"Only in Eregion, which Men called Hollin, did Elves of Noldorin race establish a lasting realm beyond the Ered Luin...In Eregion the craftsmen of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, the People of the Jewel-smiths, surpassed in cunning all that have ever wrought, save only Feänor himself; and indeed greatest in skill among them was Celebrimbor, son of Curufin..."
–J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, p. 286
The next morning, Celebrimbor walked into the meeting hall, dressed cleanly in a blue tunic and dark pants. His hair was done simply, and he wore curling silver jewellery that sparkled with dark blue gems, three rings glimmering on his fingers. The dark cape that trailed from his shoulders rippled behind him, and his spotless black boots sounded smartly on the stone floor. The light of dawn glimmered through the arching windows, the hue of the sky mirrored in Celebrimbor's tunic. A few others sat in the hall, and they turned towards him as he entered.
"Master Celebrimbor!" said one heartily, and all rose and bowed as he neared. Celebrimbor smiled in return, grasping the elf's outstretched hand in friendship. "We were quite lacking without you yesterday," continued the elf, "I had many inquire after your whereabouts."
"I thank you, Master Badhron," said Celebrimbor, his grey eyes sparkling, "I was sad to miss it; but I wished to keep on schedule with my work."
"Yet there is no harm in planning the holiday into your schedule, is there not?" said Badhron with a sly smile. He was the largest there, and his tall frame and broad shoulders took up the full breadth of his carven chair. His black hair was done in a long braid over his shoulder, and its golden fastening matched the rich jewellery adorning his chest. His dark green tunics were edged with gold, and his great wealth was shown in the four large gemstones glimmering upon his fingers. Yet his large hands were roughened with work, and though his dark eyes sparkled with mirth, his tunics hid battle scars given by long years of hardship.
Celebrimbor smiled and shook his head as he walked to his seat. "I merely wished to finish the commissioned wares for the court of the High King," he said mildly, "I was quite aware of the holiday." All seated themselves, and Celebrimbor adjusted himself in his tall chair at the head of the table.
"In truth, we were discussing the shipment of your project, among others," said one of the other elves, gesturing to the table. "I did not know if the rest of the High King's order, save your portion, would be ready on time."
"It should be, if all goes as planned," said Badhron easily. He motioned across the table to the other elf who spoke. "Master Nimbreth has already finished the jewellery commissioned from him," continued Badhron.
Nimbreth nodded from across the table. "I merely have to fashion the boxes to hold the pieces," he said, "and if all goes well, everything of mine should be packed and ready before the next week."
"That is good," said Celebrimbor, smiling at Nimbreth, who nodded his thanks. Nimbreth's Nargothrondian roots were clearly evident in his raiment, embroidered silver leaves winding around the neckline of his purple tunic. His dark cape, patterned with painted flowers, was worn over one shoulder in Noldorin fashion, and the star of the House of Finarfin adorned his brow, his brown hair twisted and pinned with fine gems. He was as tall and slender as a birch tree, and his fingers were laced upon the table like twined vines.
"I do not know how you finished your projects so quickly," sighed another of the elves, who passed a hand over his eyes, "I can never seem to stick to my schedule."
"Aiya, Master Tawaren," sighed Badhron good-naturedly, "perhaps you are the one who needs the extra night of work, rather than staying by the banquet tables all night!"
Tawaren raised his hands in defence as the rest of the table chuckled. "I can only have food like this once a year!" he said, "And besides, I have had too many years without much to eat."
"And trust me when I say you have certainly made up for them," said Badhron, winking at him, "When your wife is away, it seems you must have other supervision!"
"We must look after our youngest member, do we not?" added Celebrimbor.
Tawaren sighed and shook his head good-naturedly, and his flushed cheeks rounded in a ready smile. He was used to the jests, and though he was the youngest of the group by a mere few hundred years, he did not mind the light teasing. His reddish-brown hair was curled in ringlets over his slim shoulders, and his red and cream garments were painted with branches. He had already rolled his shirt up around his elbows in preparation for work, and golden bracelets adorned his wrists.
