Celebrimbor and Maglor fic
Thanks to a depressing conversation on Tumblr, I wanted a fic about them interacting. So I wrote one.
Few of his house now lived in Middle-earth. Fewer still cared to associate themselves with even a pale memory of Fëanor. When he thought of his kin, there were few he both knew and trusted.
Celebrimbor stared down at the three rings in his hand. So small were they, so slight their faint glimmer in the moonlight: nothing to the radiance of the Silmarilli. Yet they did not disgrace his blood. He was not his grandfather and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were not the Noldor of the Blessed Realm, but truly these must be counted among the greatest works of the Elves-and the most dangerous. Soon, Annatar would return as he had promised, but as his true self: Sauron the abhorred, no Vanya but an accursed Maia, shadow of Morgoth. And he would come with the One Ring on his finger and a host of fell servants at his back. If he gained the Three-
If Celebrimbor could claim anything his great forefathers had lacked, it was understanding of his own nature. He knew he could not be trusted with the care of the Rings. And he knew he would fall: not soon, for he was not craven, but soon enough. They must go to others, others who could both use them for good, and guard them against the enemy, whom he could trust absolutely. They must be of his kin.
Fingolfin had fallen in Celebrimbor’s youth. Lalwen, the faithful sister who followed him across the Helcaraxë, had accepted the pardon of the Valar and returned to Aman an age ago. Fingon was dead, and childless. Turgon was dead, and Argon, and Aredhel who had called herself Aunt and given him his first horse and taken his child’s work in her strong horsewoman’s hands, nodding approvingly over it.
Her son had died a traitor, and Turgon’s daughter taken her mortal lover to Valinor. Idril’s son Eärendil, Celebrimbor had never known, and he had passed out of reach, and even the Three could only seem trinkets to one who bore a Silmaril. Of Finarfin’s line, the toll was nearly as great. Finrod had died in the quest of Beren and Lúthien and Angrod had not fled the flames of the Dagor Bragollach quickly enough, and it was said that Aegnor had thrown himself into them.
The names of his house seemed but a roll of the dead. For all the wrongs committed by Finwë’s children and children’s children, surely they had paid? Surely the Doom of Mandos had been long fulfilled?
Finarfin had one other child, of course: Galadriel, as strong in person and purpose as any others of their line, and purer of heart than many, though Celebrimbor guessed that she had ever made a reluctant subject to others’ wills. She ruled Lothlórien now, not far away. Nenya, he thought, could aid her in that, and she would never willingly surrender it.
Her nephew Gil-galad, son of Angrod, was now High King: strongest and most well defended of all the Elves still on the earth, and soon to face the worst foe. Vilya would be a boon to him.
He spoke of his thoughts to no one but an itinerant musician who sometimes came singing through Eregion.
"You have chosen wisely," said the musician. The sorrow ever-present on his face deepened further. “But what of Narya?"
Celebrimbor hesitated. “I thought of giving it to you, uncle."
"No." Maglor’s voice allowed for no debate, though he softened the words with a smile. None of his wide wanderings seemed to have lessened his affection for Celebrimbor: not even the revelation of the Rings, which he regarded with more interest than alarm. Still, though his body was no more aged than any Elf’s, he looked old when he tore his eyes from the Three: very old, worn down with suffering. “You must have known that I would not accept it, Celebrimbor."
"I suspected," he admitted.
Maglor reached out a finger to the Ring of Fire, seeming almost startled that it did not burn him. “I do not believe the Lords of the West would either; its power is not of Aman but this world. Still, I would send it as near to the Uttermost West as possible, were I you."
"Círdan?" Celebrimbor mulled it over. All Middle-earth must fall before Sauron could come to the Havens. Círdan could flee west with it should the worst come. Certainly he was trustworthy enough. “Very well. But I must take the others to Galadriel and Gil-galad. If you will not take the Ring, will you take it to Círdan?" He swallowed. “Always you have granted me whatever boons I ask, uncle, but I think this will be the last."
Maglor’s face twisted-with grief, Celebrimbor now understood. He did not ask him what he had seen. He knew his end would be hard, and did not wish to know more.
