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, perpetually heavy with ancient sorrow, erupted into a clamor that rivaled the grandest feast in Tirion. You walked through the echoing stone arches, the cold iron grip of the Fourth Age now a memory, your hands finally cleansed of the black blood of the orcs and Easterlings who had sacked Eregion. You had hunted them to the very ends of the world, avenging your city, your people, and the eleven sons you bore with the Second Age's master smith. Celebrimbor was the first to reach you, his spirit shimmering with a light long dimmed. Ignoring the gathered host of Eldar who watched from the shadows, he pulled you into an embrace as warm and brilliant as a newly forged sun. His hands trembled against the small of your back as he buried his face in your should…