"It is refreshing to have one put normal comforts before their work, I must admit," said Nimbreth as voices echoed from outside the hall.
"I suppose that is a rather rare occurrence among us," said Celebrimbor. All smiled as they looked to the entrance of the great hall, and after a moment, in strode another handful of elves, talking and laughing. Celebrimbor smiled to himself at their liveliness; he had thought that after such a late night, they would be more subdued. Yet it was not so, and greetings were passed around as the newcomers seated themselves.
"I had thought that the rest were here!" said Badhron, "Yet still we are lacking. Did they sleep past dawn?"
Another of the elves shook his head. "No, Master Badhron," he said, "they are close behind us." Tuilinn, who had entered with the others, gave Celebrimbor an amiable nod from down the table. And sure enough in the next moment two more elves strode into the hall, their heads bent in conversation. They, too, smiled as they found their seats, and were greeted by the other elves.
"We were beginning to think you would be late," quipped Tuilinn, casting a glance to the elf who sat down in the empty chair beside him. The one he spoke to, Thalion, laughed, and shook his head as he pulled his chair up to the table.
"No, I would not be late for any of these meetings," he said, reaching over to give Tuilinn a teasing punch on the shoulder.
"Just as you would not be late for battle?" replied Tuilinn.
"Just so," said Thalion with a smile, "and sometimes they are one and the same."
"I would drink to that!" said another, leaning across the table, "If only we saved some of the wine from last night."
"I do not know if it would be wise to drink this early, Master Ethuil," said Celebrimbor wisely, his eyes twinkling.
"And before work?" added Nimbreth, tilting his head.
"Oh, we have all drunk or not drunk during and for much worse things," sighed Findegil, the elf who had entered with Thalion.
"So let us make up for that now!" said Tuilinn brightly. Tawaren leaned across the table towards him.
"That is what I said!" he said brightly, and the two younger elves grinned at each other. Celebrimbor glanced to the door as another elf entered the hall, and with relief he saw that there was now only one chair left to be filled.
"Where is Master Agarwaen?" said Celebrimbor, the others pausing in their conversation to look towards him. "I trust he was not missed last night."
The elf seated at Celebrimbor's right shook his head.
"No, he dined with us," said the elf, Mirluin. "Though after that I knew not where he went."
"I believe I saw him near the stables, with his wife," said the elf who had just arrived, Celethor. He waved a hand. "I would not be surprised if they went out riding."
"Indeed," said a new voice, and in strode the last of the group. He was dressed in his customary blacks and greys, with sparse yet expensive silver jewellery. "I apologise for my lateness," said Agarwaen as he pulled out his chair and sank down within it, "my wife and I spent much of our time riding through the forest last night and I am afraid we returned rather late. I must admit I was rather inspired by a particular pattern of the moonlight through the branches of the trees, and so I avoided sleep until I sketched out the pattern."
"I beg your pardon, Master Agarwaen," said Badhron, his brown darkening somewhat with concern, "but is that entirely safe? We do not know if the orcs are wholly purged from these lands." Others nodded in agreement, Agarwaen among them.
"Indeed, Master Badhron, we do not know that," replied Agarwaen, "and so we were accompanied by our weapons. However, the summer moon gives us great protection, and there had been none spotted there for quite some time. I assure you, we took precautions," said Agarwaen, looking towards Celebrimbor, who nodded.
"I have no doubt of your caution," said Celebrimbor. He glanced around the seated elves to see that all were quiet and looking to him, and he rose. The rest of the elves followed, and Celebrimbor placed his hands on the table.
"Well," he said, more to himself than anyone. Pulling himself out of his thoughts of his work, he directed his clear gaze about the table. "Here begins the assembly of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, on this, the 37th day of the season of Lairë, in the Yén of 8. I now bring us to order." Once again he seated himself, and the others mirrored him. "Master Harthamir, will you begin, please."
The elf he spoke to nodded, shuffling the papers he brought with him. "Yes, Master Celebrimbor," said Harthamir, spreading his hand. "We have not much to cover today. The feast last night proceeded very well, and no orcs were sighted, nor were there any incidents of note. Ah...I trust the order for the High King is nearly completed?"
