Short Stories from Middle-Earth

Celebrimbor

"You are better than your family."

How many times had Celebrimbor heard that throughout his life? Ever since he had parted ways with his father in Nargothrond, everyone around him had viewed him with a sort of self-righteous approval, always looking down their noses at him as they said, "You are not like the rest of your family—you have some sense."

What made him better than the rest?

He had listened to his grandfather's words and sworn the oath with the rest. He had burned the ships of his kin and left his allies to endure the Helcaraxë. He had supported his father's crimes far longer than he should have. And, perhaps his worst crime yet, he continued to live.

In truth, Celebrimbor knew he was just as crooked, weak, and craven as the rest of the House of Fëanor—but the world did not see him as such. Sometimes he wished he could see himself the way they did; it was easier to believe that he had done what was right, despite the angry, broken letters his father had sent to him years later, begging him to understand why he did what he did. Celebrimbor had burned that letter long ago, but he wished he kept it.

Just a few days ago he had taken a rare walk through the streets, allowing himself to enjoy the sweet Springtime air, when he heard voices as he passed: "Is that not Celebrimbor, the great Elven-Smith?"

"Aye," was the reply, "quite an admirable person is he. But did you know that he is the son of Curufin?"

"Curufin the Terrible, who betrayed Nargothrond's King and slew so many?"

Celebrimbor hated to hear his father's name.

"The very same—but thankfully, Celebrimbor did not go with him into exile. He chose the right side. It takes a significant amount of courage to do such a thing..."

Courage, Celebrimbor thought darkly as he quickened his pace, making for home this time instead of the baker's. Courage and pride.

It was enough that the shame of his betrayal followed him like a ghost wherever he went, but the bitterness of those who betrayed him brought him agony as well. When he was a child, he was surrounded by people whom he thought believed in him and raised him to be the best person he could be; his prowess in the forge was taught to him by both his father and his grandfather, and now with them gone, he was the best smith in the world.

He had not lit his forge in years.

Everything had changed when his grandfather had abandoned his sanity in his rage and sworn all the Noldor to battle. Celebrimbor had been hardly a boy when his own father, instead of defending him and keeping away from the terrible calamity that was taking place, thrust a sword into his hand and bade him to claim his birthright through spilled blood.

To this day, Celebrimbor could not understand why his father had looked at him with such revulsion and horror when he threw the sword away, his heart beating fast and his eyes flowing with terrified, childlike tears. He had railed bitterly against his son for his refusal to kill his friends and family, and though Celebrimbor knew it was wrong, he had been so wounded by his father's unexpected anger that when his father gave him a torch—and another chance to prove that he was on his side, as he said—Celebrimbor had hurled it into the beautiful swan-ships without hesitation.

All he had wanted was to make his family proud.

Part of him still grieved that he tore himself away from his father and left him in exile; he had been taught that it was the duty of the son to remain loyal to his father, after all, no matter how difficult such a burden may be. Curufin had somehow remained loyal to Fëanor despite his heinous acts, and had steeled himself enough to commit crimes just as evil.

But Celebrimbor hated his father—there was no mistake about that, and his feelings had not diminished during the years his father had been dead—but part of him wondered if he had made the right choice in separating from his entire family because of it. After all, he had sworn an Oath, and his feud with his father did not extend to his uncles (Celegorm excluded). He had loved Maedhros like a second father, and even his uncle Caranthir seemed to have had a soft spot for him. His father may have taught him to make beautiful things—and then to tear them down—but his uncles had taught him true wisdom and strength.

Now, he was the only one left to bear the name of his family. Because he had made the 'right' choice and abandoned them to the all-consuming flames of their devotion to their Oath.

He was better than his father, but not better than his family.