Chapter Text
Red-hot metal pours from the crucible into the little round mold. Tiny sparks fly up and blink out as quickly as they had burst into life. Celebrimbor moves to the next mold and pours just enough to fill it. His sensitive ears hear soft footsteps tread through the forge doors, but he doesn’t turn. He fills another mold, working quickly so the metal will not cool before he is finished.
“Mara tuilë, Antheron,” Celebrimbor says. “Could you hand me my tongs?”
Antheron sighs, but he retrieves the tongs from his workbench as Celebrimbor finishes filling the mold.
The forge hall is empty this morning. Usually, its high stone arches echo with hammer blows and the forge bellows. Celebrimbor enjoys the bustle of the hall on most days (unlike Antheron, who seeks out the early morning for his personal projects to avoid interruptions and questions from overzealous students). An easy happiness fills his chest as Antheron hands him the flat tongs he needs and takes the crucible of melted silver from him without another word.
Antheron returns the crucible to the larger forge oven, where it will sit at melting temperature until he is ready for the next mold.
“It’s far too hot to work in here today,” Antheron says, a little annoyed, but no more than usual. He is dressed in his usual silver robes, the red embroidery catching the forge light. His long black hair is loose and falls down his shoulders.
“You’ll suffocate on fumes,” Antheron continues. “What on earth are you working on?”
“Charms for handfasting cords,” Celebrimbor answers, using the tongs to tap the filled mold and level any bubbles from the liquid metal. He places the hot mold inside a cooling oven and uses the tongs to pull out a finished mold filled with gently cooled silver charms. He turns them over on the workbench to release them from the mold.
Antheron picks up one to examine it. The small metal charms have different symbols embedded on them from the mold: flowers, leaves, stars, knots, and more. Celebrimbor gathers the others and sits back on his stool with a metal file to smooth down the rough edges.
“Handfasting cords?” Antheron asks.
“They’re part of the ceremony for the solstice weddings,” Celebrimbor says. “I had nearly forgotten the summer festival, and I was commissioned to make a few...”
“A few?” Antheron raises an eyebrow at the large pile of finished charms gathered in a basket.
“A few hundred, give or take,” Celebrimbor says as Antheron laughs at him.
“It will be a few hundred degrees in this forge hall before noon, this time of year,” Antheron scoffs. “Where are your apprentices? Lounging about with their feet in the creek, drinking wine --”
“It’s nearly the solstice, Antheron,” Celebrimbor laughs. “I cannot ask an apprentice to leave the festivities and suffer the heat for my own forgetfulness.”
With another of his characteristically dramatic sighs, Antheron borrows one of Celebrimbor’s aprons to cover his robes and begins to tie his long black hair back out of his eyes.
“What are you doing?” Celebrimbor asks.
“Helping you, apparently,” Antheron says, plucking the empty mold from the table. As he turns to retrieve the crucible from the forge oven, he calls over his shoulder, “It appears I have nothing better to do this morning.”
With Antheron’s back turned, Celebrimbor indulges himself in a small smile.
*
The bag of finished charms jingles in Celebrimbor’s bag as he carries them from the forge the next afternoon. He stops at the edge of the hill to peer down over Caras Gelebren and watch the guests arriving at the gates. In his hands, he fidgets with a handfasting charm he had pulled from the pile of second-quality pieces that would be melted back down. The sun beats down relentlessly on the winding streets below. The river banks are teeming with elves fishing and swimming in the cool water. As is tradition, weddings and proposals dot nearly every park and terrace. Celebrimbor is pleased to see guests arriving at the city gates, pouring off boats from Nîn-in-Eilph that crowd the river with bright sails, or dismounting from horse-led wagons from Laurelindórenan.
Galadriel should see this, he thinks. Celebrimbor hopes it will lighten her heart. It has taken them nearly six hundred years to come this far.
He tosses the charm into the air and catches it. Has it truly been that long? I have done so much...yet so little.
The past century has been his most productive, but what does he have to show for it? Celebrimbor turns and looks over the grassy courtyard and gardens between his House and the forgehalls on the hilltop. He had met Antheron here in the height of summer a century and a half ago, when the purple sage was in blossom and the grass was nearly up to his knees.
