He fell face-down into the dust, the metallic tang of blood bursting in his mouth as the buzz in his ears swelled, drowning out the clamor of battle. Though the chaos ebbed, his wounds did not—sharp, searing, and unrelenting. Pain surged over him like an unending tide, consuming every thought, every shred of strength.

A cold hand clamped around his throat and wrenched him upright.

“Surrender the Three to me, Celebrimbor.”

The voice was unmistakable. Yet, hearing it again, he felt neither fear nor rage, only an odd sense of relief. Blood blurred his vision as he stared at the black iron helmet before him, straining to discern if the familiar face still lay hidden behind the grotesque mask. ...

Celebrimbor opened his eyes and lay motionless for a moment, waiting for his breath to steady and his heart to calm. Outside the tall arched window, the waning moon bathed the land of Eregion in pale light, painting the rolling hills in hues of purple-blue beneath the sky before dawn.

Yet such serenity was an illusion. With his keen Elven sight, he could make out faint smoke and dust on the horizon, where the red sun would soon rise.

This is likely the last night I shall know peace at Ost-in-Edhil, he thought. A storm is coming.

Fully awake now, he rose from the bed and crossed the marble floor barefoot. The chill bit into his soles, sending a shudder up his spine and dispelling the lingering shadows of his ominous dream.

Annatar was almost at the gate. Annatar. Celebrimbor let the name pass silently over his lips and could not suppress a quiet laugh at himself. The Lord of Gifts, whom he had once called a friend, even respected as a mentor. How ironic. When the One Ring was revealed and the long-established disguise fell away, the truth had become unmistakable: Annatar was no emissary from the Undying Lands but an irreconcilable foe. All his meticulous teaching, those countless long days and sleepless nights of careful instruction, had served a single, hidden purpose. From the very beginning, the most loyal servant of the Enemy had sought to exploit the boundless potential of the Firstborn to his own dark ends.

He stopped before his new armor and ran a finger over its smooth, shining plates, the cold surface spreading an iciness from the fingertip.

Through feigned kindness, lofty visions, and the alluring gift of knowledge, he had been cunningly led, step by step, into the creation of the Rings of Power. And then came the ultimate betrayal: the forging of the One Ring—One Ring to rule them all—a device of subjugation, crafted to enslave the bearers of all the others. With it, the new Dark Lord would wield absolute dominion over Middle-earth, bringing his insidious design to completion.

Yet, in the end, the master of lies had made one mistake: he underestimated Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, Head of Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Lord of Eregion, maker of the Three Rings, and, in Middle-earth, the last of the House of Fëanor.

The first time Celebrimbor met Annatar was on the main road outside Ost-in-Edhil, as he was returning from Moria (1), still relishing the memories of the vast halls carved deep within the mountains and the prolific veins of mithril gleaming in the rock. As a smith himself, he could not help but marvel at what a strong yearning for making and exploration could bring forth: the Naugrim had transcended mere delicacy with their mastery over metal and stone, achieving greatness even where they had once been criticized for lacking “a sense of delicate beauty.”

It is said that the most successful deception is always rooted in the utmost understanding. Reflecting on it later, he knew it was no mere chance that had drawn his attention to the man.

The scene of that doomed evening remained vivid in his memory: half the sky burned red with the sunset, and a man stood tall and straight by the roadside, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the rolling hills in the distance. His unbound hair, cascading over his shoulders, shone like molten gold in the fading light, concealing the dust and weariness of travel. From the side, the man’s silhouette was so strikingly perfect, so reminiscent of a statue his grandmother might have crafted, that for a fleeting moment, Celebrimbor believed even the river of Time had slowed to linger upon him.

Sensing his gaze, the golden-haired man turned. After a glance at the banners flying high in the twilight, his piercing eyes fixed on Celebrimbor. “Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion?”

Though spoken with the cadence of inquiry, the man’s tone betrayed certainty. Finding this both intriguing and faintly disingenuous, Celebrimbor decided to respond in kind—with a question of his own.

“You are neither of mortal nor of Even kind,” he said, remaining on horseback, his lips curling and voice dripping with condescension. “Could it be that I actually have the honor of meeting the famed Annatar, whose gifts have thus far interested no one?”

To his surprise, the man appeared entirely unaffected by the mockery. “The worth of my gifts is not meant for all to understand.”

He let his mocking smile deepen. “Do you claim that Lindon is too dull to recognize your talent, and so you must seek your equals in Eregion?”

At this, the man gave a low, amused laugh before speaking. “Celebrimbor son of Curufin, Head of Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Lord of Eregion, and the last of the mighty House of Fëanor in Middle-earth.” Ignoring the provocation, the man recited his titles as though they were facts of profound significance. His eyes sparkled with challenge as he continued, “I was only wondering if you would also be the last maker in this mortal land.”

He lifted a hand to stop his squire from rebuking him. Turning his attention more seriously now, he studied the man and those grey eyes: at first, they seemed so clear that one might think they could see to the very bottom of them, but a closer look revealed their unfathomable depths. He blinked and then burst into laughter. “Then come with me. I am now curious about what my cousin must have missed.”

Since he rarely had the patience to engage with ordinary folk, the news that he had brought a stranger into the city quickly aroused widespread interest. Many found contrived excuses to visit the guildhouse, even though it was already night, eager to catch a glimpse of this enigmatic guest as early as possible. Celebrimbor observed the farce in silence, making no effort to intervene; yet when he finally led Annatar into his sitting room and took a seat, he noted with some disappointment that there was not a trace of embarrassment on that handsome face

“Coming all the way from Lindon to Eregion, what on Arda do you have to say?” he asked bluntly, prepared to send the man away if his words proved empty. But Annatar did not boast or bluster. Instead, he simply sighed, long and deep.

