After having found his shelter on the isle of Balar, a messenger delivers a memory from the past.

For long he had wished never to see it again. When asked, none could tell him who delivered this errand; only that messenger had worn a dark cloak and that a hood obscured its face. It mattered not: what lay on the cloth in front of him told more than enough. So it did happen: his mighty father perished in forsaken battle. 

His fingers traced the engraved runes which were entwined by his grandfather’s sigil: he remembered the day that his father had crafted the then forbidden weapon. Surely its craftsmanship was the best, yet he wondered how many were slain by it, wielded by his father? 

With care he turned the blade around, still remembering how he would sit quietly in the corner of the forge counting how often the steel was folded over and over again until his father believed that it was adequate. Then there was the scabbard: one of the few things left to him that reminded him of his mother. Her smile, the look of love in her eyes as she gifted it to him. For long the evidence of their love had given him hope that his father would not stoop so low. They had parted with high hope in their hearts, would she await him there?

Celebrimbor sighed deeply: he had renounced him. Firmly and steadfast he had looked his father in the eye. Their love, could he turn back on that? Their only son and heir? Where was the hope? Quietly he slid the sword into the scabbard and then buckled the belt around his waist: the future was his to claim.

Written, although I missed the deadline ahem, for the MPTT July 2013 Fixed-Length-Ficlet Challenge: Time in a Bottle. My assigned word count: 270 words.

A heartfelt thanks to the members of the Lizard Council who went over this little tale.