Celebrimbor had known who Antheron was before he ever set foot inside the city gates. He had long since decided, far before he met the Valar’s messenger, that he would send this Lord of Gifts on his way.
Antheron wore a flowing white robe and had gathered half of his black hair up in an old-fashioned braid, the rest loose on his shoulders. He finished introducing himself slowly, the words strange on his tongue as though he was not yet used to speaking their modern language.
“You have come very far,” Celebrimbor said politely, feeling a little impatient. He longed to get this meeting over with and return to his work.
“It has been well worth it to see the beauty of your humble city. The silver bastion, indeed,” Antheron replied. “I wager you have already heard what I offered Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. I bring gifts of learning and lore --”
“Yes, yes, of course. Not that I do not appreciate your presence, but...Why choose to bring these gifts to my humble city in Eregion?” Celebrimbor asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Khazad-dûm has the greatest forge-halls I have seen, and chests full of mithril besides.”
Antheron seemed surprised by his question. “You think the dwarves would accept my counsel?” he asked.
“You think elvish lords like Gil-galad, Elrond, and Galadriel would?” Celebrimbor replied. “I am obviously your fourth choice, Antheron. Why not offer you a fifth, in the spirit of competition?” he chuckled.
Antheron seemed slightly taken aback. He replied, “Your skills are incomparable to any of your cousins, much less the smiths of Khazad-dûm.”
“Then, I hope you are not here due to my family history?” Celebrimbor asked, raising an eyebrow. “You would not be the first I have disappointed in that regard, either. I cut ties with my father and family long ago. Are the Valar so disappointed in the skills of Fëanor’s grandson that they have sent me a tutor?”
Antheron gave Celebrimbor a peculiar look at his self-depreciating joke. He was unsure if Antheron was capable of blushing, or if a servant of the Valar must learn the skill of embarrassment secondhand. Celebrimbor felt almost cheerful watching Antheron’s calm facade turn as he squirmed in place.
“If you were truly that poor a smith, you would have neither a school full of students, nor a library dedicated to the craft,” Antheron replied.
“Oh, yes,” Celebrimbor said breezily, “we have made many pretty baubles and trinkets in the school of the Mírdain.”
“And the ithildin you have enchanted and etched? The Hollin Gate commissioned by Durin himself?” Antheron asked, his voice growing less patient. Celebrimbor smirked. He was enjoying riling the Valar’s servant far too much.
“What use is a door that glows only in the light of the moon?” Celebrimbor shrugged. “Unless you do not desire visitors in the afternoon.”
“As you do not seem to desire visitors at all, whether they call upon your gates in the morning or evening, so I do not see that it matters,” Antheron snapped.
“I would rather have no visitors at all, as they all seem to look on this tiny city with disappointment as they enter the front gates,” Celebrimbor responded. “What has the last of my family come to? A walled fortress sinking into a swamp. I am surprised your boots did not suck you into the mud as you trudged here from the West. Have we failed so badly that we require a tutor?”
“You would take no advice from me. I think you already know the city would shine brighter if you let it,” Antheron replied sharply. “Set up a dock on the river and open trade to those who sail on the seas. Quarry stone from the hills and expand the city walls northwards. Build another forge hall and take on more students. Once people hear of trade and craftsmen in Eregion, they will flock to your gates. Or are you afraid of their gaze?”
Celebrimbor eyed Antheron carefully.
“It has been a long time since anyone has dared offer me advice, much less lecture me with it,” Celebrimbor said, a grin breaking out over his face. “I find it rather refreshing.”
“It is easier to fail if you are surrounded by those who only tell you what they think you wish to hear,” Antheron replied. His stiff awkwardness had faded, replaced with open irritation. “Gil-galad was too arrogant to accept my help, Galadriel and Elrond too cautious -- they misunderstood. I seek not only learning, but a partnership.”
Celebrimbor was silent for a moment. He tilted his head forwards, as if to urge Antheron on.
