Chapter Text
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.