Before Your Father Ye Stand

Haste, now, was of the utmost importance. Most battles able to be won by word Curufin would never forsake — but he was no fool, and knew defeat when it was upon him. They had lost their influence with the influx of Felagund’s people who had been prisoners at Tol-in-Gaurhoth; if they were not swift, they would be in danger of losing more than that, however eloquently Orodreth condemned kinslaying.

It had taken Curufin himself mere minutes to pack the necessities. With a whirling mind he sorted the needed from the luxuries with almost brutal efficiency. Celegorm, typically, had barely started by the time he was finished — there was no need to check on him to know it.

But Celegorm worried him relatively little now, for there was a more treacherous matter: his son. Curufin’s fingers stilled on the knot of his weapons belt, which he had put on in place of the more ornamental woven one he had worn to court. Taking a moment — one moment, for that was all he could afford — he steeled himself and drew on authoritative words, that they might be on the tip of his tongue. 

This would have to be handled with tactful force, for Curufin expected Celebrimbor may take some brief convincing to drop everything and leave immediately. He was well aware of his son’s attitude towards his words and actions, his political activism, his influence, his decisions. Yet he had ever yielded to his father’s will before. He would do so again. In this Curufin would not fail.

A few long strides down the hallway, fortunately deserted, brought Curufin to his son’s door. Lifting his fist, he rapped his knuckles a few crisp times against it. “Tyelperinquar!” he called, not without a degree of sharp command.

[ silverfisted ]

It was not quite an announcement that Curufin and Celegorm were no longer welcome; Celebrimbor had no difficulty deducing it from the atmosphere alone, and had quietly removed himself from the scene as soon as he understood the implications. A pounding heart accompanied him down the long corridors of Nargothrond--he'd known that if his guess was correct, his life was due to change rather drastically within the next few hours, though the decision he had in truth come by weeks ago. 

Curufin could not stay. Celebrimbor would not go. 

Anger had fuelled his movements as he gathered together those of his father's possessions that lingered about his rooms. There were books, a few crafting tools, and a few articles of clothing that he had borrowed and neglected to return. In part it was because he knew his father would begrudge nothing to a loyal son, but in part it was a show of rebellion, a sly under-cutting on his part.

Finrod and Lúthien were innocents. Somehow it had become a mantra, repeated over and over in the young elf's mind until he was certain of his conviction. The matter had made him uneasy, churning his stomach and clouding his mind. What had happened to sympathy? To loyalty? Doubtless Celebrimbor was not a good man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was reluctant to ally himself with the kind of cruelty that dictated harming innocents, and robbing good men of support in anticipation of a crime that realistically would not be committed. 

Trouble was brewing, Celebrimbor knew. Trouble here in Nargothrond, but there was no way this ended well. Too many seeds of resentment had been sown already, and whatever their end, it seemed a very unlikely chance that it would be anything good.  

The knock at his door still made him jump, even though he had known it was coming--but for strength, he looked around at his room, largely unchanged except for his father's items gathered neatly together next to the door. Celebrimbor's own books remained at his desk and his bed, his clothes folded into the wardrobe, his jewels draped over many an available surface. It was not the look of a room about to be abandoned, and he intended to keep it that way. 

"It is open, atar," he called out, surprised at how his voice did not even shake. Come and say goodbye, and if you choose your words carefully, I might keep some respect for you. 

A Modest Proposal {Closed}

"Indubitably it was an intervention," answered Annatar with a light laugh. "As much good work as you have done, I have hardly seen you leave your rooms in the last month. Even I cannot live in the forge alone. — But perhaps I also had an ulterior motive."

He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe, his posture easy and open, harmless, and gave a wide honest grin. It had taken a good while to earn Celebrimbor’s esteem and trust; the Noldo was strong-willed, proud, and clever, and if most of the elves of Eregion had initially been suspicious of the newcomer, their new lord’s high regard was even harder won. But it was one thing to earn such high regard, and another to keep it. So instead of blooming into arrogance, as he could have done when Celebrimbor began to heed his soft words and even seek them out, he kept his smug satisfaction behind a wrought-iron fence, and tended to his plans as carefully as farmers tend to their harvest.

The suggestion he was going to make today was dangerous, but suggest it he would; for though there was much to lose, there was still much more to gain; and in his own way, Annatar trusted no one but the young Lord to aid him in this new venture. This, more than his heritage, was why he had chosen Celebrimbor.