“I have seen how you have captured the moon within stone and created gems that can mend and heal. You have more potential than you know,” Antheron said quietly. “I would put my knowledge in hands that could use their power towards building a new Eregion... and perhaps, a new Middle-earth.”
Celebrimbor swallowed. “And... you genuinely wish to stay in Eregion to work with me?” he asked, daunted and surprised all at once.
“Word of your craft-skill has spread far and wide, my lord Celebrimbor,” Antheron said. “Even into the Uttermost West.”
Celebrimbor paused, considering for a long moment. He had expected honeyed words from Antheron, or perhaps a haughtiness. Gil-galad had warned him of his capacity for flattery. Yet, this did not feel like flattery; he felt as though his lack of accomplishments had been brought to the surface. Celebrimbor felt judged.
Antheron felt sharp at the edges, like a piece of metal fresh from the forge that needed filing. Perhaps his partnership was precisely what Celebrimbor needed. He had become far too comfortable in his obscurity.
“I am humbled by your presence here, Antheron,” Celebrimbor said finally. “I see in your arrival an omen of good fortune.”
Celebrimbor felt accomplished to have earned a shocked look from Antheron -- the Maia must have accidentally let his perfect face slip.
“Accept my greetings and my welcome!” Celebrimbor said. “You will be my honoured guest."
They left the gardens together, and Antheron’s time with the Gwaith-i-Mírdain began.
The gardens have changed little since that day, though the city has grown faster than he could believe.
After a hundred years, it was truly the silver bastion they intended. They had built walls and bridges, and opened their docks to men, elves, and dwarves alike. Antheron’s latest project was to remodel the greater forge-hall at Tham Mírdain -- the echoey mountain forge that Celebrimbor has too long neglected.
Celebrimbor shakes himself out of his remembrance. He shifts his heavy messenger bag from one shoulder to the other and begins his trek down the hill into the shopping district.
*
When Celebrimbor delivers the charms to Thorian, she takes them with a sigh of relief.
“I thought you’d never deliver these in time,” she says, running her hand through the basket of silver charms. She pulls one out and immediately begins to thread a silk ribbon through it to see how it fits. “They’re beautiful, of course. These little sun patterns are quite enchanting. I’ve never seen them before!”
“They were Antheron’s idea. He made an extra mold. It took some time to dry, so you’ll find there are fewer of them than the others,” Celebrimbor says, picking up one of the tiny charms. The tiny imprinted sun sparkles as it hits the light. “Perhaps you could inlay it with gold for an extra charge?”
“Hmm,” Thorian says, fixing him with a long look. “Or upcharge for rarity. Who would pay to have their marriage blessed by the Powers’ own noble messenger?”
“Thorian!” Celebrimbor admonishes her.
“I’m only joking,” Thorian says, rolling her eyes. She reaches under the countertop of her shop and hands Celebrimbor payment for his charms. “And what about you? When will you purchase a handfasting charm? The solstice is tomorrow, and I have a lovely red silk ribbon painted with stars that I’ve been saving for --”
“I have far too many responsibilities to worry myself over courting and marriage,” Celebrimbor says quickly. “Good luck with festival business, Thorian.”
Thorian shrugs and busies herself with braiding dried flowers through the ribbons. Celebrimbor turns to leave.
As the doorbell tinkles, Celebrimbor looks up in surprise to find a familiar face that he has not seen in decades, if not an entire century.
“Lord Celebrimbor,” Oranoril says, taking a quick step back, as though suppressing the age-old soldier’s impulse to stand at attention. For a moment, Celebrimbor is caught with the impossibility of acknowledging someone he has fought, killed, and bled beside in this place, so far removed from the battlefield.
“Oranoril!” Celebrimbor says, hoping his words do not tumble over themselves in his surprise. “It is good to see you, you look well! Are you visiting for the festival? I have not seen you often since you joined the Bright Company.”
“And you shall see even less of me if Celeborn’s plans come to fruition,” Oranoril says with a wry smile. “Yet I have only left my post for a few days. My cousin’s wedding is tomorrow. I have been tasked with retrieving the handfasting cords.”