Some nodded enthusiastically while others looked rather nervous, but Badhron spoke for them all. "It will be ready on time," he said, and nods confirmed his statement. Harthamir glanced to Celebrimbor, wondering if he may want to pursue the subject, but Celebrimbor merely nodded for him to proceed. Harthamir smiled slightly to show his understanding, then turned back to his papers.
"All is in order before the trip to Moria," he said, "and for my records, it is Masters Celebrimbor, Celethor, Agarwaen, Ethuil, and Mirluin departing this time, is that correct?"
"It is," said Celebrimbor, remembering the darkened halls ringing with the comforting sound of the forges. How good it would be to return!
"Very good," said Harthamir, taking up his quill to make a mark upon the paper. "And need I remind you, your crafts for the High King must be ready before you depart," he said, pointing his quill at those in question, who smiled and nodded. "Ah...we will need to turn our attention to forging and repairing weapons in preparation for the winter, and the upsurgence in orcs—"
"Though we would rather be forging other things," whispered Tawaren.
"—and the letters to the harbour of the Númenóreans have been sent. I believe that is all of the matters of state we must cover. Concerning more personal matters, I believe we must congratulate Master Tuilinn on beginning the selection of his first apprentice!" This solicited a round of applause from the table, and Tuilinn smiled, his cheeks flushing slightly with pride.
"I will admit, I may need some aid," he admitted, "and I am afraid I will have to call on you, Master Badhron, for you have the most experience out of us all!"
"At present, perhaps," said Badhron, "but a thriving business now and only three previous apprentices does not mean I have the wealth of knowledge!"
"You would not forget to call upon our old master, would you not?" said Findegil good-naturedly, gesturing towards Celebrimbor, who smiled demurely.
"Yes, Master Tuilinn, you would not forget that," said Celebrimbor, teasingly looking down his nose at the younger elf.
Tullinn laughed, shaking his head, and Celebrimbor looked at Harthamir. "Is there anything else of which we should be aware?" Interestingly, he noticed a servant enter the hall, bearing a note as the Mírdain quieted and Harthamir glanced over his notes again.
"I believe that is all," said Harthamir, "All of us here know of the steps we must take to prepare for the winter, and this trip to Moria is one of the final ones before the snow sets in, so we must be careful to make each journey count." He fell silent as the servant stepped to Celebrimbor's side, whispering something to him as he took the letter. Celebrimbor nodded and thanked him, then broke the seal as the servant departed. They watched him carefully as his brow creased and his mouth became set, and a slight tension grew in the air.
"What is it, Master Celebrimbor?" said Heledh quietly.
Celebrimbor sighed, then folded the letter and placed it upon the table, his expression grave. "The Lady Galadriel is returning for the winter," he said rather grimly.
The Mírdain let out a disappointed sigh. "Can she not stay in Lindon this year?" said Thalion, "for I cannot take more militancy. It is hard enough to keep our borders clear without another leaning over me."
"Will she not turn her attention more towards Lóriand?" said Nimbreth somewhat hopefully. "Her interest was certainly turned more towards there the last time she stayed."
"I hope it is," sighed Agarwaen darkly, "for she always finds something to criticise. She is not the only one who has studied under Aulë himself, is that not right? We have two who have studied long with him!" He gestured towards Mirluin and Celebrimbor, and dissident murmurs echoed across the table; but they fell silent as Celebrimbor raised his hand.
"I realise we often have...strife...with the ruler of this city," he said slowly, but Tawaren interrupted.
"But you are truly the leader!" he said, his mouth set stubbornly, "She leads only in name, and when she sees something that displeases her!"
Once again Celebrimbor raised his hand, and Tawaren quieted. "I know how difficult it may be sometimes," he continued, "but we cannot forget to treat with her the respect she deserves. You know as well as I of her great power and knowledge, and she does what she believes to be best, though it may push us the wrong way. We must at least respect her and her intentions, and carry out her orders as she wishes. Understood?" he finished, but there was only gentle command in his tone. Reluctantly, the Mírdain nodded. "I thank you," said Celebrimbor quietly. "It is best we begin to prepare for her and her husband's arrival as soon as we can. Take time to enjoy your present routine, and bask in summer while it lasts." He cast a questioning glance to Harthamir, asking whether the meeting could be closed, and received a confirming nod in return.