His grin softened. “I do not mean to distract you from your duties. You are a good leader, and I hope you know that I offer my help if ever you require it. But …”

He paused, as though considering, and tucked a tiny braid behind one pointed ear.

Draw him out. Make him curious.

"No. Perhaps it is not a good idea."

"I have been busy," Celebrimbor protested, though an easy smile remained on his face. "Overlordship of Eregion is exhausting. I need rest and time alone." It was something that he worried about, in fact. If ruling had been his calling, he would have fought Ereinion for the crown of the High King, and left his forges to run cold. Managing the Gwaith-i-Mírdain had not been his design either, though the others had come to defer to him in time. Flatteringly enough, it was not only skill that made them name him Chief Craftsman. 

He was not unequipped to see Ost-in-edhil's management. If his nose was normally stuck in a book, he'd not closed his ears or his eyes to his surroundings. Curufin had not been a lax attendant to his people, nor had Finrod, and Celebrimbor had actively involved himself in their courts all that time ago.  

It would be an interesting game to take those responsibilities on himself fully, but already he found he dreaded the idea of being torn away from his craft. Day and night he felt pressured to design and draw and cut and polish, and then to take apart and relearn and perfect--

Though it might not have seemed like it, Annatar's suggestions came to ears very willing to listen. To have the suggestion withheld offended more than one of his sensibilities; he wanted to know. Deserved to know, for the good of the city! 

"... Not that busy, mind," Celebrimbor added, amending his earlier statement as he glanced at his advisor. "And you know very well that I am not happy until I have too many projects and too little time in which to complete them. It gives me an excuse to delegate the more unpleasant and trying tasks." He laughed quietly; the comment was not wholly serious. 

"If you won't tell me what it is, will you at least tell my why it is not a good idea?" 

I love this fandom and its interpretations of characters a lot, or I wouldn’t be a part of it. But one of the reasons I will swear by Shadow of Mordor is its Celebrimbor.

Many times in fan works I have seen young Celebrimbor. Naive Celebrimbor. In-love-with-Sauron Celebrimbor. And that is good. It’s alright, I love those versions of him as well. But to me at least, this game is a fresh take on the character. I want to see more of this Celebrimbor. Older Celebrimbor. Married Celebrimbor. His-own-man Celebrimbor. Intransigent, tired-of-being-subject-to-Gilgalad’s-will Celebrimbor. Maybe-a-bit-power-thirsty-but-still-a-good-man Celebrimbor.

Unforgiving Celebrimbor. Give me some of that too. Give me a flawed Elf Lord, the way Tolkien told me he was. Give me someone who would come back as a wraith if given the chance, someone willing to ruthlessly invade the minds of Orcs and raise an army of them to throw against the might of the Dark lord (something I suspect he actually did, at least in the game’s version of things, after he was betrayed and before he died)

Give me the grandson of Fëanor!

Bless.

I am not a fan of the same trope all over again (fall by pride), because even though it’s a main point of Tolkien’s worldbuilding I still like a tiny bit of variation. But it works well with Tyelpe and I like it from a certain perspective. I like everything that you said here, whether it perfectly lines up with my own headcanons or not. (The only one thing this game did that I’d rather throw out of the window is the marriage stuff. A wife and a daughter put there to be killed off are such a terrible trope that I can’t even describe how much I dislike it. Also the armour. Why an armour when it’s time of peace, really? To show off the game’s graphic, probably.)

Anyway, yes, to all of this.

inktober again :D (yop i drew two today….)

Curufin with little Celebrimbor for http://shewhodoesnotexist.tumblr.com/

(fell free to send me more requests,… i need fan-art themes for whole inktober :D )

Application: Celebrimbor

[Welcome to the fleet, Celebrimbor!

zlukaka replied to your post “some Eregion fic notes and a couple OCs I’m playing with”

XDD IN MY DEFENSE, THEY’RE OCs FOR EREGION, THE SMITH CAPITOL OF SMITHING AND SMITHLORDS OF THE SMITH-PEOPLE, WHERE SMITHS COME TO BE SEDUCED BY SMITHS IN DISGUISE AS OTHER SMITHS. 

#Eregion: SMITHTOWN #SMITHVILLE #SMITHTOPIA #SMITHOPOLIS

"What do you think?” He paused after looking around another moment. “Yes, it is missing. It has been misplaced.”