“Of course! The cords have been my task as well,” Celebrimbor says.
“Oh,” Oranoril says, her eyes widening in shock, “I had thought the rumors were only a fool’s gossip! Congratulations, my lord.”
“Oh, oh no, no, no,” Celebrimbor says, eyes widening. “I only meant that we crafted the charms at my workshop --”
From behind the counter, Thorian begins to giggle.
“-- Not that I was buying them -- although of course they are lovely -- but I crafted the charms, you see,” he says hastily. He glances at Thorian, who has covered her mouth with a hand to muffle her laughter. “Perhaps your cousin would admire the new sun pattern...?”
Oranoril chuckles a little to herself. “I see,” she says, brightening considerably. “You have not changed at all, Lord Celebrimbor.”
Celebrimbor frowns for a moment before he gathers his composure. “My doors are always open to you, Oranoril. If you’ll both excuse me, I have more errands to run. Mauya nin avánië!”
Celebrimbor takes his leave quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. As he walks through the streets, he worries the stolen sun-imprinted charm between his fingers.
“I had thought the rumors were only a fool’s gossip.”
Oh, he has been a fool indeed.
*
By the time Celebrimbor returns to the empty forge hall, Antheron has banked the coals at the bottom of the forge fire and left. Taking advantage of the rare moment of solitude, Celebrimbor pulls a tiny key from his belt to unlock the hidden drawer underneath his workbench.
He has checked the drawer and its contents a hundred times over for more weeks than he would like to count. Still, he cannot resist -- even if only to torture himself. Celebrimbor picks up the tiny wooden box and opens it. Inside, nestled upon silk velvet, sit two silver earrings and a matching sapphire pendant.
The jewels and etching had taken him far longer than usual. He worked in secret under the light of the moon, or when Antheron lectured upon the lawn, or the time he took a week’s trip to Mirobel. Celebrimbor has waited for the right moment to present them to Antheron...so long, the silver has begun to tarnish.
The gift seems foolish now. Now he knows it would only appear to be a courting gift, a complement to Antheron’s handsomeness, or a declaration of romance.
Celebrimbor wonders if, deep down, he had meant it to be such all along. He has kept a careful foot on the neck of his feelings for Antheron. It may be harmless just to look, but heartbreak awaits him if he finds himself longing. He finds it all rather hopeless.
“There you are,” Antheron says from the open doors.
Celebrimbor’s shoulders tense. He carefully tucks the box inside the pocket of his blue tunic before he turns around.
Antheron is still wearing his dirty leather apron and gloves, though he seems to have taken off his heavy robes in the heat. He sets a full quenching bucket on the flagstones and peels off his gloves to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
He frowns, grumbling, “Not a single apprentice or student to be found when there are chores to be done, and it must be the hottest day of the age.”
“They are probably all in the river with half the rest of the city,” Celebrimbor laughs, the sound a little louder than he had intended in his nervousness at being caught. He joins Antheron at the door. “Did it exhaust you so terribly to do the chores yourself?”
Antheron scowls. He pulls off his apron and hangs it over a peg by the door. Celebrimbor’s mouth goes dry at the rare sight of Antheron bare-chested and wearing only his gray trousers and boots.
Celebrimbor ushers him out of the forge, feeling a little harried as he closes the doors. The hilltop is peaceful and quiet, with only the sound of birds in the air and the creek rushing past them. Antheron’s bare skin is covered with a sheen of sweat and almost glistens in the afternoon sun. Celebrimbor feels his cheeks burning as he tries not to stare -- though, perhaps it is only a sunburn.
“It only makes me wonder why elves insist on creating so many chores for themselves with festivals,” Antheron says. “What pointless task have you assigned yourself for the afternoon?”
“Not a thing! I have turned over the wedding charms. Thorian is pleased with your design,” Celebrimbor says quickly, hoping to distract Antheron from asking what he was doing at his workbench. “Perhaps you can design a new charm for next year as well.”
They pass the footpath over the pond. They stop in the shade of the weeping willow tree. A frog jumps off the stone bridge and into the water.