"Very well, then," said Celebrimbor, the jovial mood somewhat dimmed, but he sighed and shook himself slightly. "Let us turn our thoughts to Moria, those that are departing, and do not forget the works for the High King!" A slight chuckle swept through the Mírdain, and as their thoughts turned to their work, they brightened to laugh as before. Feeling the mood lighten, Celebrimbor rose, and the rest of the table followed suit.
"Then I close this meeting, and best of wishes to you all today," finished Celebrimbor, and the elves bowed respectfully before turning to their own conversations. Each gave him a nod before they departed, but a few hung back, speaking amongst themselves.
"Master Celebrimbor," said FIndegil, one of those who lingered, "Will you be in your workspace today, or in the main forges?"
"Both, most likely," said Celebrimbor, "I have a few things to finish in my own studio, but I will need the fires later to begin some wire."
Findegil nodded. "I shall be joining you," he said with a smile, "and Celebrimbor..." he pursed his lips in thought. "I do not envy you in your dealings with Lady Galadriel, but I wish to thank you for your position. Some here are far too outspoken in their displeasure," he said with a rueful smile, "and thank you for your temperance and your level leadership."
"You are most welcome," said Celebrimbor, "even when you were still my apprentice I admired your moderacy, and I thank you for it now. Now, let us turn our minds to other things, shall we not?"
Findegil chuckled slightly. "Gladly, Master Celebrimbor." He tilted his head in a short bow. "I will see you later."
"Yes," said Celebrimbor, nodding to the few who lingered. He departed for his rooms, ready to change and return to his work. The concerns of the kingdom were swept from his mind as his thoughts turned to the half-finished pitcher, and the jewellery that waited, unmade, in ingots of silver and gold. Already he had chosen jewels for the pieces, but first, he would continue in his guidance of the silver pitcher, carefully shaping the fluted spout...
The summer wore on, and Gil-Galad's duties continued. His mood had sobered somewhat as the warmth of the sun began to fade, but he kept on with his work with customary attention and diligence. On this particular day, the sky was clouded over, and a light rain pattered upon the roof over his head, dotting the windowsill and painting the stone streets below in a slick shine. Torches lit the room of his work, and Gil-Galad pored over the letters requesting his presence. He sorted the notes slowly, placing them into piles of which offers he would accept, and which he would reject; most found their way into the "accept" grouping. Yet as the stack of those notes to read dwindled, Gil-Galad plucked from the stack a letter written on thick, white paper. The quality was notable, and after turning it over, he frowned in surprise. He did not recognise the seal used to close the letter. Breaking the red wax, he shook open the paper, but his frown did not disappear as he read what was written. Pressing a hand to his mouth in thought, he let the letter fall to the table. After thinking for another minute, he rose and strode to the door, stepping into the hallway and motioning to a nearby servant.
"Would you fetch Master Elrond, please?" said Gil-Galad, "I must speak with him." The servant bowed and hurried off, and Gil-Galad turned back into the room. He walked to the window and looked out into the gentle rain, tapping his ringed hand in thought upon the stone sill.
Elrond soon entered, closing the door behind him and bowing respectfully. "You wished to see me, Your Highness?"
"Yes," sighed Gil-Galad, turning back to the table. Taking up the letter, he handed it to Elrond. "Read this, and tell me what you think of it," he said. Immediately Elrond frowned interestedly.
"It is written in Quenya," he noted, glancing at Gil-Galad. His gaze returned to the paper, and Gil-Galad seated himself once more. Elrond's expression mirrored his own, his face growing guarded and his brow creasing.
"Well?" asked Gil-Galad as Elrond lowered the letter, "What think you?"
Elrond let out a sigh. "I...do not trust this, Your Majesty," he said slowly, "His speech is surely high and eloquent, but I have heard what is being said of him, and I...do not like it."