Though the man appeared to be in his prime, the sigh spoke of experience spanning thousands of years, carrying a weight so sad and so true that Celebrimbor almost regretted his earlier sarcasm.

“A mighty king is Gil-galad, and wise in all lore is Master Elrond, and yet they will not aid me in my labors. Can it be that they do not desire to see other lands become as blissful as their own?” (2)

Annatar spoke each word with the deepest regret, his tone carrying just the right trace of frustration.

“But should Middle-earth remain for ever desolate and dark, whereas the Elves could make it as fair as Eressëa, no, even as Valinor?” (3)

A silence fell. The crackling of firewood in the hearth became the only sound in the chamber. His face remained unperturbed, though his heart raced as he stared at the man before him—so confident and energetic a moment ago, now seemingly tired and forlorn.

“My lord, Lady Galadriel is here.”

The silence was broken by this unexpected report from his assistant. So she has heard of it too, he thought, and suddenly felt an inexplicable satisfaction. “Tell her I am coming,” he replied. Glancing back at Annatar, he was not surprised to find concern in the man’s eyes.

“Do not worry. I will return soon,” he assured him absently, before pausing as if reminded of something. Leaning closer, he kept his smile on his lips, though it did not reach his eyes.

“And you would do well to remember this,” he said softly. “Gil-galad is my cousin, and I know him better than you ever can. Do not let me hear you speculate about him again.”

Notes  (1) I have chosen to use the name Moria in the narrative, as the Elvish translation of Khazad-dûm, Hadhodrond, is far less familiar. However, it is worth noting that the name Moria did not exist until Sauron waged war on the Elves and the West-gate of Khazad-dûm was shut. (Yes, I am aware that the inscription on the West-gate of Moria includes the word Moria, which remains a mystery in itself.)

Galadriel did not wait for him in the small chamber he had set aside for important visitors. Instead, the Lady of the Golden House of Finarfin stood alone in the moonlit garden adjacent to it, her silky hair snaring the radiance of gold and starlike silver. Though he was well acquainted with her, the sight of her striking beauty made his breath catch for a moment.

“Leaves fall, and flowers fade.” She turned at the sound of his footsteps, her voice soft but tinged with sorrow. A faint shadow passed through her ever-steadfast, some might say adamant, eyes. Despite the encroaching darkness, countless roses bloomed at her side, their delicate petals illuminated by the pale light of the moon. “It grieves me that the beauty of this land will not last.”

“Perhaps; yet we may still restore it.” He approached her and gently drew a branch toward himself, studying the flowers. They were a fascinating, surreal blue, the color of a rare ore uncovered deep within the Mines of Moria (1). These blue roses had never existed in the Hither Lands before, blooming only in the immortal garden of Lórien across the sea. Without his and the Mírdain’s efforts, they would have remained forever locked in the distant memories of the Exiles—like so many other wonders beyond mortal imagining, gradually slipping into ancient dreams and fading into a long-lost past.

She exhaled a sigh. “In Arda Marred, not all may be restored. Some shall never return once they have departed.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, releasing the rose branch and turning to face her. In this Age of the world, few Exiles remained in Middle-earth, and she was the last he would ever underestimate. “Yet we may prevent them from passing too soon.”

“So that is why you decided to take in Annatar, whom Ereinion and Elrond have already refused,” she said, her tone not truly questioning. “But are you certain that his purpose aligns with yours?”

“No, I am not,” he laughed. “Thanks to you, my lady, I have not even found time to speak with him in earnest.” Then, half in jest, he added, “Should I feel honored or insulted? You hastened here under moonlight lest I be beguiled by a suspicious stranger, yet I cannot recall what I have done to make you deem me so easily misled.”

She did not smile. “You know Ereinion does not trust him.”

“My cousin is never lacking in prudence,” he said, still smiling.

“Nor does he lack wisdom,” she replied calmly.

“Ereinion is not like us.” His smile waned at last, irritation creeping into his tone as he began walking back toward the house. “He is not a maker.”

“And what of that?” she asked. “Perhaps makers are more easily tempted and confused.” Her voice remained unwavering, as though she were oblivious to the stiffness in his posture. “Think of your grandfather and your father, Celebrimbor.”

He turned abruptly, calling for his assistant. “See the lady out.” Without a backward glance, he strode off.

That night, he dreamed; in the dream, he saw someone he thought never to see again.

Swing, strike, and flip; swing, strike, and flip again.

Sweat dripped from the smith’s forehead onto the scalding anvil, sizzling into steam and evaporating into nothingness. The smith’s hand remained steady, controlling the force and angle of each strike with utmost precision. To the rhythm of hammering, golden sparks flew from the red-hot metal as it was turned time after time, gradually taking shape.

He watched closely, while a familiar voice came unbidden, calm and low, carrying a subtle power that could easily sway the minds of others.

Creation requires devotion. A part of you will pass into your making and dwell in it ever after.

It was the master of this voice who had opened a door of creation for him and led him into a realm of wonder. Yet it was the same one who had committed a terrible betrayal and fallen into utter disgrace.

All at once, the nearly finished blade fractured. The smith stayed his hammer hand, staring down at the ruined work, perplexed. As understanding dawned, he let the hammer slip from his grasp. Without a word, he turned away from the anvil, leaving flame, steel, and forge behind.

He woke, his breath shallow, and lay stunned for a long time, unable to convince himself it had truly been his father.

The last time they met was in a great hall, before the High Seat of Nargothrond.

