#second age week

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.