The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

The Downfall: Part One

He sat upon the beach of pearl-white sand and stared at the barely perceptible line where the shimmering sea merged with the sky, heedless of his surroundings. The waves broke and receded tirelessly, crashing against dark rocks. He bristled when the endless, soothing sound was interrupted by soft footsteps.

“Celebrimbor, I have just learned of your father…” said his cousin, his voice hoarse. Ereinion Gil-galad, born in Middle-earth, was still young in years. “I am sorry to hear of it.”

So he has learned to offer comfort with empty words? “But what do you know?” he scoffed without thinking. “You—” Then his words caught in his throat, for he realized abruptly that his cousin, who had also lost his father, was not being presumptuous in this matter.

He felt even more remorse when the young Elf took no offense. Gil-galad simply settled next to him, also gazing out at the sea. Ironically, this brief moment of awkwardness eased his somber mood. Rising, he began to walk away, unable to linger any longer. He did not bother brushing the sand from his clothes.

“Would you come with me?” Gil-galad asked from behind him. “On the Isle of Balar, there are many of the Falathrim, and Círdan will gladly welcome you.”

He made a noncommittal gesture in lieu of answering. As he made his way back toward the Havens, he allowed his thoughts to wander, watching white sails and tall masts drift across the open waters.

He had departed Nargothrond after the arrival of a mortal Man—Agarwaen he called himself, though most knew him as Adanedhel. He was indeed remarkable: fair of face, steadfast of heart, possessed of both strength and intellect, and clearly of noble upbringing. Soon, Adanedhel earned the favor of Orodreth, and the King had his black sword reforged—by the finest smith, of course. Celebrimbor poured his highest skill into the blade, not out of loyalty to Orodreth, but because he sensed a certain connection with the Man: beneath it all, Adanedhel, too, was an outsider.

Then came the day in the King’s council when Adanedhel openly challenged Gwindor.

“Though Morgoth slay the doer he cannot make the deed not to have been. Even the Lords of the West will honour it; and is it not written into the history of Arda, which neither Morgoth nor Manwë can unwrite?” (1)

Others heard in that eloquent speech a stirring echo of long-lost valor and courage. But for Celebrimbor, it rang with a dangerous resonance, recalling a once-familiar voice: the deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda. (2)

He sought an audience with Orodreth the next day. “My lord, you have been most generous in allowing me to stay all these years. But I believe the time has come for me to depart.”

Orodreth hesitated only a moment before granting him leave. Perhaps it was mere fancy, yet Celebrimbor thought he saw the King of Nargothrond sigh with relief, as though some unseen burden lifted the moment he turned away.

He left quietly; even had he wished to draw attention, it might have proved difficult. In time, he had realized the people of Nargothrond would never forget his lineage, despite his renunciation of his father when tested. After all, he could not change who he was: Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, the youngest heir of the House of Fëanor.

But Finduilas came to bid him farewell. “Where will you go? Will you return?”

Knowing she was among the few who truly cared for him, he offered counsel rather than answers. “Be wary of what is unfolding, Finduilas. Do not tread a path leading only to regret.”

With that, he embraced her, pretending not to notice the pallor that crept into her cheeks at his words.

Mindful of his limitations, he journeyed farther south. Fortunate it was that these lands, under Ulmo’s protection, had yet to face the menace of war. Those living at the Havens of Sirion were a mingled folk: some Sindar, some Noldor, some Falathrim who had escaped the ravages of Falas, and from time to time, Laiquendi visiting from the Land of Seven Rivers. Life in the south felt comforting, if not entirely peaceful, reminiscent of the Long Peace before the Bragollach.

And, like the Long Peace, it ended.

Ill tidings followed one after another: Orodreth had fallen in battle; Finduilas was taken; Adanedhel, or Mormegil, proved to be Túrin, son of Húrin Thalion; the southern realm founded by Finrod Felagund was destroyed, and with it went the great power of Nargothrond. Then, in the depths of winter, to everyone’s astonishment, Elwing, daughter of Dior, arrived at the Havens. She bore dreadful news of a second kinslaying in Doriath—and of the death of Curufinwë Atarinkë.

“It might have been naïve of me, but I never thought he would die.”

The first Ring of Power was forged with the aid of Annatar, after countless trials and errors. The Mírdain rejoiced, and Ost-in-Edhil rang with songs and laughter at their great achievement. Meanwhile, in the small chamber beside the garden, Celebrimbor—after many years of silence—chose at last to speak of his father.

“If I had known…”

“Even had you known, you would have done nothing differently.”

As expected, Annatar offered no consolation or defense. Yet, in its own way, that very restraint soothed Celebrimbor more than any words of comfort could have.

Chapter End Notes

(1) Quoted from The Children of Húrin.
(2) Quoted from The Silmarillion.