He had fled quietly from the enraged crowd before the verdict was announced. Running all the way back to his chamber, he slammed the door shut behind him and stood trembling, teeth clenched. Consumed by anger, shame, and disappointment, yet unable to find release, he finally turned and struck the heavy door with his fist.

“Celebrimbor, are you there?”

He froze. It was Finduilas, daughter of Orodreth.

“My father has ordered your father and your uncle to depart at once.” Her voice, still breathless, betrayed the urgency of her arrival. “But what of you? What will you do?”

He turned slowly, pressing his back against the thick wood of the door. Sliding down slightly, he buried his face in his hands.

A knock followed a long silence. He stirred, drawing a deep breath as he straightened. A wind arose then, and the curtains swayed.

“I will not go with them,” he said at last, his voice hoarse, the words heavy on his tongue. “I have no such father.”

For a moment, all was quiet outside. Then, his father’s voice came, calm and seemingly indifferent:

“Telperinquar onya, namárië.” (2)

That was their final farewell, for he never saw his father again.

We have loved leaping flames and molten metal, as well as gems that gather light and dispel darkness, for we believed they contained the essence of the Secret Fire. Day after day, we have indulged in our craft and honed our skill, yet there seems to be no end. The further we walk along the path of exploration, the longer the road stretches before us. We have thought it so because we still have too much to know and learn.

But what if we are mistaken? Even the mightiest among us—my father and your grandfather—found only what lay closest to the truth, not the truth itself.

Not until that moment did he realize that Annatar’s voice bore an uncanny resemblance to that of Curufinwë Atarinkë.

Celebrimbor heard the noise coming from his workshop long before he reached it, the unmistakable sound of continuous, rhythmic striking. Frowning, he searched his memory and was certain no one had been granted permission to use the space that morning.

He did not bother knocking before pushing the door open. Narrowing his eyes against the wave of heat that poured out, he prepared to reprimand the intruder. But when his gaze fell on the scene within, the words died in his throat.

A man stood at the anvil, his movements revealing a mastery of technique and skill beyond reproach. Unlike the Elven-smiths, he wore no leather apron or protective gear. His bare back, slick with sweat, glistened under the glow of red flames and cascading golden sparks. Each strike of the hammer revealed strong, toned muscles, flexing in perfect rhythm, so flawless in form that even the most critical eye could find no fault.

Celebrimbor might have mistaken him for someone he had once admired, someone long lost to the history of the First Age, had his gaze not caught, just in time, the long golden hair neatly bound with a leather string.

Fortunately, the man had his back turned and seemed unaware of his momentary confusion.

“If I am not mistaken, I still lead the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.” Celebrimbor drew a silent, steadying breath and found his voice. “Annatar, your arrogance is truly beyond my understanding.”

The man paused but did not turn around. “Perhaps what I have to offer is beyond your understanding as well.”

These words failed to provoke him; instead, they stirred a laugh. Celebrimbor was widely recognized as the greatest Elven-smith in Middle-earth since the dawn of the New Age. Even the proud Dwarves of Moria had been compelled to respect his unmatched skill, though not without first testing and challenging him.

“Why not tell me what you offer?” he asked, half-teasing, more amused than annoyed.

Annatar did not respond with words. Instead, he set down the hammer, lifted a glowing piece of metal from the anvil, and turned. With a confident smile, he held it out in offering.

It proved to be a gold bracelet, one that appeared ordinary at first glance; indeed, by Noldorin standards, it might even be deemed poorly fashioned. He did not take it at once, noticing the layer of dust still clinging to it. Annatar chuckled, casually wiping it clean with stained fingers, as if responding to his deliberate hesitation.

Celebrimbor curled his lips, ready to reach for it with a retort on the tip of his tongue. Yet, the moment the bracelet touched his palm, his thoughts scattered, and the will to mock evaporated.

“How did you…?” he began, only to stop himself, biting his tongue. Pride and scorn momentarily set aside, he inspected the piece, still warm to the touch.

By the time he looked up again, Annatar had set the tools aside. The man met his gaze in silence, but the burning light in his eyes and the simple, unadorned bracelet in his hands conveyed more than words ever could.

It is only a prototype, far from perfect. Grant me more time and work with me. Together, we might achieve more than anyone else in this world.

For the first time since they met, Celebrimbor found himself speechless, recognizing the sincerity in Annatar’s offer. There was something unusual about that gold bracelet—a faint but undeniable sign of life.

He never spoke of that incident in his workshop, but from that day onward, he acquiesced to Annatar’s presence in Eregion. Annatar, in turn, altered his demeanor. Now presenting himself as a proper guest, he no longer tested his host’s limits or abused the privileges extended to him. More often than not, he remained an observer—courteous even when overlooked—yet never hesitating or refusing when approached.

As time passed, the people of Ost-in-Edhil grew accustomed to the outsider’s presence, and news of Annatar spread. Maidens remarked, first in whispers and then openly, that Annatar was fair, polite, and generous; craftsmen affirmed that his knowledge of metal and ore was both vast and insightful. Only Galadriel remained indifferent, as did her husband Celeborn, who, being not of the Noldor, cared little for the art of craftsmanship. Indeed, Galadriel seemed to have grown distant from the Mírdain since that unpleasant meeting with their lord.

Many were surprised that Celebrimbor turned a deaf ear to all talk of Annatar. Yet late at night, when he returned to his study and saw the humble bracelet resting on his desk, he could not help but pause, his gaze lingering on it. Still, he always chose to remain silent in the end.

When he heard that a messenger had arrived from Lindon, he felt relief rather than worry.