"I agree," said Gil-Galad, nodding. "Whispers of his great wisdom are one thing, but his words of Valinor are...unexpected, and almost harsh. I do not trust him, and I am not going to grant his request. I wished for another opinion before I made my decision, and thank you for sharing yours."
"You are welcome, Your Highness," said Elrond, bowing shortly, but his frown did not disappear. "I wholly agree with you."
Gil-Galad nodded, his expression equally dark. "We shall need to watch him carefully, and if he causes trouble, turn him out."
"As you wish, My King," said Elrond. "I shall do as you say. Is there anything else I may assist you with?"
Gil-Galad paused in thought, then shook his head. "No," he said with a sigh, "there is not. Thank you for your time."
"You are most welcome. I will see you later, Your Majesty." And with that, Elrond departed, but their discomfort stayed long after their conversation, the stranger's written words lingering in their minds.
~
Betwixt the arms of rivers broad,
Grew a city, true, unflawed.
The elves raised its marble façade
Great voices then in songs did laud
The homes, like Valimar.
They laughed and walked in carefree song
Beneath stone tow'rs, well-crafted, strong,
And whispered they among the throng,
"He has stayed there all his lifelong:
Lord Tyelperinqar."
And up above the city stayed
One who looked not to sunny glade
Nor stared down at the elves that strayed
But stood, solitary, unswayed,
Alone as the Valar.
Black his hair was as a raven,
For knowledge his heart was craven;
He dwelt inside his only haven,
And wisdom on his brow was graven:
Lord Tyelperinqar.
High inside a spacious tower,
Shielded from the sunlight's shower
His hammer fell for ev'ry hour
Upon the anvil, bound with power
To shape, but never mar.
What was beneath his practised hand
He did not know, but passion fanned
The strength with which he shaped the band
His gaze turnèd not to the land,
Lord Tyelperinqar.
Far opposite him in the room,
There hung a mirror ('twas his doom)
In which shone the flower's bloom,
What passed below, beyond the tomb,
All things both near and far.
To look upon the mirror there,
He knew to; but he would not dare
To stare to the land below, where
The elves danced, but he must beware—
Lord Tyelperinqar.
He knew that cursèd he would be
If he looked out to land and sea
But he remained content to be
Alone to craft, and steadily
His hammer rang out far.
The days passed in the glassy mirror
He worked in an enjoyèd fervour
Not heeding the changing weather
Nor those that cried out in error,
Lord Tyelperinqar.
But one flashed in the shining frame
With robes of white, and fair face came—
The figure set his heart aflame,
Unlike it had for any dame,
Shining as if a star.
The hammer from his hand now slides
And he cross'd the floor in three strides
To see the figure, as he rides.
"He is fair as his picture," sighs
Lord Tyelperinqar.
With an instant, deaf'ning shatter
The mirror crack'd, the pieces clatter
And in his heart, he knew the latter:
His blood cursed him, he, backstabber—
Curse his craft, and Atar!
Despair roared up inside his breast,
And the sky mirrored his unrest.
Harsh storms swept swiftly from the West,
Like his anguish, contained, suppressed;
Lord Tyelperinqar!
Fleeing down the winding stair
The storm was raging in the air—
The orkish foe charg'd through the square
His people cried in terror'd prayer,
"Vala, halt their swords' scar!"
Yet he himself passed in a trance
Unscathèd; and the orcs' advance
Could not be slowed, by sword or lance.
He walkèd on, with anguished stance:
Lord Tyelperinqar.
Screams at his back make him quiver,
The trees about him groan and shiver;
His steps led him down to the river,
And he wished it would deliver
Him to a far sea-bar.
There waiting for him stood a boat,
And angry waves upon it smote
Its swan-prow, tossed, yet still afloat,
And across the white bow he wrote:
Lord Tyelperinqar.
Stepping into the wooden form,
He let the wind about him storm
His thoughts within him madd'ning swarm;
No comfort, nor can embrace warm
The pair that waves now jar.
As to the hard ground lifeless thud
The elves, who cold corpses now stud
The field, caught in the orkish flood.
