Embrace my curse

Telperinquar

A father name was quickly given, and so it was in the case of Curufin's son. Staring down at the child in his arms, Curufin considered carefully for a moment.

"Feanaro would undoubtedly call you Curufinwe little one." Curufin murmured quietly. They were alone, the doctor and midwives with his wife, so there was no shame to be had in talking to his son. "The heir of our house should of course have such a name. Like I do."

Yet he hesitated. Curufin had few complaints with his childhood - son of the greatest of the Noldor, why should he? And yet, there was a weight to his name, a pressure to be as great and greater than his father that he rarely liked to admit to. It was not of course, only in his name. "And yet so much of it was, wasn't it." Curufin pondered, staring into the eyes of his child. "Should you too bear that weight?"

He could, of course. No Feanorian would not rise to any weight placed on them. But looking into the babe's eyes, Curufin was struck with the thought that maybe just because he could, does not mean he should.

His father entered then, the midwives finally unable to hamper his entrance any longer. The molten gaze swept to Curufin's son, and a grin the likes of which Curufin had never seen swept across his face.

"Well, my son?" Feanaro was always shining, but happiness made him glow brighter than ever. "Have you got a name?"

"Yes." Replied Curufin. "His name shall be Telperinquar."

Let this be his own when so little else will be.

Hand of Silver

"What does my name mean?" It was an innocent enough question, one Tyelpe did not think should have earned the amused guffaw it did from Uncle Tyelkormo. His father glared at the particular Uncle before replying.

"It means Silver-fisted, or Hand of Silver. Depends on how you translate it to that barbaric Sindarin." Staring at Tyelpe, his father asked roughly "Why do you want to know?"

"Well, Maitimo said that we need to obey the Quenya ban. I'm trying to make up my new name." Pausing for a moment, Tyelpe continued before his father could interrupt like he so often did. "So it would Celebrimbor in Sindar, correct."

Anger coloured his father's expression, but it cooled minutely at Tyelkormo's warning glare. "It would be. I suppose you cannot just shorten your name like mine, so this will have to do for diplomatic reasons only. Outside of them, you're still Telperinquar, still a Noldor, still a Feanorian. Understand?"

"Yes, Father." He replied dutifully. Bowing and taking his leave, Tyelpe pondered on the name. His father clearly didn't like it. But he kinda did. "Celebrimbor. I think I could get used to that."

Heir of Feanor

"You are my heir, you are your Grandfather's heir! You would forsake the line of Feanaro? The greatest of our kind? In his legacy, you would perhaps achieve even a tiny fraction of his glory. Without it, you are no more than a murderer and traitor!"

"I am all those things whether I am of Curfinwe or not! An heir to blood and fire, glory in that there may be, but I see no good here. You know no kindness, give no mercy. And in this madness, I refuse to remain consigned."

"You would disown your own family?!"

"I do. I renounce Feanor, I renounce my blood, and I renounce you. From this point forth, your deeds have no bearing on me."

"Then you are no son and no heir of mine."

Lord of Eregion

The sparkling city shone like the moon on the water below him. A careful construction of several decades, at last Eregion had been finished. Allowing a smile to come through, Celebrimbor stood oblivious to the shocked looks he was getting from the fellow smiths for that.

"Does it meet what you wanted, Lord Celebrimbor?" One of them spoke up, a Nolofinwean Noldor he did not know.

"Well, I would hope it would, given I helped build it." He replied glibly. "It is better than I had believed we could make in such a time."

Before they replied, the voice of Erenion floated up. "Now that you've finally got a bloody home beyond Wherever you fancy, maybe you shall deign to visit once in a while, O'Lord of Eregion?"

Celebrimbor laughed.

Dwarf Friend

Narvi examined the door carefully, taking it in. He shot Celebrimbor a critical look, and he merely raised an eyebrow in response, fighting down the urge to laugh. "Does it match what you envisioned my friend?"

"It supersedes anything I thought could be done with your latest obsession." He admitted, still eyeing the door. In the moonlight the mithril engravings were clearly visible, done in Sindar out of respect for it being the most common language out here that both dwarf and elf were likely to know. "Your work with the mithril is astounding. But..."

"Yes?"

"Why exactly have you put the password on the door? It's not very safe, is it?"

"Quite the contrary." Walking forward, Celebrimbor laid a hand against the cool, fine stone, facing away from his friend. "Not everyone enjoys riddles as much as your dwarves do, or my elves. The word requires one think if you do not already know the password, offering a chance for this door to be used by even people who do not know the password, if only they stop to consider."

Narvi frowned. "But why would anyone other than ours need to use it? Any travellers in Eregion or Khazad-dum can just gain permission and the password from officials."

Still facing away, Celebrimbor was ignorant to the quieter and more grieved tone his voice took. "I have lived through much and more Narvi, and all it has shown me is that nothing lasts forever. Creations of my family even more so. I know that someday, somehow, Eregion will disappear. In peace or war, it will happen. After that time has come and gone, I do not want this friendship between our races to end with us. It should endure, so long as we try to maintain it."