He had often wondered how his cousin would react to his decision. After Beleriand broke and sank beneath the sea, both had chosen to remain in Middle-earth, and, as if by unspoken agreement, he seldom set foot in the realm of Gil-galad, just as Gil-galad refrained from interfering in his affairs. Still, he did not believe the High King of the Noldor would easily overlook open defiance of the stance of Lindon.

Dismissing the messenger with polite greetings, he eagerly unsealed the letter from Gil-galad. Yet, at first, he was disappointed. The opening lines were carefully diplomatic, lacking the substance he sought. He nearly set it aside, assuming the rest would follow suit.

Surely you know better than I do: Morgoth once walked on the land of Aman in a form fair and wise.

His eyes caught these words, and his hand tightened around the parchment.

In Arda Marred, few gifts come at no cost.

“Who are you?”

Suddenly addressed, the golden-haired man—who had been studying a piece of rock—looked up, an expression of genuine surprise and puzzlement appearing on his flawless, fair face.

“Where are you from?”

Celebrimbor pressed on before the man could answer, his gaze unwavering, unwilling to accept anything less than a clear and direct reply.

Beneath that firm scrutiny, the golden-haired man slowly straightened. To Celebrimbor’s astonishment, he then broke into a smile—a smile that evoked another, one which had once, for an entire people, driven away the darkness of the night as well as the gloom upon their path ahead.

“I have been waiting for you to ask, Celebrimbor,” the man said with a certain dignity. “I am Annatar, who once served Aulë; I came from across the Sea.”

His answer did not differ much from Celebrimbor’s earlier speculation, though he had not expected the man to admit it so plainly. “Why did you come to Middle-earth, if you truly serve the Lords of the West? Have the Powers not decided to abandon this land and leave it to the Children?”

“Even under the Prophecy of the North, Ulmo acted on his own and reached out to you in the past.” His aggression only seemed to broaden the man’s grin. “Surely we can do better now.”

“So, despite their decision, you came here on your own?” It sounded reasonable, yet he found it difficult to trust. “You claim to have served Aulë, but how can he—”

“Of course he can,” Annatar said, softly but firmly. “We are makers, and no one knows us better than the Smith himself. Remember: while we are still learning how to adorn this world, he has already created a new people for it.”

Once again rendered speechless, Celebrimbor could not let down his guard. Though Annatar’s words seemed to address all of his doubts, they left his thoughts more unsettled than before. He felt, instinctively, that something important still eluded him. “But—”

“Celebrimbor.”

Annatar interrupted him once more, stepping out from behind the long table laden with rocks and stones. His grey eyes burned like silver fire, as though they had pierced Celebrimbor’s inner turmoil. With each of Annatar’s advancing steps, Celebrimbor’s heart beat faster, and a part of him almost urged retreat. Yet his resolve to stand firm prevailed, and Annatar halted several paces away.

“You and I share an urge and a yearning; that is all. Please remember this: the order to which I belong existed before the World, and willingly we have bound ourselves to it for its entire duration. Do not underestimate our love for it.”

Celebrimbor returned to his study, his mind racing with countless thoughts. He did not notice a letter from Mithlond on his desk until he sat down. Very well, he thought, after Ereinion, now Círdan as well. Rubbing his brow, he opened the letter and then set it aside once he had finished reading.

The Lord of the Havens had witnessed vast changes in the world over many ages, and thus rarely involved himself in broader affairs, especially since Gil-galad had come of age. For Círdan to write, he must have been deeply concerned.

Acting out of obsession will only result in your own loss and destruction. Thus concluded the letter.

He did not welcome these words, but neither was he offended by them. Anyone who had witnessed the blood and fire of the First Age, the long and terrible wars over the Great Jewels, and the ruinous power of a blasphemous oath, could not remain silent when another of the same lineage seemed on the brink of rash action.

Yet Círdan ought to have remembered that everything he saw, Celebrimbor of the House of Fëanor had also seen.

Círdan spoke as he did because he does not understand us. He has not crossed the Sea to the Blessed Realm, nor chosen exile and then departed it. He cannot comprehend my forefathers or me, for he is not a maker.

Curufinwë Fëanáro sought to preserve the purest Light and the highest beauty, and he succeeded—though his creation possessed him, blinding him in the end. Curufinwë Atarinkë chose to remain but a shadow and follower of his father’s path, pursuing that unrivaled craft even at the cost of an unbreakable oath and the surrender of his own talent and identity as a maker.

But he, Celebrimbor, was different. Freed from ambition, legacy, and vengeance, he could at last focus on life itself. Humble though it might seem, his wish was to forge a missing link that would complete a cycle—one that would draw fire, stone, metals, and gems back into the nature from which they sprang, so that the work of hands could guard air and water, flowers and trees, birds and beasts: a guardian that could stand against Time.

If all that was good and fair was doomed to perish, could he not at least strive to prolong its life?

He yearned for a haven in this mortal land, where his people might linger in peace, a respite like Aman shaped by the Valar, akin to Eä fashioned by Eru.

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.

Notes, scrolls, and books were everywhere: stacked on the table, scattered on the floor, and piled against the walls. Celebrimbor paced back and forth in the limited space available, frowning and unsettled like a trapped beast.

He must have overlooked something—something of true importance.

It was not lack of progress in forging the Rings of Power that troubled him. In fact, with both him and Annatar collaborating and providing guidance, the craftsmen of the Mírdain toiled continuously yet never encountered any truly insurmountable obstacle.

“I am more adept with metal, while you excel with gems,” Annatar remarked during a brief respite from their extended exploration and discussion. “Metal is malleable and adaptable, whereas gems are steadfast and enduring. Your strengths and mine do indeed complement one another.”

“You forgot to mention words and scripts,” he added lightly. “Among the Noldor, we have always esteemed them above all else.”

