The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

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The Truth

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In Year 1590 of the Second Age, the Three Rings of Power were completed. To commemorate the occasion, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain hosted a grand feast in the city of Ost-in-Edhil.

Celebrimbor leaned against the window, a goblet of wine in hand, said to have been sourced from the eastern foothills of Misty Mountains, procured at great effort by the Dwarves. The celebration in the square below had entered its third day, yet the crowd showed no sign of weariness. The atmosphere buzzed with music and laughter, and cheers erupted when he was spotted—at first sparse, but quickly swelling into a thunderous chorus. The Dwarves of Moria and the Elves of Eregion chanted together in their own tongues, the meaning the same:

“Celebrimbor Aulendil, the greatest maker since Fëanor!”

The greatest maker since Fëanor.

For a moment, the words perplexed him, but he recovered quickly. He raised his glass to the crowd below, his gesture met with an even louder roar of approval.

This is strange, he thought. I should feel as exhilarated as they are—perhaps even more. No one understands what I have achieved better than I. So why, in this moment of triumph, do I feel relief rather than elation?

“Because this is just the beginning.”

The voice came from behind him. Celebrimbor waved to the crowd once more before stepping back into the room, where Annatar stood framed by the open door.

“Wait until your creation is truly at work, Celebrimbor. Only then will you begin to appreciate it.”

“Perhaps.” Celebrimbor took a sip of the wine and noted its remarkable mellowness. It was indeed beyond the ordinary. “Are you certain you wish to leave? I could try—”

“I am certain,” Annatar interrupted, his tone calm yet resolute. “I suspect Lady Galadriel would prefer my absence. And I too wish to explore beyond Eregion for a time. There is still so much of this world to discover.” A faint smile played upon his lips. “Besides, after working alongside such a gifted company of the Firstborn, I fear I might have nothing new to share for a while.”

Their eyes met, and both burst into laughter after a brief silence.

“How is it possible that one of your order harbors such doubts?” Celebrimbor set down his goblet and crossed the room to embrace the man who was both his teacher and his friend. “But if you insist, so be it. Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya.” (1)

The man twisted his lips and simply smiled.

Two months after Annatar’s departure, Eregion received its long-awaited visitors: Galadriel and Celeborn. Celebrimbor’s messenger to Lothlórien had conveyed his sincere invitation, emphasizing Annatar’s absence. Even so, her willingness to come surpassed his expectations, and he felt both glad and conflicted as he welcomed her back in the small chamber adjacent to the garden.

“Congratulations,” she said after a pause. “I heard about the three... Rings of Power.”

“They are not like the old ones,” he corrected. “I call them the Three, but each has its own name.”

They spoke for hours, exchanging stories gathered over the years. Galadriel’s tales of the lands east of the Misty Mountains and the ancient forests she had seen intrigued him as much as the thought of discovering new materials. From her descriptions, he began to picture Lothlórien in his mind, though he sensed she had not yet decided to make it her home.

“Do you plan to return there? It sounds as though you find it unsatisfactory,” he asked tentatively.

“Where in Middle-earth could ever be truly satisfactory?” she replied with a slight, helpless laugh.

“You could remain in Eregion,” he suggested.

“No.” Her response was immediate.

“If it is because of Annatar, you should know that he is gone and likely will not return for a long time,” he added, dispensing with formalities.

“Yet he will return,” she said bluntly. “You trust him, but I do not. That is where we have always differed.”

“He saved my life,” he said, meeting her gaze—clearer and brighter than any jewel—and wondering what it would take to free her from her prejudices. “It nearly cost him his bodily form. We both know that even a race that predates the World is bound by the laws of this mortal land. Why would he go to such lengths for a mere Firstborn like me, if he is as evil as you believe?”

“You are not a mere Firstborn,” she said softly. “You are Celebrimbor, the greatest maker since Fëanor.”

She still would not commit to staying long, but his persistence paid off—she agreed to remain in Eregion for the time being. After all, it was much closer to Mithlond and Lindon. “Think of it as being for Celebrían,” he said, half-joking, having learned of her daughter’s budding romance with Elrond the Half-elven. To his surprise, she considered it for a moment before consenting.

Yet none of this truly mattered, he reflected after escorting her to her lodgings. What mattered was that she was here. In time, she would understand the meaning of his creation.

He had the impression that time had passed swiftly while he worked on the Three Rings. Now that his goal was accomplished and he allowed himself to relax, he realized that time had flown by even faster than he had thought. After several summers, he briefly entertained the idea of traveling to Lindon but dismissed it almost immediately. I do not need to go; I just need to refocus my mind and keep it busy. Ereinion must be bored without my constant annoyance...

Whether it was the strain of overworking his thoughts or something else entirely, he could not say, but that night, he slept poorly.

He stumbled through the darkness, unable to see, with a low rumble resonating in his ears and rough boulders shifting beneath his feet. The farther he moved, the more intense the heat became, until it was nearly unbearable. Gasping and drenched with sweat, he passed through a narrow passageway, until a faint light appeared ahead, revealing a vast open space.

Only then did he realize he was standing on a narrow stone beam, flanked by steep cliffs. Looking down, he saw the depths roiling with dark red flames—a molten sea that surged and churned, casting up blinding golden sparks.

At the far end of the beam, shrouded in heavy smoke and rising steam, there stood a figure.

He stepped forward but froze as a long laugh echoed through the chamber of fire. The laughter was joined by a strange, hissing sound—a voice speaking with familiar inflections yet in an utterly alien language. The words pierced his mind like a sharp blade, slicing through thought and reason. He screamed, retreating as he raised his hands to cover his ears, but the cold, cruel voice pursued him, unyielding in its relentless torment.

One Ring to rule them all,
One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all
and in the darkness bind them. (2)

Tongues of fire surged upward as black smoke coiled, dispersed, and shot into the air. From the edge of the cliff, the figure turned. Strands of bright hair whipped in the searing wind, revealing a fair yet familiar face.

He awoke with a start, his eyes wide in terror, his heart pounding as though it might burst from his chest. Cold sweat drenched his entire body. This is not true, he told himself. It cannot be true. Yet the ring on his finger seared against his skin, the agonizing sensation of flesh blistering under unbearable heat defying his denial.

Forcing himself, he raised his trembling hand. Before his eyes could focus, a long, mournful cry echoed through the endless night beyond the window, laden with unspoken suspicion and fear.

As if in response to that cry, the ring on his hand flared with an eerie light before fading once more into shadow.

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Chapter End Notes

(1) Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya: Quenya, "May the Valar protect you on your path under the sky". (Thus Annatar's reaction.)

(2) Obviously, the Ring verse.