The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

The Decision: Part Two

“Who are you?”

Suddenly addressed, the golden-haired man—who had been studying a piece of rock—looked up, an expression of genuine surprise and puzzlement appearing on his flawless, fair face.

“Where are you from?”

Celebrimbor pressed on before the man could answer, his gaze unwavering, unwilling to accept anything less than a clear and direct reply.

Beneath that firm scrutiny, the golden-haired man slowly straightened. To Celebrimbor’s astonishment, he then broke into a smile—a smile that evoked another, one which had once, for an entire people, driven away the darkness of the night as well as the gloom upon their path ahead.

“I have been waiting for you to ask, Celebrimbor,” the man said with a certain dignity. “I am Annatar, who once served Aulë; I came from across the Sea.”

His answer did not differ much from Celebrimbor’s earlier speculation, though he had not expected the man to admit it so plainly. “Why did you come to Middle-earth, if you truly serve the Lords of the West? Have the Powers not decided to abandon this land and leave it to the Children?”

“Even under the Prophecy of the North, Ulmo acted on his own and reached out to you in the past.” His aggression only seemed to broaden the man’s grin. “Surely we can do better now.”

“So, despite their decision, you came here on your own?” It sounded reasonable, yet he found it difficult to trust. “You claim to have served Aulë, but how can he—”

“Of course he can,” Annatar said, softly but firmly. “We are makers, and no one knows us better than the Smith himself. Remember: while we are still learning how to adorn this world, he has already created a new people for it.”

Once again rendered speechless, Celebrimbor could not let down his guard. Though Annatar’s words seemed to address all of his doubts, they left his thoughts more unsettled than before. He felt, instinctively, that something important still eluded him. “But—”

“Celebrimbor.”

Annatar interrupted him once more, stepping out from behind the long table laden with rocks and stones. His grey eyes burned like silver fire, as though they had pierced Celebrimbor’s inner turmoil. With each of Annatar’s advancing steps, Celebrimbor’s heart beat faster, and a part of him almost urged retreat. Yet his resolve to stand firm prevailed, and Annatar halted several paces away.

“You and I share an urge and a yearning; that is all. Please remember this: the order to which I belong existed before the World, and willingly we have bound ourselves to it for its entire duration. Do not underestimate our love for it.”

Celebrimbor returned to his study, his mind racing with countless thoughts. He did not notice a letter from Mithlond on his desk until he sat down. Very well, he thought, after Ereinion, now Círdan as well. Rubbing his brow, he opened the letter and then set it aside once he had finished reading.

The Lord of the Havens had witnessed vast changes in the world over many ages, and thus rarely involved himself in broader affairs, especially since Gil-galad had come of age. For Círdan to write, he must have been deeply concerned.

Acting out of obsession will only result in your own loss and destruction. Thus concluded the letter.

He did not welcome these words, but neither was he offended by them. Anyone who had witnessed the blood and fire of the First Age, the long and terrible wars over the Great Jewels, and the ruinous power of a blasphemous oath, could not remain silent when another of the same lineage seemed on the brink of rash action.

Yet Círdan ought to have remembered that everything he saw, Celebrimbor of the House of Fëanor had also seen.

Círdan spoke as he did because he does not understand us. He has not crossed the Sea to the Blessed Realm, nor chosen exile and then departed it. He cannot comprehend my forefathers or me, for he is not a maker.

Curufinwë Fëanáro sought to preserve the purest Light and the highest beauty, and he succeeded—though his creation possessed him, blinding him in the end. Curufinwë Atarinkë chose to remain but a shadow and follower of his father’s path, pursuing that unrivaled craft even at the cost of an unbreakable oath and the surrender of his own talent and identity as a maker.

But he, Celebrimbor, was different. Freed from ambition, legacy, and vengeance, he could at last focus on life itself. Humble though it might seem, his wish was to forge a missing link that would complete a cycle—one that would draw fire, stone, metals, and gems back into the nature from which they sprang, so that the work of hands could guard air and water, flowers and trees, birds and beasts: a guardian that could stand against Time.

If all that was good and fair was doomed to perish, could he not at least strive to prolong its life?

He yearned for a haven in this mortal land, where his people might linger in peace, a respite like Aman shaped by the Valar, akin to Eä fashioned by Eru.