Words and scripts were not merely for record-keeping. He and Narvi, one of those deep dwellers of the Mines of Moria, had designed the West-gate of that Dwarven kingdom in the Mountains. The concept was simple yet effective: runes rendered in ithildin upon the door hinted at a subtle riddle, readily discouraging those who approached in ignorance. He had no intention of revealing such details here, for the Dwarves had entrusted him with a secret that safeguarded their home.

“Alas, I have indeed overlooked them,” the golden-haired man conceded with a smile. “Allow me to reflect on how their power might be put to good use.”

All proceeded according to plan, yet as the Seven and the Nine neared completion, Celebrimbor’s dissatisfaction grew daily, until he was entirely disenchanted.

Because these were not what he had envisioned.

“They are Rings of Power,” Annatar said, unfazed by his protest. “They are infused with strength for the benefit of the bearer: is this not what we intended?”

“No, it is not,” he denied flatly. “It is merely our current limit.”

With that, he returned to his work, failing to note the strange gleam that flickered in those pale grey eyes.

So far, all the creations of the Mírdain had followed Annatar’s design: first exchanging life for power, and then harnessing it to prolong mortal years. Life, though finite, need not be lost beyond recovery—at least according to Annatar. Since this power, drawn from life, emerges from the essence of primeval creation and thus surpasses all reckoning, borrowing it briefly is deemed acceptable.

He did not object to this design, for it provided a clear, seemingly miraculous path to their goal. Yet he was not satisfied, for it fell far short of the ideal he sought. He remembered vividly how the Three Jewels of Curufinwë Fëanáro had rejoiced at receiving light and then returned it in even more radiant hues.

Receiving without depriving, giving without diminishing—what on Arda would be necessary to achieve such a state?

He remained restless and anxious day after day, and in marked contrast to his inactivity, Annatar, having attained a high position in the Mírdain, began to journey abroad. He started by exploring within Eregion, but soon extended his travels, spending more and more time beyond its borders. Some voiced concern over these expeditions, and a few even speculated that the Lord of Gifts, having encountered this challenge, was seeking escape. But Annatar quickly proved them wrong by always returning—each time bearing an abundance of unusual minerals and exotic materials for the craftsmen to study and experiment with. Over time, his journeys became routine, and the unease in the city gradually diminished.

“I have tidings of Lady Galadriel,” Annatar remarked casually upon returning from yet another journey. “She has found a new refuge east of the Misty Mountains.”

Celebrimbor, hunched over a cluttered table strewn with papers, stones, and bits of wood, glanced up in mild confusion before nodding halfheartedly. “Good for her.”

Annatar said nothing more, merely smiling as Celebrimbor returned to his labors.

Celebrimbor waited until the soft thud of the closing door subsided and the footsteps faded into silence. Only then did he lift his head and gaze out the window at the moonlit flowers below.

She had been gone from Eregion for decades—perhaps centuries—had she not?

After he announced that the Mírdain would welcome Annatar, Galadriel—who had previously kept her distance—made one final attempt to sway his decision.

“I thought you, of all people, would understand me,” he said, patiently waiting for her to finish, though he could not entirely hide his disappointment. “What you said in Lindon, I have never forgotten.”

“But you do not understand what you are doing.” She paused at his words, yet spoke again, her voice gentler but no less firm. “I, too, studied under Aulë and know something of making. I do not trust Annatar. Through your choices, you risk yourself—indeed, not only yourself, but the Mírdain and all your people in Eregion.”

“If this unproven threat troubles you so, why not find another land and await my good news there?” He laughed. “Men have a saying: out of sight, out of mind.”

He never learned exactly when people began whispering that he had driven her away to protect Annatar. Yet when he heard it, he never spoke up to correct them. Had he not, in part, contributed to her departure? She had chosen to leave, but could he honestly claim no role in that decision?

She will understand when I succeed, he told himself. And so will Ereinion and Círdan.

That night, he worked late as usual. On the threshold of Irmo’s domain, he heard those familiar voices again—voices long etched in his heart.

...It may be that I can unlock my jewels, but never again shall I make their like; and if I must break them, I shall break my heart, and I shall be slain. (1)

...A part of you will pass into your making and dwell in it ever after.

He awoke. The night still stretched on, yet his heart felt illuminated, and at last he knew he had found the answer he had sought for so long.

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.

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.

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.

The attack began at sunset, and by shortly after midnight, the city gate had been breached.

Fires erupted, painting the night sky in a foreboding red. Orcs flooded the streets of Ost-in-Edhil like a relentless tide. The defending Elves were forced to retreat to the city square, gathering at the Guildhouse of the Mírdain for a final stand.

Before the enemy troops could close in, Celebrimbor ordered the gate to be opened and strolled out alone, his sheathed sword dangling casually from his hand.

“Tell your master to come here,” he demanded, his voice rising. “Annatar, Gorthaur, Sauron—whatever he chooses to call himself.”

The hordes clamored, and a few bold ones charged forward, eager to capture him alive. But before they could approach, bowstrings sang, and darts rained down in torrents from above—fired from crossbows far surpassing the power of ordinary bows.

“This is undeniably an abuse of our art, but necessity leaves us no choice,” he murmured to himself as the hail of arrows ceased, not even glancing at the fresh pile of fallen bodies at his feet.

The Orcs quickly adapted, drawing countless crude bows and arrows from every direction, all aimed at him—a lone, conspicuous figure.

“I would think twice if I were you,” he said, finally turning his gaze to them, his tone laced with sarcasm. “For I am Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, heir to the House of Fëanor. Tell your master to come here—I will not wait long.”

And he did not have to wait long, either.

