[Durelin]

Many said that the guiding hand of Ilúvatar had led his suffering children to the valley, which he protected, as he would always, from the growing shadow. It certainly was a beautiful sanctuary, and some boasted that they would build a city more wonderful even than Ost-in-edhil, a flower blooming amidst the ruins and so prettier than before. But all knew in their hearts that this could not be. There would never be another Ost-in-edhil – the Mírdain would never be the same. And in the minds of many, it was certain that the doom of the Mírdain had already come, and the few survivors that clung to the many memories that they could gather up, were but the death throws of a dying breed. They had seen the River Sirannon flowing red, the walls of Ost-in-edhil crumble, their lord and founder fail: their doom had long since come.

They were betrayed.

“I will not follow another lord who seeks to glorify his name further by founding a new city. And I will not let my people be led by an elf who never even dwelt in Eregion.”

Maegisil was furious, his eyes flashing and his hands tightened into fists as he once again sat in meeting with the Lord Elrond. The refugees, as well as Elrond and the remainder of his army, had been occupying the valley that they named Imladris for some time, building at a considerable rate. Every one of the Mírdain spoke of what the citizens of their fallen city could have accomplished in the same amount of time, but some were beginning to find new hope. But the Herald of Gil-galad had sent word to the High King in Lindon, telling him of the fate of Eregion and the establishment of Imladris, many months ago; and they had just received word back. Maegisil did not like the news. But, for some reason, Elrond had wished to share it with him.

“I did not ask for this, you know that.” The lord’s voice was as calm as ever, though his intensity was clear. He never took his gaze away from Maegisil, who began to feel uncomfortable. He had not felt real comfort in several years, and that his wife sometimes wept for him did not help. Nor had he done anything to help in the building of a new city within the valley; he avoided contact with anyone but Sairien. She of course busied herself with whatever work she could do, and sometimes he heard her laugh – but it was never with him. He watched people often, wondering what they might be feeling, wondering how many times a day they thought of someone who they had not seen in almost two years. One day he thought he saw Narisiel from a distance, but having caught only a glimpse, he discarded the thought as impossible. There was no way she escaped from the city if he had not seen her yet. If she had been picked up as a refugee, he would have known. Someone would have told him; Sairien would have.

“Why do these people require a lord?” Maegisil asked, skirting away from any issues concerning what this lord did or did not want. “It is obvious that they are quite capable of governing themselves.”

“The people always look to a leader, particularly in times of trouble.” Elrond knew that he had poured salt on the former counselor’s wounds with those words, but he continued to simply watch the elf seated across from him. But Maegisil’s reaction was not what he expected. The elf’s skin grew paler than usual, and his jaw was tight as he gritted his teeth seemingly in pain. His hands slid out of tight balls and he brought them up to his face, running them over his face as they trembled. He hunched over and rested his elbows on his knees, and held his head there for many moments. Elrond waited patiently. He was a lord; waiting was something he was an expert at.

When Maegisil finally spoke, raising his head only slightly from his hands, his voice obviously shook with emotion, though the lord could not apply a name to what he heard. It was not biting as if he were angry, nor was it edgy, or sounding as if he were on the verge of tears. Elrond would not forget his words, and, later, he would decide that perhaps the mirdan’s voice has simply been that empty: so vacant of any feeling or care that it reverberated in a void.

“There is a reason that we were called the ‘Dark Elves,’ Lord Elrond. It would have been better if we had left when it was our time, when we first heard the call of the sea. But now we cling to this world, this Middle-earth. And here we are, with lords and kings, wars and death, and the Shadow still a threat to us all; we are left with nothing but empty words and actions and a violent death. Thus is the life of the immortal, tied to this world. And thus have we made the world.”

“Maegisil--”

“Thus have I made the world.”

“Maegisil!” The lord’s voice rang out with pure authority, a natural sound of command that demanded to be heard. The former counselor grew silent. He had not yet forgotten what that voice meant. Celebrimbor had been a lord through and through. That elf Angoroth had killed was not Celebrimbor. Maegisil would never stop telling himself that.

“Maegisil…” Elrond began again, his voice calm again – almost pleading. He looked tired, and Maegisil was almost afraid to look him in the eyes, for fear of seeing something from the past. It was the same kind of fear he had for closing his eyes. He was trying to erase them, those faces from his mind. He would never see them again, and he was afraid to. “We are building a new world for ourselves here. Please, you can help us, and you can build a new life with us.”

“Do you really think it will be any different?”

“I will do everything in my power to make it so.”

“Celebrimbor would have said the same thing.”

Elrond sighed, and his façade of calm was broken as he ran his own hands over his face, looking more and more disheveled. It seemed that the past few years had taken as much toll on him as it had Maegisil, though the former counselor did not want to really believe that. He observed the elf’s hard features, though, as they tensed up, and watched his eyes as they shifted to stare down at the small table before him that served as a desk. It was strangely empty but for a few papers and a candle that looked as if tonight would be its last night to burn. Both the elves in that tent felt much like that lump of wax, sitting in the makeshift room because Elrond had insisted that there were many more important things to be built than lordly halls and chambers. Maegisil had conveniently forgotten that, and should have remembered that Celebrimbor’s palace was the first thing to be completed in Ost-in-edhil, with the rest of the city sprawling out around it. Of course it had been planned that way, but it had not simply been due to happenstance.