Softening, Narvi walked over and placed a hand against the elf's wrist. "And so it shall, my dearest friend. You have shown me the true strength of character of the elves, and that shall long be treasured after we are gone. You are dwarf friend, and that is taken lightly by none of us."

Head of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain

A rhythmic clang of hammers and the bellow of forge fires vibrated throughout the forge, a swirling confusion of heat and noise. Celebrimbor blocked it out as he focused on the ring in his hands. The sixteenith and final ring, Celebrimbor was applying the layer of script for the last time.

He trusted his people, and for that encouraged them to be the ones to make the rings under Annatar's instruction. The process had been a long and hard way, more mentally exhausting than any project most of them had undergone before. But even Annatar had been surprised by Celebrimbor's ability with mithril, his skill at writing with it, embedding it with the correct spells to make the effect desired. Annatar had taught him what to use and written the words, but Celebrimbor alone applied them to the rings.

And at last it appeared his job was done. Holding it up to the light, Celebrimbor judged it be of matching intensity and nature to its eight companions. He could feel its song, a melody of dark sun and bright night, even while not wearing it. The rings were at last completed.

Turning, he faced the waiting Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Holding the ring aloft, he turned to announce their deepest pride completed, oblivious to the golden eyes watching from the corner.

The Gwaith-i-Mírdain had created work beyond measure, and Celebrimbor had lead them there - fey and fell as that was to be, for now it felt like a triumph.

Ringmaker

"Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky, Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie."

The Ringmaker's song, though few knew it as such. Elrond himself had only known of all but the last three lines being Celebrimbor's thanks to their proximity to Eregion allowing him to send a final mental message. All the army had heard it, yet most assumed it from Sauron. Elrond knew otherwise, for no one felt quite like Celebrimbor.

He supposed, in his own way, Celebrimbor had been almost staking a claim. A final, defiant proclamation that he was the Ringmaker, if not the Ring Lord. A cry in the dark, that all the rings were not Sauron's, but the elves.

Thorin wandered deeper sown the caverns, surrounded by riches and jewels beyond imagination. He could faintly hear the sound of his companions, quieter now after witnessing the destruction of Laketown. Maybe that was part of it. Smaug’s destruction of Laketown was a terrible thing, that if a way had been offered to stop it, Thorin knew he would have gladly taken it. Despite their demands, he felt little ill will to the people. Dale and Erebor had a strong partnership once, and Thorin would see that restored. Yet the man Bard’s demands for compensation rankled him, as did the man’s audacity to bring an Elven army to his door and then expect fairness from him.

Not that Thorin though the Elvenking was much better. He was arguably far worse, having been against Thorin’s quest from the start, and now thinking he had any claim on anything in this Mountain! No, Thorin would be dead before the day ever came that the Elvenking called a single coin his own.

Perhaps then, it was the army outside his door that made him discontent. For how could one truly have a home, if it was too be constantly under threat? That would have to be fixed, and it would be when Dain finally arrived. How slow that dwarf was! Why, it was almost like he wanted Thorin lose the mountain to those blasted Elves.

He stopped, dread and rage consuming him for a moment. Perhaps that was the ploy, why they did not yet attack. Those Aule-damned Elves and Men were such cowards they had turned his own kin against him, and would use Dwarf against Dwarf to claim the treasure for themselves, laughing all the while. Fuming, Thorin turned to return to the surface. Well, if that was the plan, he would have to counter it in all urgency –

In his hate fuelled rush to reach the stairs, Thorin had knocked over a pile of coins, revealing a single axe underneath. Stopping, Thorin reached out one trembling hand and lifted the weapon into the air. He knew this axe. It had been a gift, from one young dwarf to another, from Dain to Thorin long before, back when they were both so young.

“This is for you, Cousin Thorin!”

“I thank you, Cousin Dain, but whatever is the occasion?”

“Why your birthday of course”

“My birthday was a fortnight ago Dain.”

“Well, we can’t all be Princes can we? Some of us have busy lives that actually tell us to do something with our time.”

“I do plenty with me time, you little cheek! You just want an excuse for always being late.”

The voices sounded around him, as real as the moment they had been said. Thorin slumped, feeling the rage go out of him as his hands’ started to tremble. How had he fallen to this? Doubting even Dain, his favourite and most loyal cousin? Was he truly as arrogant and broken as that?

In that single moment of clarity, Thorin thought back on his own actions. For home and duty and honour he had reclaimed Erebor, and avenged his kin. Yet Laketown had paid his price, and now a war was fore coming, which would claim many lives, of both Dwarf and Men. Even the Elves would die, and as little as he cared for them, still he could see a certain nobility in their actions, as Bard’s speech had made it clear that the main reason the Elvenking stayed was for the rights of the people of Laketown.