A figure darker than the night emerged from the shadows as the sea of enemies parted. The once-fair appearance was now concealed beneath black armor, a spiked helmet, and a grotesque mask. Fear rippled through the ranks like wildfire as the Dark Lord strode forward.

“You wished to see me, Celebrimbor,” he said, his voice unchanged from the days when he had feigned friendship and mentorship.

“I believe you wish to see me more,” Celebrimbor corrected him with a straight face, “After all, you have come to Eregion for the Rings of Power, have you not? And I am the only one who knows where they are.”

He could not tell if it was just his imagination, but the eyes hidden behind the mask seemed to narrow, as if weighing options. The familiar voice rang out again, earnest and sincere, carrying the power to sway hearts and minds with ease. “If you change your mind, we can still be partners; you and I can accomplish more than anyone else in this world.” So I said, and so I say again.

As if in agreement, Celebrimbor’s lips curled ever so slightly.

Seeing this, those eyes lit up, and the voice softened. “So, where are they? Where are those Rings of Power?”

Silence fell. Even the flickering of the torches seemed to hesitate, as if the entire world was holding its breath, waiting for his reply.

“In the deep waters,” he said, innocent, “in the airs of heaven, in the fires of the heart of the world.” (1)

After a brief moment of dead silence, the Dark Lord erupted in fury, and even the stars above seemed to dim. “You are a fool to provoke me, Celebrimbor. I have a thousand ways to break you; death you may yet crave from me as a boon.” (2)

“So, what are you waiting for?”

He laughed, unsheathing his long sword. In the midst of fire and darkness, it glittered, willful and proud.

-The End of the Main Story-

-See the Extra Chapter for more-

Extra Chapter:

Lost but Won

He did not know how much time had passed.

The world, as Celebrimbor knew it, had split into two irreconcilable halves: before his capture and after. The endless, unimaginably cruel torment came in unrelenting cycles. Time and again, his fëa struggled in vain to break free, only for his consciousness to surface from a lightless abyss, awakening anew each time to the grim truth that he remained trapped within this battered, broken body, ravaged beyond recognition.

He had always known, deep within, that the enemy’s threat was no empty taunt: Death you may yet crave from me as a boon. (1)

He could no longer discern whether it was day or night. Where his eyes had once been, there were now only hollow sockets. Those eyes, which had once gazed upon the purest and highest light, undimmed even in the deepest shadows, had been the first to draw his tormentor’s hatred. In the vivid clarity of Elven memory, the horror of that moment lingered, as sharp as if it had only just unfolded: black iron, heated to a fiery red, inching ever closer—until searing pain struck, and a veil of darkness descended. He could no longer recall how long ago that had been, for in the face of an inescapable eternity, the line between an age and an instant blurred into nothingness.

Yet, that did not mean he was entirely unaware, nor wholly blind and deaf to the world around him. In time, it was as though a long-hidden door had opened before him, granting him passage beyond the tangible world—one he had once seen, heard, tasted, and touched—into another indescribable realm. He called it the Unseen. Seamlessly intertwined with the tangible world yet fundamentally distinct, its existence had long been a faint whisper at the edges of his perception. Only after losing his sight did it fully reveal itself, becoming an undeniable truth—the primary reality upon which he now relied. (2)

And in that reality, he knew—knew with absolute certainty—that a change had occurred. He was no longer alone. Another presence had entered the space around him, emanating a familiar aura of danger that pressed closer with each passing moment.

It was him.

Before he could react, something was cast before him. Instinctively, he turned his head, catching the faint clinking of metal as it struck the ground from that now-distant, tangible world. It was not a single object but several. Though small in form, they carried a weight that spoke of purpose far beyond their size.

“All the remaining Rings are here,” said the voice. “Do not imagine that your silence will leave me without recourse.”

“Those you have already defiled—returning them is of no consequence,” he replied, laughing—a sound that dragged him abruptly back to the tenuous grip of the tangible world. The searing pain struck without warning, making him tremble, yet his demeanor remained unshake. Each word spilled forth with gushes of blood from the corners of his mouth, each breath lancing through his chest with needle-sharp agony. “But what is not yours, you shall never wrest from me.”

“Truly?” The voice laughed, its tone layered with ominous meaning. “We shall see.”

Before the words had fully faded, his surroundings shifted. Everywhere, fire raged—crimson flames rising and writhing, twisting like serpents, surging skyward in storms that clawed at the heavens. Waves of heat struck him like a physical blow, and in the next instant, it was as though he had become a living torch. Through his crusted, blood-clogged nostrils, the stench of burning hair and flesh seeped in—nauseating, suffocating, and inescapable.

Every nerve in his hröa screamed in unison, each sensation stretched to its unbearable limit. His mind felt as though it had been cleaved apart by a searing blade, leaving behind only a desolate void. His mouth opened of its own accord, but no sound reached his ears. Instead, the blistering air rushed in, like molten fire, scorching his throat and setting his lungs aflame.

Amid the all-consuming inferno, a voice, cold as a shard of ice, cut through the flames and pierced his mind, striking deep into the very roots of his being.

Do not forget—you have already revealed the whereabouts of the Seven.

Do not forget, he replied, mustering every shred of his scattered will, to me, they are no different from the Nine.

Still so arrogant. The voice laughed again, its tone shifting abruptly—sharp and mocking. But do you truly believe you are beyond my reach?

The inferno receded, and his prior reality returned, though the torment had taken on another form. Struggling through the transition, he felt his shackled wrists suddenly grow scaldingly hot. A searing grip forced his tightly clenched fist open, prying it apart with burning hands. Moments later, something smooth and cool slid onto his finger.