His uncle bowed.
Few of his house now lived in Middle-earth. Fewer still cared to associate themselves with even a pale memory of Fëanor. When he thought of his kin, there were few he both knew and trusted.
Celebrimbor stared down at the three rings in his hand. So small were they, so slight their faint glimmer in the moonlight: nothing to the radiance of the Silmarilli. Yet they did not disgrace his blood. He was not his grandfather and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain were not the Noldor of the Blessed Realm, but truly these must be counted among the greatest works of the Elves-and the most dangerous. Soon, Annatar would return as he had promised, but as his true self: Sauron the abhorred, no Vanya but an accursed Maia, shadow of Morgoth. And he would come with the One Ring on his finger and a host of fell servants at his back. If he gained the Three-
If Celebrimbor could claim anything his great forefathers had lacked, it was understanding of his own nature. He knew he could not be trusted with the care of the Rings. And he knew he would fall: not soon, for he was not craven, but soon enough. They must go to others, others who could both use them for good, and guard them against the enemy, whom he could trust absolutely. They must be of his kin.
Fingolfin had fallen in Celebrimbor’s youth. Lalwen, the faithful sister who followed him across the Helcaraxë, had accepted the pardon of the Valar and returned to Aman an age ago. Fingon was dead, and childless. Turgon was dead, and Argon, and Aredhel who had called herself Aunt and given him his first horse and taken his child’s work in her strong horsewoman’s hands, nodding approvingly over it.
Her son had died a traitor, and Turgon’s daughter taken her mortal lover to Valinor. Idril’s son Eärendil, Celebrimbor had never known, and he had passed out of reach, and even the Three could only seem trinkets to one who bore a Silmaril. Of Finarfin’s line, the toll was nearly as great. Finrod had died in the quest of Beren and Lúthien and Angrod had not fled the flames of the Dagor Bragollach quickly enough, and it was said that Aegnor had thrown himself into them.
The names of his house seemed but a roll of the dead. For all the wrongs committed by Finwë’s children and children’s children, surely they had paid? Surely the Doom of Mandos had been long fulfilled?
Finarfin had one other child, of course: Galadriel, as strong in person and purpose as any others of their line, and purer of heart than many, though Celebrimbor guessed that she had ever made a reluctant subject to others’ wills. She ruled Lothlórien now, not far away. Nenya, he thought, could aid her in that, and she would never willingly surrender it.
Her nephew Gil-galad, son of Angrod, was now High King: strongest and most well defended of all the Elves still on the earth, and soon to face the worst foe. Vilya would be a boon to him.
He spoke of his thoughts to no one but an itinerant musician who sometimes came singing through Eregion.
"You have chosen wisely," said the musician. The sorrow ever-present on his face deepened further. “But what of Narya?"
Celebrimbor hesitated. “I thought of giving it to you, uncle."
"No." Maglor’s voice allowed for no debate, though he softened the words with a smile. None of his wide wanderings seemed to have lessened his affection for Celebrimbor: not even the revelation of the Rings, which he regarded with more interest than alarm. Still, though his body was no more aged than any Elf’s, he looked old when he tore his eyes from the Three: very old, worn down with suffering. “You must have known that I would not accept it, Celebrimbor."
"I suspected," he admitted.
Maglor reached out a finger to the Ring of Fire, seeming almost startled that it did not burn him. “I do not believe the Lords of the West would either; its power is not of Aman but this world. Still, I would send it as near to the Uttermost West as possible, were I you."
"Círdan?" Celebrimbor mulled it over. All Middle-earth must fall before Sauron could come to the Havens. Círdan could flee west with it should the worst come. Certainly he was trustworthy enough. “Very well. But I must take the others to Galadriel and Gil-galad. If you will not take the Ring, will you take it to Círdan?" He swallowed. “Always you have granted me whatever boons I ask, uncle, but I think this will be the last."
Maglor’s face twisted-with grief, Celebrimbor now understood. He did not ask him what he had seen. He knew his end would be hard, and did not wish to know more.
His uncle bowed.