extended to him. More often than not, he remained an observer—courteous even when overlooked—yet never hesitating or refusing when approached.

As time passed, the people of Ost-in-Edhil grew accustomed to the outsider’s presence, and news of Annatar spread. Maidens remarked, first in whispers and then openly, that Annatar was fair, polite, and generous; craftsmen affirmed that his knowledge of metal and ore was both vast and insightful. Only Galadriel remained indifferent, as did her husband Celeborn, who, being not of the Noldor, cared little for the art of craftsmanship. Indeed, Galadriel seemed to have grown distant from the Mírdain since that unpleasant meeting with their lord.

Many were surprised that Celebrimbor turned a deaf ear to all talk of Annatar. Yet late at night, when he returned to his study and saw the humble bracelet resting on his desk, he could not help but pause, his gaze lingering on it. Still, he always chose to remain silent in the end.

When he heard that a messenger had arrived from Lindon, he felt relief rather than worry.

He had often wondered how his cousin would react to his decision. After Beleriand broke and sank beneath the sea, both had chosen to remain in Middle-earth, and, as if by unspoken agreement, he seldom set foot in the realm of Gil-galad, just as Gil-galad refrained from interfering in his affairs. Still, he did not believe the High King of the Noldor would easily overlook open defiance of the stance of Lindon.

Dismissing the messenger with polite greetings, he eagerly unsealed the letter from Gil-galad. Yet, at first, he was disappointed. The opening lines were carefully diplomatic, lacking the substance he sought. He nearly set it aside, assuming the rest would follow suit.

Surely you know better than I do: Morgoth once walked on the land of Aman in a form fair and wise.

His eyes caught these words, and his hand tightened around the parchment.

In Arda Marred, few gifts come at no cost.