In an instant, he understood what it was, and a fear unlike any he had ever known surged through his heart.

He had been forced to wear a Ring of Power—one now bound under the dominion of the One.

He suddenly opened his eyes, greeted by moonlight as clear and pure as water, bathing the room in silvery brilliance.

Dazed, he lifted his head, finding himself slumped over the desk by the window. Outside, the dark ridges of the mountains framed the lake beneath the ink-black sky. The water, deep and mirror-like, resembled an unblemished piece of black jade, adorned with scattered stars, as though the heavens themselves had been cast upon its surface. It was impossible to tell whether the heavens mirrored the lake or the lake mirrored the heavens.

Was I asleep? he wondered, feeling as though he had just awakened from a long dream. Strangely, he could recall none of its details, though for Elves, the line between dreams and reality was rarely distinct.

He stood, perplexed by the unfamiliar sensation of solid ground beneath his feet. Before he could ponder it further, voices floated in from the outer chamber.

“That will not do. It was not part of the contract.”

He quietly approached the open door and saw the visitor shaking his head emphatically. Telchar—it was Telchar, the renowned Dwarven craftsman. In Thargelion, beneath the Blue Mountains by the shores of Lake Helevorn and the fortress of Rerir, his name was known to all.

“The agreement we made with your brother? We will never sign a second one like it,” the Dwarf declared. Yet the other party in the negotiation remained calm. “Then perhaps you would consider reasonable terms of exchange.”

The great smith from Nogrod scoffed, his expression dismissive, though his eyes gleamed with interest. “Exchange? I doubt it. We have seen all your tricks before.”

“What you have seen are merely the ‘tricks’ of Nan Elmoth. Surely, you are aware of how Noldorin craftsmanship compares.”

A sudden dizziness overcame him, and he closed his eyes briefly to steady himself. When he regained his senses, the conversation had already moved on. He caught only the tail end of a sentence:

“…how to refine your methods for protecting doorways—I fear I am no expert in such matters. Why not consult my son, Celebrimbor?”

With effort, he lifted his head and forced himself to look toward the source of the voice. Almost as if sensing his gaze, the one seated across from the ornately dressed Dwarf turned to face him. The features, the expression, even the light in his eyes—everything was rendered with unsettling perfection.

“But you are not him,” he murmured, his voice barely audible even to himself. “You underestimate him, as you underestimate me.”

When it came to knowledge and craftsmanship, his father had never known humility. And in such realms of mastery, who could rival Curufinwë Atarinkë, son of Fëanor?

A silence as heavy as iron followed his words. Then, without warning, the surroundings began to ripple and distort, like a reflection in water shattered by a stone. Everything that seemed solid fractured and dissolved, the space collapsing inward into a bottomless vortex, devouring itself. Before he could react, he was swept away, powerless against the spiraling depths…

He opened his eyes, and before him stretched an endless sea.

By the shore stood many Elves—golden-haired and dark-haired alike—their armor, whether gleaming or battered, still marked by the stains of fierce battle. Upon the sea, white ships with unfurled sails departed one after another, carrying the surviving Elf-friends into the distant waves. Above them, the brightest star in the sky shone, a guiding beacon of enduring hope.

He stood upon the cliff, facing the cold, damp sea breeze, his gaze fixed upon the horizon for what felt like an age. At last, he turned back to the lands of Middle-earth behind him, beholding nothing but endless desolation and ruin.

Why? Why must the far shores beyond the sea now be the only haven? The Hither Lands, the mortal world, the realm of twilight—if they are to be so utterly forsaken, why labor so ardently once to shape their form?

“Then why did you refuse the pardon? You could have passed over the Sundering Sea and returned to the Undying Lands.”

Another figure appeared beside him. The Lady of the Golden House of Finarfin now stood at his side, her golden hair and white robes shimmering with a radiance that only deepened the stark desolation surrounding them.

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

Because the price of the pardon is submission.

“What wrong did the House of Finarfin do, that we must now seek the pardon of the Valar, while the House of Finwë has dwindled to a mere shadow of its former glory? Once, I walked beneath the light of Aman the Blessed; shall I now find contentment upon an isle in the sea, far from the light that once guided my path?” (3)

Her gaze locked upon his, her grey eyes blazing like a star plummeting from the heavens.

“Here, I am mightier.” (4)

“Perhaps,” he said after a pause, reluctant to shatter the fragile illusion of the moment as he held her captivating gaze. “But you are not her.”

One as wise as she would not cling to the justifications of past errors to endure.

No sooner had he spoken than a deep red flickered in the depths of her grey eyes, swiftly spreading into a chilling pool of blood. Flames erupted around her, their shifting shadows twisting her visage in the firelight until it blurred and morphed into another face—one contorted by a cruel smile. Her lips parted, and the same phrase spilled forth, again and again:

“Here, I am mightier.”

An irresistible force seized him, dragging him into the heart of the fire. Scorching heat enveloped him, threatening to overwhelm his consciousness. Yet this time, amidst the raging flames, he perceived a strange anomaly. Without hesitation, he seized the fleeting moment, summoning the last reserves of his will to pursue it. In an instant, an icy chill enveloped him, as though he had plunged into a frozen abyss without end.

When he opened his eyes once more, a towering wall of waves loomed before him.

In his shock, his first instinct was to flee. Yet, before the thought could fully form, he found himself retreating with unnatural speed. By the time his wits returned, he was suspended high above, unmoored and adrift, gazing down upon the spectacular yet terrifying scene.

The sea surged forward in unrelenting waves, crashing mercilessly against a desolate, lifeless shore. With each impact, the waters advanced further, a ravenous maw consuming the shattered remnants of the land.