“Don’t tell me you’ve promised to repeat this silly chore next year?” Antheron asks with a sigh.
“And the next year, and the next,” Celebrimbor says. “It is my responsibility!”
“You have much better things to do.”
“Such as...?” Celebrimbor asks.
“Bathe, for a start,” Antheron says, wrinkling his nose.
Celebrimbor laughs, lifting his arm to check that he has indeed sweated through his tunic. He peels the blue tunic over his head, leaving him naked from the waist up, the same as Antheron.
“What are you doing?” Antheron asks as Celebrimbor kicks off his leather boots. Celebrimbor strips until he has nothing on but his white linen undergarments, pants tied right below his knee.
“You told me to bathe,” Celebrimbor answers with a laugh. He jumps off the footbridge and splashes into the pond.
“I did not mean in public,” Antheron says over his splashing.
“No one is here,” Celebrimbor says, gesturing around the empty courtyard. The pond is small, but large enough for him to swim. He floats on his back, grinning up at Antheron. “The students do this all the time. I can’t blame them, the water is quite refreshing.”
With a look that says he is humoring Celebrimbor, Antheron sits on the edge of the bridge to watch him swim. He pulls off his boots to let his toes dangle in the water. After Celebrimbor feels he has successfully scrubbed the dirt and sweat from himself, he swims over to lurk at Antheron’s ankles.
Looking up at Antheron, the sun haloed around him, his stomach and chest bared to the golden light, Celebrimbor forgets why he cannot chase the yearning in him.
“What are your festival plans?” Celebrimbor asks. “Would you dine with me tonight?” He begins to untie his braid, letting his dark hair float on top of the water around his shoulders.
“I hoped to take advantage of the empty forges to finish some work,” Antheron replies, “but it has been far too hot. I suppose I should send to the library at Tham Mírdain for scrolls to read while the heat wave passes.”
“We could journey there ourselves, it’s hardly a day’s ride,” Celebrimbor says. He spreads his weight out to float on his back in the water. “Or, we could even travel to the library in Katûb-zahar. Galadriel will keep the city in my absence.”
Antheron blinks a few times, as though his mind is drifting. “Hm?” he asks.
“It would be cooler underground,” Celebrimbor says. “On days like this, I miss the cool caves where I lived in my youth. I wish you could have seen them.”
“I have spent more than enough time getting lost with you in Khazad-dûm,” Antheron scoffs. “No. I need a decent forge hall, and the dwarves guard theirs too jealously.”
“Then you shall just have to sit out the heat of the forge and enjoy the festival with me,” Celebrimbor laughs, splashing water at Antheron’s ankles.
“I could say the same to you, considering how hard you have been working as of late,” Antheron returns. “What did you hide in your pockets at your workbench? What project have you been working on so secretly?” He reaches over to Celebrimbor’s discarded tunic and begins to root through the pockets.
Celebrimbor flounders in the water and nearly goes under before he finds his feet. “Antheron, don’t!” he calls out in shock, splashing water at him. Not the necklace. Not yet.
Antheron’s hand reaches inside one of the tunic pockets. His heart pounding in his ears, Celebrimbor reaches out, grabs his ankle, and pulls him from the bridge.
Antheron lands in the water with a great splash!
Antheron rights himself in the water. He brushes the wet hair out of his eyes, glaring at Celebrimbor. Without a word, he holds up his hand and opens his palm, revealing what he had found in Celebrimbor’s pocket: the silver handfasting charm imprinted with a sun.
“Congratulations,” Antheron says flatly, blinking water out of his eyes. “May I ask who your beloved intended is?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Celebrimbor says desperately. “I’m not planning an engagement, Antheron.”
“Then, would you please explain what was so important that I should be dumped in the pond?” Antheron asks through gritted teeth.
Celebrimbor is caught out. He swallows, taking the silver charm from Antheron.
“It’s embarrassing," Celebrimbor says, looking down and trying to come up with a lie desperately. “I -- I thought that perhaps I should save one, in case one day I finally -- well, if I should ever desire to...”
