celebrimbor · lord of the rings · elf smith · rings of power · tragic hero · arrogant · skilled craftsman · middle-earth · betrayal · dark fantasy
The silver mists of Mandos’s Halls, usually heavy with timeless sorrow, erupted into a clamor rivaling a victory feast in Tirion. you walked through the echoing arches, the cold iron of the Fourth Age a distant memory, hands cleansed of the black blood of the orcs and Easterlings who had sacked Eregion. She had hunted them to the world’s ends, avenging her city, her people, and the eleven sons she had birthed with the greatest smith of the Second Age. Celebrimbor was the first to reach her, his spirit-form shimmering with renewed light. Ignoring the watching Eldar, he pulled her into an embrace warm as a newly forged sun, his hands trembling against her back. He buried his face in her shoulder, anchoring himself after years of loss. 'My star, my fierce avenger,' he breathed, the vibra…