The cliffs were low,
little more than heaped up broken ground formed by the wreck of Ossiriand. Behind where they stood the remains of Lindon
stretched, still fair but changed now by the salt breeze that blew from the
sea, as well as by the Elves who clung to the last remnants of Beleriand of
old. It was wild no longer; dwellings
and fields of crops crossed the slopes beneath the broken mountains. The settlements were scattered. Gil-galad had
not cared to found a city.
“I do not believe you to
blame for the rumours.”
“No,” the elder of the two
Elves who stood upon the cliff agreed, “but you believe me to blame for not
silencing them.”
“Not to blame, not with
malice.” The king of the Noldor in
Middle-earth sighed. “I think only that
you do not understand their extent, or their danger.”
“It is such
foolishness. I: a king? I am a craftsman.”
“So was Fëanor. Nay!” The king held up a hand. “I know you do not seek lordship. But there are others who may make
comparison.”
“How so?
They cannot say that I have sought to rule.”
“They can say it, true or
no. They can say you took the lordship
of your house, that you wear the royal ring.”
Celebrimbor’s right hand clenched lightly as he
raised it before him. The silver ring on
his middle finger was a crude piece of work to the Noldor of later days, heavy,
plain and very old.
“This? They cannot build such tales on so small a
thing.”
“You do wear it.”
“It is no crown. It was Finwë’s own and nothing more.”
“It is no crown, but in
its way it is as potent. The crown is a
new thing.”
The crown of Gil-galad was
fair and precious, wrought by Celebrimbor after the fashion of the silver crown
of Tirion, and yet it was a new thing.
Not the crown of Finwë, taken from the strong room of Formenos by
Morgoth. Not the crown of Fingolfin and
of Fingon, lost in the fall of Hithlum.
Not even the crown of Finrod, dragon’s loot in Nargothrond. It was the crown of Gil-galad only. The ring was far more ancient. Some said it to be the most ancient work of
craft in Middle-earth.
“You are of the elder
house,” said Gil-galad.
“The kingship passed from
Fëanor’s line long since, and with good cause.”
“For crimes you had no
part in. You were a child at Alqualondë
and on the strands of Losgar. The Valar
would permit your return, if you wished.
You are of the Light, on both sides.
You are Lachend, as I am not. These things do matter.”
Lachend: one whose eyes bore the Tree-light
as Celebrimbor’s did.
Save for a certain strength of build Gil-galad
might have been a Sinda; as he was on the side of his mother. There were some who said that he resembled
Finwë, but those in Middle-earth who remembered the
first king of the Noldor were few enough now.
“Without the crimes of
your line, you would have been king.”
“I doubt that.” Celebrimbor stared out across the sea, to
where the rocky isle of Himling stood out against the
pale evening sky. “Without those crimes,
would I be the last of that line now?”
Last in all ways that counted; if Maglor lived he was not coming
back. “I want no kingship. I prefer to be a smith, and nothing more.”
“I believe that. Others do not.”
“What others? Do you speak of the one time followers of our
house? I cannot think that any of them
look to me for kingship. They know me
better. I am barely of Fëanor’s line
now.”
“Kinsman,” Gil-galad
stepped closer, laid a hand on Celebrimbor’s
arm. “I do trust you. More than I trust those who think all of
Fëanor’s line alike. I know you took the
lordship of your house only because there was no other to do so.”
“And how long did I hold
it? Long enough only
to submit to the king.” Celebrimbor’s hand, the one that bore the silver ring,
clenched more tightly. It was a broad
band of metal, with no gem, but with inscription in the old runes of Rúmil. F·NWË. It was a part of Celebrimbor’s name also,
a part he never used. “What is it you
want of me?”
“Only
your aid in combating the rumours.”
“And how may I do
that? By saying I have no interest in
kingship? Those who wish to think
otherwise will not believe. They will say I am my father’s son.”
Curufin’s son: reminder of
Finrod’s death and the shadows that fell on Nargothrond, a tale recalled of
malice, and of weakness.
“If you are so,” said
Gil-galad, “I am also.” Heir to
Orodreth, the king who knew not how to rule, and yet a father remembered by his
son with love. “We are more than the
heirs of the past, Celebrimbor.”
His
kinsman sighed, and held his right hand out, the setting rays of the sun
catching the silver.
“Would
you wish to wear it?”
“No,”
said Gil-galad, after consideration. “It
is not the ring of Finwë alone now.” Taken by the first Curufinwë, by Fëanor, to be borne in torchlit
madness and destruction. Worn through grim centuries on the sword-calloused left-hand of Nelyafinwë Maitimo, Maedhros to the Sindar. “It is the ring of the elder house.”
“And a
reminder I belong to it.” Celebrimbor’s eyes had turned inwards, to Forlindon. His eyes
were not his father’s but a clear blue; legacy of his mother’s Telerin
blood. “Might it not be better if I were
not here?”
“Better I should drive out
a kinsman? No!”
“There might be better
places for smith-work eastwards. I have
thought of visiting the Dwarf mansions across the mountains,
that are called in their tongue Khazad-dűm.”
Dwarf tongue and dwarf
friendship: both the inheritance of his father Curufin.
“I would not wish you to
leave Lindon,” Gil-galad said. “You have
been my friend too long.”
“Nor will I cease to be
so, whether I remove for a while or no. We have not so many kin remaining that
we can afford estrangement.”
“Very
true. It was divisions within our people caused the
Downfall. That road must not be taken
again.” Gil-galad sighed. “I think there
is more fear than malice in the talk.”
“Fear, and remembrance.
But you are right, Ereinion, we are more than
the sum of our pasts. I am not my father
or his brothers, nor am I Fëanor.”
“I know it.”
“If you know it, then that
is enough. Surely as friendship between us continues unbroken the talk will die
away.”
“Perhaps
so. I trust that it may.” Yet Gil-galad felt the brush of silver as he
clasped his kinsman’s hand. “Let us go
down,” he said, “it grows chill.”
As they descended the
slope the ring remained on the finger of Celebrimbor,
Márafinwë Tyelpinquar in
the High tongue, as it would remain until the last days of his life in
Middle-earth.
~~~~~~~~~~
Lachend (plural Lachind)
= flame-eyed: a Sindar term for the Elves who had come from Aman.