The Last Maker by Ecthelion  

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The Gifts

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Who are you? Where are you from?

I am Annatar who once served Aulë; I came from across the Sea.

He recalled the questions and answers.

The man’s words had not been entirely false. It was true that he had once served Aulë and had come across the sea. Yet, he had carefully omitted certain crucial truths: that he had long since sworn himself to another master, and that in Beleriand, he was known by other names—names that Elves and Men alike feared and loathed.

Gorthaur. Sauron. A Maia who had fallen under Morgoth’s shadow, becoming his most loyal and ruthless servant. His hands were so deeply stained with blood that not even the boundless waters of Belegaer could ever hope to wash them clean.

He felt the urge to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat and died unspoken.

How could he have been so blind? In hindsight, the truth was excruciatingly clear: every detail had been meticulously designed to lower his guard and ensnare his mind. Finrod’s visage, Maedhros’ stature, Curufin’s voice…

It was me he sought to deceive from the very beginning. No one else in Middle-earth is both ambitious and talented enough to be tempted by what he has to offer, except for me—the last descendant of the House of Fëanor.

But he saved my life. The other half of his mind hesitated, questioning. Even if he was using me for his own ends, why would he value me enough to risk his life for mine?

Little by little, fragments of that night surfaced from the depths of memory: the whispers in the forest, the cold eyes glinting in the moonlight, and the disbelief frozen on the grotesque, stunned face of the dead. Stripped of wishful thinking, they fit together piece by piece into a blood-chilling picture.

At the time, he meant to kill me—because I had uncovered his secret.

He slowly raised his head, his lips stained with blood.

He did change his mind then, but only because I had unwittingly shown him how valuable I still was.

At last, he let out a laugh, this time deep and enduring.

Very well. He believes he can use the One Ring to master all the Rings of Power—the pinnacles of the Firstborn’s wisdom and skill. I will prove him wrong.

“What are your plans?” Galadriel inquired.

“I have ordered everyone to cease using the Rings of Power,” replied Celebrimbor, turning away from her living room window. His face was pale and haggard, like that of a mortal recovering from a grave illness. “He believed his plan flawless, but he did not anticipate this move. Naturally, he is not in a good mood.”

Despite his lighthearted tone, the mere thought of that exchange made his fingers dig into the window ledge. Even from thousands of miles away, the enemy’s rage radiated through his work, terrifying as rolling thunder.

You do not seem to value my extended kindness. I will then no longer honor our old friendship.

He could only scoff at such rhetoric.

Friendship? How dare you utter that word to me, to my house, to my kin?

“He will start a war, and Eregion will be his primary target. Wearing the disguise for all these years must have been as difficult as it was painful for him.” he said, breaking free from his memories. “No wonder he could not wait to tear off that warm mask once Barad-dûr was ready.”

“In that case, simply ceasing to use the Rings of Power is not enough,” she replied, her smooth, bright brow furrowing as fine lines appeared.

“What do you think?” He asked, though he already knew her answer.

“Destroy them,” she said firmly, just as he had anticipated, “and completely destroy his hope.”

“That would also effectively end my existence,” he said, giving her an innocent smile. “You were there when the Lords of the West asked my grandfather to break the Silmarils, and you heard his answer. Moreover, once the Rings of Power are forged, they are far more difficult to destroy than you might imagine.”

“Then there is only one option: hide them,” she replied calmly. “And you must already have plans.”

“Indeed,” he admitted. “I will be traveling soon. In case of emergency while I am away, you can pass through Hadhodrond (1)—just remember to tell them you are a friend.”

He did not disclose the secret of the West-gate of Moria, but he thought this much of a hint would suffice.

“What can I do for you, Celebrimbor?”

He was about to leave when her voice stopped him. He raised a brow, feeling a mischievous impulse, then turned back toward her.

“There is one thing indeed.” he said, a faint smile curling his lips. “Artanis Nerwen Alatáriel (2), Lady of the Golden House of Arafinwë, may I have a lock of your precious hair?”

Surprise flashed across her fair face, and he sensed a flicker of indignant humiliation beneath it. Of course. He maintained his smile and waited, certain his demeanor and words had stirred her memories.

Then, to his astonishment, she rose gracefully before him and let down her long hair. Before he could react, she retrieved a small silver knife from her desk and, in one fluid motion, severed a lock of it—the hair that had been praised for enmeshing the Light of the Two Trees. Without a word, she set the knife aside and handed him the shining strand.

He looked at her outstretched palm for a moment, inhaled softly, then carefully lifted the gleaming golden strands, pocketing them as if they were a priceless treasure. As she withdrew her hand, he caught it gently and placed a ring upon it in return.

