The Die Is Cast by Fuin  

This Doomed City

He has lingered for too long in this doomed city.

He is making a habit of it, it seems.

The waters of Sirion pass him by slowly, mingling already with the ocean's salty tears as the wind sings a rustling song in the reeds. They are dry now, at the end of summer, would catch fire easily, as would the wooden porch behind his small workshop and his modest home across the slender wooden bridge. The stilts they are built on would be the only thing left, sticking out of the water line like rotten teeth.

He has lingered for too long, occupying himself with tinkering and small projects and work beneath his skill.

Where else would he go?

After all, Beleriand lies in ruins.

After all, his mother had given him a common Telerin name and the Sindarin equivalent is just as ordinary. He has found a place in this seemingly peaceful refuge easily, fading into the masses of people amongst which he is not the only one with a past they are eager to leave behind. Those faces he recognizes from Gondolin and Nargothrond he had not known well then, and does not know well now; nor have they themselves given any further sign of recognition.

The Light of the Trees in his eyes that is impossible to feign by craft is, in contrast, easily concealed. He has wrought a spell into a slender silver ring so that he does not even have to consciously think about his disguise.

On the Isle of Balar, it would be near to impossible not to be exposed; he had met Círdan, and he might be recognized as kin by Ereinion. And would that be so bad? he has often mused, and each time has come to the conclusion that he has become too comfortable not being Curufinwë Tyelperinquar to say no. 

In addition, there are yet too many memories left of Curufinwë Tyelperinquar to turn away from the Light the Lady Elwing wears above her heart. Though he had sworn no Oath, he nevertheless is drawn to the Silmaril like a moth to a flame. Impossible it seems to him to leave behind all that is left of the bliss and innocence that will not return and of Valinor that he himself cannot return to; and moreover, he cannot not deny the longing it inspires within him to hone his own craftsmanship, and to not be content with the practical work he offers nowadays, so as not to draw attention to himself.

He has thought about counseling her, begging her, to give the Silmaril up. But she knows, she knows already! She knows how the Darkness of the Oath lurks in each shadow cast by its Light.

Her father had died for it—

And her mother, and her brothers and so many of her people.

He has contemplated taking the jewel from her. But then, who would that make him? How far would he get? Would bloodshed be avoided at all, given that in wrath and pain he had sworn to his own father: You are my kin no more?

Thus, he lingers in this doomed city for yet another year—until he wakes to alarm bells ringing wildly and to the stench of smoke rising from the reeds. Finally, those whom he denies kinship have crossed the Sirion, bringing fire and death once more to a people that should not be their enemy. Upon his throne in Angband, Morgoth must be laughing. Celebrimbor crosses the small bridge connecting his living quarters to his workshop. He takes up the fine sword he had made for himself, and the matching dagger.