Suddenly Elrond held the other elf’s gaze again, and he seemed to read part of what went on in the former counselor’s mind, having watched the warring emotions twisting his face. Maegisil dropped his eyes again, and clutched his hands together, appearing as if he was in prayer. And if he indeed was, he was praying for forgiveness.

“There are words, and there are actions,” Elrond said simply, watching Maegisil intently. He was trying to express to the elf something without actually saying it, for putting such a thing into words would do it no justice. It would sound silly, and childish, for the lord to say simply that he would not make the same mistake, or that things really would be different. And he of course could not prove that he would be at all different from Celebrimbor. But there was trust. Maegisil had been betrayed just as Eregion and all its people had been betrayed, and he in return had betrayed the betrayer. Elrond knew that the elf had seen that there was no end to it. He had to see now why there was trust, and why it was not to be taken lightly. It was necessary, as it was dangerous.

“You know there are greater powers at work here,” the lord said slowly after several more moments of silence: slowly, as Maegisil began to break from his shell. The mirdan would have to reconcile with much from the past, and he would have to do that on his own, but Elrond wanted to give him some kind of hope for the future. There was a reason that this was known as the Second Age. An Age of recollection had already passed, and the land itself had changed shape since the beginning of Eä. Peoples had changed and traveled, building cities and kingdoms, only to seem them destroyed or simply slip away into dust and memory. And always there came something new, whether those who rebuilt remembered who they succeeded or not. Imladris could not forget.

Maegisil’s head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes slightly at the lord. “You speak of the Rings. What has happened to the Rings?”

“They are still safe in the hands of those they were given to. Círdan bears one, as does Galadriel. Lindon and Lorien are protected by their power.”

“But what of the third?”

Elrond held out his hand, and Maegisil was filled with wonder.

“It has been passed on.”

~*~*~*~

Never would Celebrimbor have thought that the Three Rings, his greatest achievements, the masterpieces of his immortal life, would be the doom of his people. The glory of the Mírdain could never have shown brighter during his reign there, and all the skill and wonder of their art was encompassed in those Rings. It was the last Ring forged, not amidst the holly plains of Eregion, but in the blasted lands of Mordor, that was the undoing of them all. Celebrimbor, the great lord of Eregion, was deceived by the Deceiver. All would remember that, and all would remember how he learned of this deception and insured the safety of the most powerful of the Rings. And they would remember how he died with his city. As most recalled it, he seemed a hero. So few could ever dare to question how the lord came to be deceived, and how the city really met its doom. Of course, all those questions were assumed to be answered by one name: Sauron, the Servant of Melkor. In two Ages, he spread the Shadow over the lands of Middle-earth. So few could withstand him – why would he not overtake even such a great lord, as well?

He was betrayed.

Celebrimbor’s death surely could not have been avoided, though it was revenge the Dark Lord sought. It was the folly of the lord that brought destruction to Eregion so soon. But would it have only been a matter of time? Few would blame Celebrimbor. And no one has any rememberance of the name Maegisil. Eregion is remembered, as is its greatest city, home of its lord. It is remembered that many died there. The legacy of the Rings lived on. Some could say that they truly brought many new terrors upon Middle-earth. But of course no one could blame Celebrimbor for all of that. He did not know; he could not. And he died because of it.

But he was betrayed.

Maegisil was not remembered, in fame or infamy. He would not have wished it to be any other way. He watched a lord fall, and a friend wither away, sitting by while the world changed rapidly around him. It was as if time stood still in Eregion, as it would be said it did in Lorien, perhaps due to the power of the Nenya. But there were no Rings in Eregion. They passed on to bearers whose names would come before Celebrimbor’s in memory. Perhaps it was not his pride that forced him to be silent all those years. But who would dare say that such a great lord would ever be afraid? It was only his fate and the fate of all his people that seemed to be determined: all by nineteen Rings, forged by the Mírdain’s own hands.

They were betrayed.

Sauron the Deceiver he was known as. But there is no one known as the Betrayer. Who then, were the Mírdain betrayed by? The destruction of Ost-in-edhil was the merciless revenge of the Servant of Melkor, for he was wroth that he had not attained the Three strongest of the Rings of Power. And why had they not been with the others? Because they were Celebrimbor’s creations, and his alone. He would not have given them up for his life – he had told himself that. They were his masterpieces, and his art was his life. But the lord sat in his hall in his city, until it fell into dust and ashes. The Rings lived on. Would he have wished to live to see what evil they caused?

But here was Imladris, Rivendell, the valley where Elrond would be lord. A new land, a new lord – it seemed fate, and all were happy to rebuild, though they feared the Shadow. The land flourished, and history would be made there during the War of the Ring. And a Ring would reside there, passed on to Elrond by the High King Gil-galad. The people there would be protected. After all, the Three Rings – Narya, Nenya, and Vilya – were the most powerful. The last strongholds of the Elves would be Rivendell and Lorien, where the power of the Rings reigned. And when the Third Age came to an end, and what some called the ‘Age of Men’ began, the Three Rings would be reunited upon the western shores. Never would Celebrimbor have thought that the Three Rings, his greatest achievements, the masterpieces of his immortal life, would protect his people and make the journey that he would never be able to make himself, into the West. Thus was the life of the immortal.