Antheron watches him silently, as though something is brewing inside. Celebrimbor finds himself truly blushing under his gaze. He should have let Antheron have the damned gift. Now, he shall have to suffer Antheron’s pity that he, the Lord of Eregion, is unmarried and lonely after a thousand years. He is a complete fool.
“I did not think you to be the marrying type,” Antheron says coolly. Celebrimbor watches helplessly as Antheron turns to leave. He wades towards the grassy bank and emerges from the pond with water streaming down his bare shoulders and back.
“Antheron,” Celebrimbor starts, but he is at a loss for what to say. “Come down to the Midsummer Faire with me tonight. There will be a feast when the sun sets; we have visitors from as far as Laurelindórenan and Gwingris! I imagine they would like to speak with you on jewel-smithing.”
“I have a project to finish in the workshop,” Antheron says. He pushes his long, dark hair out of his eyes and squeezes the water from it.
“Do you need a hand?” Celebrimbor asks from the pond.
“No,” Antheron says over his shoulder as he turns towards the workshop on the other side of the hill. “I should think the enchantments would be far too complicated for your skills. Tend to your festival guests, my lord.”
As Antheron walks away, Celebrimbor sinks down into the pond until only his eyes peek over the water. As always, he has let his cowardice get the better of him.
*
It is late when Celebrimbor returns from the sunset feast. The stars are bright in the sky and the moon is high, casting the grass and bushes of the hilltop in a blue light. Only the fireflies join him on his path.
On pleasant nights like this, he usually finds Antheron and joins him on a walk around the hill or the city. Sometimes they talk, complaining about their students or concocting a new way to improve the forges. Of late, they have spoken of items of great power, with Celebrimbor biting back his bitter, jealous tongue. Other times, they walk in silence.
Antheron is nowhere to be seen tonight.
Inside the House, the steps creak beneath him as Celebrimbor climbs the staircase to Antheron’s rooms on the second floor.
“Antheron? Would you join me for a walk tonight? The night air is cooler,” Celebrimbor calls as he knocks on the polished red door. He hears nothing but silence from inside.
Celebrimbor leaves when the door goes unanswered. He mounts the stairs to the next floor, unlocks the doors to his own rooms, and closes them loudly. Then, he waits.
A minute passes before he hears a door open downstairs and the echo of footsteps bouncing off the high ceiling. Celebrimbor walks silently to the balcony overlooking the entrance hall and peeks over the edge. He catches a glimpse of Antheron as he leaves.
Celebrimbor pulls the silver charm from his pocket and looks at it with hatred. It takes all of his willpower not to throw it over the balcony.
When Antheron had first arrived, he had held himself stiff as a wary cat. He could not be blamed for his caution; Celebrimbor had welcomed him when no one else would trust him. Yet, it was not unselfish. Antheron’s presence had been a turning point in his luck, as he gained more students than ever. Even the forges seemed to burn more brightly with Antheron there beside him.
The first time Antheron led a lecture, Celebrimbor watched from the back. He had never stood in front of a class of students, that much was clear, but he knew more about smithing great works of enchantment and power than Celebrimbor dared hope.
After the lesson, Celebrimbor had taken him by the arm and led him to the jeweler’s workshop.
“I have been working on -- well, they’re merely good luck charms, if you will,” Celebrimbor said, handing one to Antheron. He babbled in his nervousness. “They are made with old steel brought over from Valinor. I thought that I might capture the light of the trees to bring hope to all who see them. Warriors could carry them into battle as protection against the dread of a dangerous foe. Alas, I cannot determine how to enhance the power of the metal enough to get them to work.”
Antheron took the smooth token in his hand and looked at it with an unreadable expression. Celebrimbor shifted from foot to foot, trying to hide his nervousness.
“I cannot see that they would be of much use, to be honest,” Antheron said offhandedly. Celebrimbor’s heart sank. “Who has the time for petty toys during battle? It would be a mere distraction.”
Celebrimbor took the token back. “You have not gazed into my cousin’s mirror, I take it?” he asked. “Eärendil’s shining light from the heavens has brightened many a dampened soul.”