What he beheld was the end of Beleriand at the close of the First Age. The land where they had dwelt, fought, and loved was sinking into the depths of Belegaer, lost forever beneath the waves.

...Yet it need not have been fated so.

No sooner had this thought arisen than the vision shifted once more.

Amid the pitch-black void, a single point of white light emerged, and in an instant, it illuminated the cosmos. Suspended within the boundless depths, a newly formed globe blazed—vibrant and alive—like a radiant red sun breathing amidst the infinite expanse below.

He watched as flames descended and vapor rose, the globe cloaking itself in an enigmatic veil. It withdrew beyond the scrutiny of the divine beings who had existed before the dawn of creation, unwilling to yield its mysteries to their dominion. Floating above the dark void, he saw the mist part, revealing starlight and the first outlines of earth and sky.

Time flowed like a river, ever surging onward. Two mighty lamps arose, casting their radiance over the newly shaped world. At the heart of a vast lake, a green island shimmered with an otherworldly purity. Every blade of grass, every leaf, held a familiarity yet stood apart, distinctly different from the Valinor he remembered—for this was not Valinor.

Almaren, a voice whispered. From here, it could have been more vibrant, more efficient, more perfect... had I been the one to shape all things.

As if to demonstrate, the scene quickened. Speaking peoples awoke, roamed the lands, and set themselves to purposeful endeavors. Steel, stone, and timber were shaped into towers, fortresses, and bridges in unending cycles, spreading across the land, the sea, and even the skies…

He watched, mesmerized, momentarily forgetting where he stood. But just as he prepared to speak, faint notes reached his ears, like autumn leaves carried on a shrouded mist. Persistent and haunting, they grew clearer, more vivid, weaving into a melody, then a song—beautiful beyond words, yet steeped in ineffable sorrow.

To his astonishment, the flourishing world before him revealed its devastating fragility. Beneath the song’s lamenting melody, its splendor unraveled, thread by thread, until nothing but desolation remained.

Wolves howled, and the vision dissolved into ruin. A river bore an island; upon the island stood a tower. In the dungeon below, a mortal despaired, while on the bridge before the tower, a giant wolf lay bleeding and begging, defeated.

The island, the tower, the bridge—though he had never beheld them, they felt as familiar to him as if he had. He had heard them immortalized in countless songs of his kin, preserved from the sorrowful age of the past: The Lay of Leithian, Release from Bondage.

At first, he was bewildered, but slowly, understanding dawned. As he reflected further, the truth struck him, and an indescribable elation surged through his being. Unable to contain it, he burst into laughter—a deep, unrestrained laugh. The vision, fragile as clay, fractured and splintered under the force of his mirth.

In the heavens above, a wheel of fire suddenly appeared, its flames erupting and spiraling outward to devour the skies. At its center, a slit opened—unblinking, like the eye of a cat—fixed intently upon him.

It struck him like a blow, yet his laughter did not falter. What felt like an eternity passed before he returned to reality—the tangible world he knew best. Only then did his battered, torn body wrench his laughter into a fit of rasping coughs.

Across from him, his tormentor, momentarily stunned, began to regain his composure. The figure who had worn countless guises—Mairon, Sauron, Gorthaur, Annatar, Artano—stepped forward, his once-assured voice now tinged with an undeniable tremor of disarray and urgency.

“Why do you laugh?”

“I laugh,” he replied, his mirth fading as he lifted his head, the empty hollows where his eyes once gazed turning unerringly on the figure. “Because I nearly allowed myself to be deceived by you once more. But it matters not, for henceforth, you shall deceive me no longer.”

How pitiable you are—once a masterful talent under the tutelage of Aulë, now brought low, reduced to naught but lies.

“Provoking me serves no purpose, Celebrimbor,” his tormentor said softly.

Yet Celebrimbor could sense the sudden flare of wrath—a frustration so raw, so desperate, it spilled over like wildfire when faced with the incomprehensible. The reaction brought a faint smile to his lips.

You were wrong from the very beginning. You sought dominion over all things, to command the beings of this world as you desired. You saw the potential of the Firstborn and spared no effort to deceive us into forging the Rings of Power, only to craft, in secrecy and solitude, the One Ring to rule them all, believing it would bind us to your will forever. Yet you failed to grasp one truth: the Rings you so coveted were double-edged blades, their purpose to amplify the innate abilities of their bearers. That alone was enough to yield results beyond your calculations.

“Death you may yet crave from me as a boon”—yet the power to make such a claim is not yours. You could not conquer Finrod and his companions when they stood before you, bereft of all arms; how, then, could you hope to subdue one who bears a Ring of Power?

You have always known that for my people, eternal servitude to you is but an empty threat, a hollow illusion.

I am ensnared by my obsessions and have committed wrongs beyond redress; my only hope is that those who come after will learn from my folly. But as for you, you shall not have your way. At least here, in this moment, you cannot stop me—you cannot stop me from relinquishing this physical form, to free my fëa from the chains of your bondage.

He laughed again. A sudden chill on his wrist, a fleeting pain, followed by an unnatural lightness—he knew what had happened, but he did not care. As he had expected, once the shackles of deception and illusion were cast aside, he was no longer bound to his battered and broken body. The tangible world dissolved, unveiling the Unseen in its full clarity, no longer grey and hazy but vivid and bright. Freed from all physical constraints, his consciousness unfurled like a blossom opening to the light, layer upon layer, savoring the living world one final time before answering the call from beyond, long overdue.

Perhaps my next study shall be of death itself, he thought. It has always been spoken of with dread and abhorrence by mortals, yet now, as it truly approaches, it seems to offer liberation—a final release.

-The End-