        "Check the floor. Maybe the mice took it." 

"… you have not seen my notebook anywhere, have you?"

        "No. Is it missing?" 

Haunted // A World Made Bent

When the other set of footfalls rang out in the stone hallway and echoed, Caranthir’s first wild thought was that Formenos was indeed haunted – by spirits, or simply by memories. He fancied he might walk around the next corner and find his own younger self standing there, or one of his brothers unbowed and uninjured and unscarred by what would come after. He might find Fëanáro – or Finwë.

That wide brown stain still remained on the stones of the front portico, another thing undimmed by time’s touch.

He shook his head fiercely, dispelling that image and the foolish whimsy also; this place was not haunted in any literal way, by spirits or by memories, and his father would have chided him for a disorganized mind and a childish folly even to think of the notion.

But that did not explain the presence of another here, where it was clear none had walked since the Darkening and the Flight, since their first exile to a farther shore. Caranthir’s heart beat a little faster; perhaps another of his brothers had taken the Valar’s so-called deal also and was here for the same reason as he! They had encountered one another in the Halls at times, but the fëar there did not have much congress together, were not drawn to each other as spirits enfleshed would be. To meet his brothers again here, now, in this place —!

His steps quickened therefore and his eyes sought in the darkness for the other who had come. A dark figure, achingly familiar, hove out of the gloom. Was it – Curufin? But a glad cry of greeting died unborn on his lips as the shape resolved itself. Not Curufinwë at all, or at least, not that Curufinwë.

“Tyelpe,” he said simply, chin lifted as he regarded his nephew. “Tyelpe.”

     It was not Curufin. 

     It was not Fëanor. 

     The relief that came with those two realisations was short-lived, however. If it was not the worst possible outcome, it was hardly bettered because he stood now face-to-face with the uncle who was famed for his temper. Not that his ire need be raised, but there was no guarantee that the dismissive manner that Celebrimbor intended to take would not bother him as much as outright rudeness. 

     "I do not go by that name any longer," he replied, raising his head in turn to mirror Caranthir's own movement. His uncle bested him in height by a few inches; he would best him in a show of strength as well, no doubt (and he wondered why the idea even struck him). 

     His speech, though, had been in precisely-spoken Thindarin, done mainly out of spite, though also to remind Caranthir that his preferred name was not now Tyelperinquar, but Celebrimbor. Perhaps it was deceptive; in Eregion they had valued Quenya. He had personally ensured its survival, reforming it as a language of scholars and great thinkers rather than a language of kinslayers. He had known Thindar to come to his libraries to study it, and it had felt like a victory, if dampened by his conflicted feelings about it earning Curufin's praise.   

     It wasn't until Celebrimbor tasted blood in his mouth that he realised he had gnawed a hole through his lower lip. His tongue darted out to moisten it before he attempted to speak again. "I am surprised to see you here," he admitted. "Were you not damned?" Someone, after all, had once whispered to him that his family would all be resigned to the Void in their deaths, particularly those six that had not held them in their hands at last. 

Elves of course, were gifted with far more keen hearing abilities than those of men. It was guaranteed that Elentir had heard the footsteps of Celebrimbor, despite the lengthy distance between them. Especially with the silence of the snow, for not even the smooth and silky passing of calm wind had whistled through the air. Sounds of crunching feet on brittle snow was bound to stand out to an elf's hearing senses.

Instead of feet, a dark head took action to command. Elentir does not halt, nor did he lower his pace. He kept treading though, almost adding a stomp to his footwork. Rebel? Maybe. With his pace constant, Elentir slightly turns his head to the source of the voice, but only enough to see the other from corner of eye. An eyebrow arched, and lean lips purse. Rebel? Indeed. And certainly the elf required a good reason to be delayed.

              Fool. 

     If they did not stop for his voice, then it was no Noldo of Eregion he saw; perhaps it was a wayward mortal, whose ears were so unrefined they did not catch his voice with the muffling snowfall, or perhaps one of Amdir's folk, Eru knew how they found their way this side of the Hithaeglir.

     "You're going the wrong way," Celebrimbor called out again. Not loud enough to strain his voice--a traveller that was in turn either slow of it wit or disrespectful was no loss if they bypassed Ost-in-edhil to stray into the lands of the hillmen instead. 

     But it was poor hospitality to leave a guest to freeze to death in the riverbed of the Sirannon, which was where that particular path eventually wound its way.