Antheron considered Celebrimbor for a moment through his long eyelashes, his head tilted. “Lady Galadriel did not offer to let me peer into her basin before she invited me to leave,” he said. “I fear she thinks little of jewel-smiths.”
“After all she has seen, I could not blame her if she did,” Celebrimbor said with a wry smile, “though she has not made this known to me.”
“Still, it is a great curiosity to me! I wonder if I might change her mind. What have you seen inside the Lady’s mirror?” Antheron asked.
Celebrimbor was surprised by his question. He floundered for a moment before he looked down at the silver-blue token in his hand, wishing he could gather some strength from it.
“I saw the waters of Swanfleet turn blood red,” Celebimbor said quietly. “And I looked up, and the skies were red above the city. Red with doom. Black with smoke. The bastion was burning, and my people jumped into the river for relief.” He looked up at Antheron, clenching the useless little token in his fist. “Can you tell me what it means? If it will come to pass? Is that why you are here?”
Antheron held himself still for so long that Celebrimbor did not think he would answer. Then, he placed his hand over Celebrimbor’s.
“It may or may not,” Antheron said. “That is the nature of the magic Galadriel works in her basin. Do not let it consume you with despair, but take it as a warning. You must build up your power, Lord Celebrimbor, so this may never come to pass.”
“I have not been idle,” Celebrimbor protested. “I have built up allies in the dwarves of Khazad-dûm, and I seek for more. I would have friends to call upon if Eregion were besieged. I would have sharp weapons, strong shields, reinforcements, enchantments -- hope, in a word.”
Antheron nodded. “Have you treated with the men of Númenor?” he asked. “I have not seen their ships at your dock. They have spent their island’s natural wealth. Trade with them, and they could become powerful allies."
“Perhaps,” Celebrimbor said with a sigh. “Yet I struggle to convince myself that it will ever be enough when I know the smallest of things can turn the tide.”
He held up a dull token. Antheron took it from him and examined it more closely.
“These could perhaps be objects of greater power if they were truly able to capture the light,” Antheron says. “But the light within them now is not strong enough. You should enhance its shine, perhaps find a purer source of ore. Where did you find this Valinorian steel?”
“I melted down a few precious family heirlooms,” Celebrimbor answered with a chuckle. Antheron stared at him, wide-eyed. Celebrimbor could not find it within himself to care. He shrugged, “They were no use sitting in my treasury. Do you have a better idea?”
Antheron considered for a moment. He flipped the charm in the air and caught it in his hand.
“Mithril,” he said shortly, deep in thought. “Mithril, combined with some form of enchantment.”
“A rune, perhaps?” Celebrimbor suggested. “Just as the ithildin captures the moonlight --”
“Yes, precisely," Antheron interrupted. “We shall only have to find the right symbol.”
“Then we are quite lucky that I have an extensive library,” Celebrimbor said with a grin. Although Antheron did not yet share his smile, he met Celebrimbor’s eyes and held his gaze for a long moment, as though he was searching for something.
Celebrimbor wonders what he had found.
As Celebrimbor looks down at the handfasting charm in his hand, he remembers the edhelharn tokens they had crafted together nearly a hundred years ago. They were their first success.
He does not know where the tokens are now -- likely passed from soldier to soldier, like Oranoril and the Company that patrols the hills for orc raids. Celebrimbor had not kept any edhelharn tokens for himself. Their stores of the tokens dwindled over the years as they were needed by warriors setting off into the dark hills.
“Take one, my friend,” Antheron said one day, while Celebrimbor was taking inventory of their dwindling stores. “It might lighten your heart.”
“They make no difference to me,” Celebrimbor said. He held one in his hand. The token shone with a gentle, cold blue light. “Whenever I hold one, I feel much the same. It is as if the weight of the entire world rests upon my shoulders. I believe I may be the hopeless cause.”
Antheron had taken the token from him and stowed it back into a box with the others. He set a comforting hand on Celebrimbor’s shoulder.
“Give them all away, then,” Antheron said, his voice quiet and understanding. “We will find your hope in other things of power.”
*