It was crafted of mithril and adorned with a white diamond, its adamantine brilliance glittering like starlight.

“It is Nenya, the Ring of Water,” he said, his gaze steady upon hers, “May it aid you, one day, in realizing your dreams.”

Lindon, nestled between the Mountains and the Sea, was exactly as he remembered it.

To avoid drawing attention, he had only brought two guards, and everyone in the small party was disguised as ordinary travelers. Tightening his cloak against the winter sea breeze, he gazed toward the waves that lapped endlessly against the distant rocks.

Beneath those waves lay Beleriand, the land that was no more. He had stood there when the War of Wrath ended, when the hosts of the West prepared to depart, and when he had witnessed the final bloodshed caused by the remaining two Silmarils.

He did not know if Maedhros and Maglor, desperate and surrounded, had recognized him in the crowd.

“They intended to keep the Everlasting Dark from falling upon them,” she said. When the chaos had subsided, he found the golden-haired daughter of Finarfin standing nearby in her armor, gazing at the bloodstained ground with a steely serenity. “But that is no reason to bring darkness to others.”

That was the first time he learned anything about her—the lady whose name had nearly become a taboo in his family. From that moment, he had associated her with adamant. Yet later, in Lindon, he happened upon her standing before a withered rose bush, the sadness etched upon her brows almost tangible. A quick glance told him that even the most skilled gardener could not bring it back to life.

“I am grieved in Middle-earth, for everything fades that I have loved,” she said with a sigh.

“Then why did you refuse the pardon? You could have passed over the Sundering Sea and returned to the Undying Lands,” he asked, unable to hold back the question.

“What about you?” she countered instead. “Why did you refuse?”

Because the price of the pardon is submission.

He made up his mind then and there. He had to do something. Surely, somewhere in the vast expanse of Middle-earth, there could be a sanctuary—a haven where his people might preserve their last shred of dignity, untouched by the ceaseless and rapid changes in the mortal world.

I did what I could, he thought. But I am still far from mastering the ways of the world.

He had expected to endure tedious routines, having requested an audience with the High King without revealing his identity. He had even rehearsed how he would mock Lindon’s hospitality upon meeting Ereinion. But all his plans unraveled when a golden-haired guard at the gate called out his name with a single glance. It was not until he was led into the King’s parlor that he realized who it was—or rather, who it had been.

“I was going to surprise you, but your staff surprised me instead. You and I both heard their song mourning the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower back on the Isle of Balar,” he said casually, dragging a chair over and sitting down before the King could speak.

“It is not that the dead cannot return; Glorfindel has joined the House of Elrond,” Gil-galad replied with a smile as he poured a cup of tea, its floral and herbal fragrance quickly filling the room. “It has been a while, Celebrimbor.”

“It has been a long while, but let us save the pleasantries for later,” he said, pushing the cup aside. “This is Vilya, the Ring of Air—surprisingly appropriate for your house.”

The ring bore a sapphire set in pure gold, a symbol of fidelity, integrity, and steadfastness. The depth of the sea and the light of the sky—two disparate qualities—were miraculously united into a single, indivisible whole.

Gil-galad’s expression betrayed surprise. He stared silently at the ring for a moment before lifting his gaze to meet Celebrimbor’s.

“Are you concerned?” Celebrimbor grinned, evidently pleased with the King’s response. “Does it remind you of the advice you once gave me? In Arda Marred, few gifts come at no cost. Now that I have given you something for free, you should probably consider the price.”

After a pause, his tone grew more serious. “You are wiser than I am, Artanáro, and you must have realized that hope lies in change, not in preservation.”

Though the King was much younger and had never seen the Light of the Two Trees, Celebrimbor had no doubt that his words were fully understood.

“And that is why there is also Narya.”

He drew out the final ring and carefully placed it beside Vilya: gold, adorned with a blood-red gem at its heart.

“Fire has the power to both destroy and create,” he said, rising to his feet, confident that his mission was complete. “Please, find it a new keeper. As the long night approaches, may it help them kindle all hearts to courage.”

“Celebrimbor, what about you?”

He heard his cousin’s voice as he turned away. For the first time in years, he detected a faint shiver in the King’s tone.

“Where are you going?”

“To Eregion,” he replied without looking back, “to Ost-in-Edhil, to the Mírdain. I have a personal matter to attend to.”

It all began there, and there shall it end.

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Chapter End Notes

(1) Hadhodrond: the Elvish translation of Khazad-dûm. Thanks to Thuringwethil for reminding me that the name of 'Moria' didn't exist when the story happened.
(2) Artanis Nerwen Alatáriel: Galadriel's father-name, mother-name, and Telerin after-name.

It is recorded nowhere that Celebrimber had asked Galadriel for her hair. I made it up.