Disclaimer: I am not Tolkien, obviously. All characters belong to him. They just live in my head ;)
A/N: HASA users, do not be surprised if you see this again, later. HASA has a tag team challenge running right now, which I will be entering with my partner in crime, Tenshi Androgynous ( AKA: She who has dragged me kicking and screaming into the world o'FanFic) . This is just a little bit of me getting into Celebrimbor's head space in preparation for the larger work.
Making Amends
Why do I stay here? The ban on the Noldor is lifted, Melkor is vanquished, there is peace, however fleeting, in middle earth. So, you ask, why do I not rejoin my family in Aman, land of my birth.
Why DO I stay?
I hear them speak the word. No, less than speak it, they spit it out as if it were a foul taste, or a poison to be gotten out as quickly as possible. "Fëanorian", they spew, as if it were a curse.
I remember another time. A time which now seems so distant to me, that the memories could belong to another. A time when the word was spoken with reverence, respect, even awe. "FËANORIAN", they whispered, as they beheld some great work of HIS. Some new gem, or lamp, or other thing he had crafted. Nothing he ever made was less than perfect. And they all knew it.
Why then, should it surprise anyone that his madness was no less than perfect? It was a wildfire, which spread to everything it touched. All of us were consumed by this perfect, beautiful madness. Some have asked me why I followed. Why my father and uncles followed. I cannot explain to one who was not there. To one who has not beheld the Fire Spirit that was my grandfather. All I can say is that we also were on fire…
I knew, somewhere in my heart, that it was wrong. When we marched on Alqualondë and demanded the ships, I knew we were wrong. When I heard him say that if they would not be given, they would be taken, I knew we were wrong. As I stood, shoulder to shoulder with my uncles, knee deep in the bodies of my kindred, I knew we were wrong. Yet I had no will to stop.
I remember the faces of the Teleri…..so beautiful in the flickering torch light. The only light left to us after the murder of the trees. I remember the shock on their faces, and in my heart, as we slew them. I remember the blood on my hands, making my sword slip as I swung it. Something in me broke then, though I did not know it.
We took their ships then. Their beautiful white ships. We did not know how to manage them, and had to force some of those we had spared to come with us to sail them. I remember the horror in their eyes, and my own lack of response to it. Already, the numbness was settling on me.
It was my constant companion from that moment. The one thing that never failed me. It was with me when I watched them take The Oath. It was with me when the Doom of the Noldor was spoken. It was with me when HE ordered us to leave our sleeping company and steal away in the ships. It was with me as they burned those same ships, and my Uncle with them. It consumed me, as had the fire before it.
It was long before I felt again. Before I cared for any being. I cared only for my work. The forge. The heat on my skin. The sound of my hammer , and the clash of metal on metal. These things I cared for. After all, was I not FËANORIAN? What less could be expected of the grandson of him that made the Silmarils? The bane of the Noldor. What less could be expected of the grandson of he who had cursed us all?
Slowly, in Nargothrond, the numbness crept from me. I began to feel…fondness for my cousins. Respect for my king. Fear for my people. Longing for my home.
Then, my father's cousin, the king, was dead.
Orodreth was weak. He was always more a scholar than a ruler. But this fact did not give ANY the right to try and usurp his throne. To turn the hearts of his people against him.. The acts of my father and uncle were unforgivable. And Celegorm's lust for, and imprisonment of Luthien, despicable. I had indeed begun to feel again. Hatred. Hatred for my own family. Shame, guilt, disgust. These things filled me every time I heard the word Fëanorian.
After the fall of Nargothrond, we sought the Havens. There again, the word was spat out. Fëanorian. And there was malice in their eyes as they looked upon me. Kin slayer.
Only here, now, in Eregion, am I no longer despised for past deeds. Here I work with the dwarves, to whom I am Lord Silver Fist. To the elves of Ost-in-Edhil, I am head of the Gwaith-I-Mírdain. Still, I live for my work, yes, but I feel. I feel the eyes of those who come to learn from me. I feel the warm glow of pride as my work is praised. I feel the power of creation as I breathe life into a thing of beauty. And I hope. I hope that once again, the word, Fëanorian, will be spoken with reverence and respect. That is why I stay.