Should he pay them? It would fix the problem, and perhaps serve as recompense for the deaths they had suffered on his behalf. However it was Dwarven gold, even the part of it from Dale Smaug had stole, and as King under the Mountain it was his by right. He shouldn’t have to beg and bargain for the right to restore what was his, should he? Suddenly he was not so sure.

As Thorin lay there, dressed up as King, surrounded by a treasure born and won in blood with the axe of his kin in his arms, he felt trapped by doubt and indecision, just as he had all these long years in exile. Teetering on the edge of indecision, there is no telling which way he would have gone left alone.

But instead Kili rushed in, a flurry of panic and shock. “The Arkenstone!” He yelled, spying his Uncle on the floor. “Uncle, Bard has the Arkenstone! And Gandalf is with them!”

Thorin twisted round, rage in his eyes as the news registered. All that he had pondered – the clarity, the reflection, the pride, the guilt – vanished in a moment, overcome by his rage. Standing, Thorin made his way past Kili, marching up to the gates, determination written across his face.

Thorin Oakenshield had spent too much of his life a wanderer.

Unlike the other rings the pair worked together on, the Nine, the Seven did not turn their masters into wraiths, a testament to dwarven nature. Instead, all accounts seem to suggest that when their power was activated by the One Ring, all that happened was the dwarves grew greedier. So, what exactly did Celebrimbor want them to do?

The Three obviously had purpose, to delay the end of the world through healing and preservation rather than force. But what was the purpose of the lesser Sixteen? Celebrimbor was no fool, despite the trickery he fell subject to, and so Sauron would have had to give them a different, more preferable power, or they would not be proper magic rings at all.

For that was the selling point of his gift to Eregion – the ability to make rings that could harness magic. Celebrimbor knew magic, as the Doors of Durin show, and the inscriptions on all rings he was part of creating are in that same language and skill, though none have ever replicated the effect. We only know of the existence of inscriptions on the Nineteen because of one of the Gwaith-I-Mirdains diaries, in which she wrote of “the Sixteen have taken shape, and all that is left is for Tyelpe (Celebrimbor) to finish the inscriptions”. He needed Sauron for the rings forging, not the magic, and likely couldn’t previously work on something that small. But the true purpose and power of them is now lost to history.

As to the fate of the Seven? There location was yielded by Celebrimbor under torture, and three would later be claimed by Sauron, and likely lost their power with the others after his destruction. The other four where eaten by dragons, as dragons are want to do when eating the wearers of any kind of jewellery. Only Durin’s line would keep their ring for a long time, before Thrain II lost it Sauron around Third Age 2845. So in the end, the dwarves probably suffered the least over their rings, as they were quickly removed or destroyed.

Overall, the true purpose and meaning of the Seven remains as mysterious as the Nine. We do know that even with the chaos his trust in Annatar (Sauron’s disguise in Eregion) would bring, the dwarves continued to respect Celebrimbor, and give one of the kindest accounts of his story. But as to the truth of this matter, that I supposed must have died with their maker.

After a longer time than any could name, word spread east through the network of other birds. First a owl from Rivendell arrived, chattering excitedly about dwarves and a wizard, and one queer little fellow who had looked mighty confused but was much more polite then the rest. The old ones, used to the over exaggerated nature of their western kin, thought it nothing more than an exaggerated story of some travellers getting lost then helped as most were by Elrond (for all animals know the Elvenking’s friends) and left it at that.

But the owl was insistent that they had been Durin’s folk, heading straight here to reclaim Erebor in all haste. Though their elders dismissed the very notion, their younger generation listened, and waited. They may not remember Erebor, but something in them still knew that a change was coming.

Next a thrush from Mirkwood arrived, relaying a tae of some dwarves, imprisoned for lies and trespassing. They would not sa where it was they headed, but had clearly been moving east. The youngsters were stirred, feeling more thsn ever that something was happening, something was changingyet still their elders called for waiting, for proof of these dwarves intetn before ant action was to be taken.

Many wondered what action they would be taking if they were true, as Ravens are not the most skilled of fighters, yet none asked, and none acted.

Finally, weeks (a People concept, but one we will use for ease of understanding) later, the dwarves made their arrival, and the truth was revealed. In joy, the youngsters flew ahead, to the delight of the dwarves as they saw the ravens return. Roac, even as old as he was, flew down to meet them, and the Mirkwood thrush flew to the door never opened, compelled by instinct beyond its understanding. The King Under the Mountain was back, and a return was imminent.

Yet the trials were not yet done. Soon word came down that the armies of Mirkwood were imminent , accompanied by the Men of Laketown. And then disaster formed on the horizon, as the orcs armies arrived, drawing destruction in their wake.

Ravens are not fighters by nature, and their was little they could do. Yet Roac knew their was something at least. He summoned his fastest bird, and commenced the order.

“Summon the Eagles”.

All along Middle-Earth, birds of all kinds let of the greatest symphony of noise since the Last Allaince. They repeated one phrase, from Erebor to Laketown’s ruins to Mirkwood to Dol Guldur to the Misty Mountains themselves:

“Summon the Eagles.”