He weeps, and hates his cursèd blood,
Lord Tyelperinqar.
With a final, lasting cry,
The boat's rope breaks, and down they fly
O'er rapids quick, the city nigh;
Enflamed buildings echo his cry,
"Cursed be I, as Losgar!"
Op'ning his mouth up to the cloud,
He sang, sorrow-filled, shoulders cowed,
His pale face drawn, which was once proud,
The mean wind was his fu'nreal shroud:
Lord Tyelperinqar.
But as he rode forth down the streams
His boat was pulled forth; in his dreams,
As orkish claws rent at his seams,
Still he sang loud the haunting theme,
'Lone, Son of the Eldar.
No elf was there to grant him grace,
Nor noble man to bow his face;
He died, without a resting-place,
And Orcs his body did deface:
Lord Tyelperinqar.
Celebrimbor opened his eyes, his mind still slowed by the bonds of sleep. Slowly, he turned over, then realised his situation. With a sigh he sat up, passing a hand over his eyes and looking at his surroundings. At long last he had walked up the stairs and down the long corridors to his room, throwing himself, exhausted, upon the bed without changing from his work clothes. Bits of paper, scattered ideas of his left from nights like this, littered the floor and desk; his servants knew not to clean those up. Celebrimbor rose and stepped absentmindedly in between the scattered papers, his steps as delicate as a dancer though his thoughts were far from where his boots landed. He turned towards the window and halted at its wide sill, where the night wind met his face, cool from its journey down the mountains.
He did not dream often, now. Sometimes, in years now distant, he had awoken in the very grip of fear, shaking and doused with cold sweat. The visions of battles and bloodshed had swam before his eyes, at times lingering unsettlingly long past the break of day. The violence of this particular dream was mild compared to the horrors of his unconscious thought, which had dragged forth and displayed in all their gory memory the events he himself had witnessed. The Kinslaying at Alqualondë, the burning of the Ships at Losgar, the bloody battles of Beleriand...the Sack of Nargothrond, and the great battle which resulted in the defeat of the great and terrible Dark Lord, Morgoth Bauglir.
But his thoughts strayed back to his dream, and he replayed it again in his mind. A frown grew upon his face, and his starlit eyes grew dark. He had been nearly bound to his hammer, and what was he creating? It did not feel like anything he had already forged. And who...who was that figure that caused his hand to stay? Celebrimbor wracked his thoughts for any sense of who that white-haired figure could be, but his search proved in vain. And yet it was that one whom he could not place that led him out from his fortress, and down to the shore to witness the destruction of the city and his own demise. The buildings that stood now before him had been wreathed in flame, the streets blackened and gardens now bare...
Slowly, and even as the flames painted themselves before him and the thick scent of smoke and death lingered in his nose, the quiet of the night began to draw him from those dark scenes. Deep, soothing, familiar shadow wrapped itself around him, holding him in gentle arms and wiping away the tension that creased his forehead with a caring hand. Torches burned comfortingly in the dark squares, and a few elves were seen to linger in their light; but their voices did not carry. The city now slumbered beneath the full face of Tilion, who was lost behind the roof over Celebrimbor's head, and yet did not forget to paint the wide sill of the window in shades of sweet blue. The steady flicker of the orange torches below and the white stars overhead stilled Celebrimbor's churning thoughts, and after a long while, he let out a deep sigh. His craft and his people; those were what had to drive him, and with resolve he renewed his vow to them. They were where he must keep his heart, and with fondness he thought of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Any one of them would be a welcome counsellor if he needed it, and if this white-haired stranger still plagued him, he could surely speak to one of them of his vision. Reassured, Celebrimbor cast a final glance to those in the square, then turned back to his room.. His weariness had caught up with him, and he crossed to his bed and let out a sizable yawn. After a moment's thought he pulled off his belt and tunic, leaving his boots sitting by the bedpost. Dressed in his loose shirt and breeches, he fell back upon the covers of his bed, the covers cool with night and solitude. It did not take long for him to lose himself in slumber, and as his chest rose and fell with an even rhythm like that of his hammer-strokes, the stars glimmered down through the window, ever-watchful.