The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

The Devotion

The waning moon drifted toward the edge of the inky blue sky, while the muted cadence of his horse’s hooves echoed through the stillness of the night. Yet Celebrimbor rode on, his mind fixed upon a single aim: to find the one who might best fathom his aspirations and share in the insight he had attained.

He had gone to Annatar’s house earlier, only to learn that he was absent—and no one there knew where he had gone. “Lord Annatar often acts upon impulse,” explained a young Elf apprentice, stifling a yawn behind a flickering candle. “At times, he departs in the depths of the night, claiming certain mineral lodes may be surveyed only under such conditions.”

Celebrimbor had never heard of such a notion before, but he chose not to question it at that moment. After learning where those extraordinary lodes might be found, he went straight to the city gate and requested a horse, declining the offer to summon his guards.

He did not have to travel far before reaching the woodland described by the apprentice. Beyond the main road, the undergrowth thickened until it gave way to towering trees stretching from the plains to the mountains. Even his keen Elven eyes could not discern where they ended.

From a distance, he recognized Annatar’s chestnut mare by her saddle and bridle, marking her apart from the mounts of Elves. Clearly, Annatar had dismounted to continue on foot, likely due to the gnarled roots and sharp stones that rendered the terrain treacherous.

Celebrimbor left his own horse at the forest’s edge. As he drew near the woods, the horses behind him stirred uneasily. Without pausing, he extended a calming gesture and stepped into the shadowed expanse.

A chill swept over him as he entered, making him shiver involuntarily. Within, it felt as though he had crossed into another realm. Branches and trunks intertwined overhead, forming a vast canopy that blotted out the sky. At first glance, the leaves—both large and small—seemed completely still, yet none were truly motionless. Their subtle swaying made the starlight flicker like a sea of tiny, trembling flames.

The Elves of Eregion, like the Dwarves of Moria, would not suffer Morgoth’s creatures near their borders. Though the darkness here was deep, it posed no real danger—only an inconvenience that hindered his search for Annatar.

Perhaps I should call to him, he thought. This wandering avails me nothing.

Just as he prepared to speak, his keen ears caught a whisper from deeper within the forest.

He moved toward the sound without thinking, but his foot struck a fallen branch. The crunch shattered the stillness, and an oppressive hush fell once more.

“Annatar?” he called, a trace of unease weaving its way into his heart.

No response came.

Suddenly, he glimpsed a shadow and spun around, straining to see clearly. But the space where it had been was now empty. Exhaling slowly, he turned back—and there was Annatar. The golden-haired figure emerged from behind an ancient tree so wide that two people together could hardly encircle it, his steps utterly silent, like those of a ghost.

Relief flooded Celebrimbor. “You are truly here,” he said, banishing his earlier unease. “I have been searching for you. Was that you speaking just now? Why did you not respond?”

Annatar did not reply. He approached slowly, and in the pale moonlight, his grey eyes shone—bright and cold, like ice frozen long ago, untouched by time.

The silence could have been taken for insolence, but Celebrimbor was in no mood to rebuke him. Instead, he carefully mastered his expression, hoping to conceal his growing excitement. “Tonight, I believe I have made progress on the myths of creation that have long troubled me.”

Annatar blinked, now just a few steps away.

“What I will accomplish will surpass all that we have achieved.”

At that, Annatar bolted.

A sudden twang shattered the stillness, followed by the sickening thud of an arrow piercing flesh and bone. A black arrowhead, bright with blood, jutted from between Annatar’s shoulder blades, and the air grew thick with the metallic tang of iron.

From the shadows rose a shrill, guttural cheer, accompanied by the crash of heavy footfalls. Still stunned, Celebrimbor discerned the voices as Orcish. He reached for a weapon—only to find his belt empty.

In his haste, he had forgotten to bring a sword.

Annatar, though grievously wounded, acted before Celebrimbor could react. Despite the arrow lodged in his chest, he lunged forward, gripping the attacker by the throat. A guttural gurgle, a brief thrashing of limbs, and then the sharp crack of bone under his unyielding grip. The Orc’s face froze in terror and despair, its eyes suddenly lifeless. Releasing the foul creature, Annatar managed a faint smile as he turned back to Celebrimbor, then swayed and collapsed, his strength spent.

“Annatar!”

Celebrimbor dropped to his knees beside him, pressing a hand over the terrible wound in a desperate effort to staunch the bleeding. Warm and sticky, the blood spilled through his fingers, ceaseless and unstoppable. Was it his imagination, or had the man’s heartbeat always been so faint, so weak?

The face before him began to blur. One by one, images rose unbidden from the depths of his memory, as though the ancient shackles that had held them fast had suddenly shattered. One who cast down his crown before the throne. One who rode away from the gates of a grand underground city. One who stood beneath a white tower, gazing silently at sky and sea. Their faces were not the same, yet all were equally vivid.

Do not let him join those who have departed, he pleaded desperately, his heart suddenly filled with nothing but a terrible emptiness. Do not let us thus grow weary of the world.