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Rescuing Celebrimbor: 1. Rescuing Celebrimbor

Warning: This story is for mature adults only. There is male-male bonding
and description of male genitalia.

Rescuing Celebrimbor

Curufin was running across the ravished lands of Tumhalad, the valley
between the rivers Ginglith and Narog, when he caught sight of a small
company of Orcs attacking a single Elf sitting by a withering old tree.
Curufin hid himself in the shadows of the dead forest and approached as
quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. If there were
too many Orcs, he would not aid the Elf even if he was one of his own
brothers. He had another, more important task at hand. But he had to know
who the Elf was, if it was the one he sought. He had to be sure.

The Elf stood as the Orcs approached. He drew no weapon. Instead,
he lifted his head to the stars and began to sing in a high note that rose
still higher. In his mind, Curufin witnessed the first rising of the sun
again, blazing hot and newly formed from the golden fruit of Laurelin. A
halo of light seemed to pour forth from the Elf as he sang, not the Song of
Light as Curufin had heard it in the Blessed Realms but it was music no
less powerful than even that created by Elemmire or Rumil. The song moved
effortlessly between high and low notes and covered almost three octaves.
Only one in Beleriand besides Maglor could have forge golden light with
voice alone, Daeron the Minstrel and Chief Loremaster of King Thingol of
Doriath. Curufin waited until the Orcs had fled before approaching the
Sindarin Elf with caution. It was well-known throughout Beleriand that
Daeron composed and sang songs of Luthien Tinuviel, and although Daeron was
known to have left Thingol's court shortly after Luthien's escape from the
house in Hirilorn in search of Beren, Curufin knew that the Minstrel would
show him no mercy if he knew the part that Celegorm and Curufin had played
in Luthien's fate. Daeron would let loose his most powerful song, grief-
stricken for the death of his beloved and filled with hatred for one who
had tried to slay her. Perhaps Curufin would be able to fight the song, or
perhaps Daeron's music would tear his mind apart.

Daeron barely took note of Curufin's approach. He sat back down
beside the dead tree and stared off into the West. Curufin had only seen
the Minstrel of Doriath once before at the Mereth Aderthad, but the man
before him held little resemblance to that fair and graceful memory of the
Elf with a voice lovelier than even the songbirds. Daeron was thin and
gaunt, as if he had been a thrall of Thangorodrim, and his grey eyes were
flat and unseeing. He wore a thin shirt and a light summer cloak, but the
seasons had already changed many times since he'd left in search of
Luthien, and winter was fast approaching, but Daeron seemed not to notice
the bitter cold. Curufin had to call his names several times before the
minstrel would look at him.

"I will have no dealings with you, son of Feanor," Daeron said. His
voice, which has just a moment ago been filled with raw power and light,
was hollow and emotionless.

So he doesn't know, Curufin thought. If he knew of the wrongs that I
had done to Luthien, his voice would not be so empty. A part of Curufin's
heart ached for the Elf, a mere shadow of his former self. It was not hard
to guess the rest of Daeron's story. He had left Doriath in search of
Luthien, but rather than find her or news of her fate, he had become crazed
with sorrow for the loss of the fairest maiden of the Eldalie. Does he
even remember to eat? Curufin wondered. He brought forth some of his
rations and offered them to the minstrel. Daeron did not move; his eyes
did not even flicker to see what it was that Curufin held out to him.

Curufin sighed inwardly. He needed to hurry to follow the Orcs that
had sacked Nargothrond before their tracks grew cold. But he could not
leave behind this songbird, this minstrel who was named before even Maglor.
Daeron was a rare gift to the Eldalie, as unique as Feanor though
different in talent. Curufin sat beside Daeron and pulled his cloak over
the minstrel. The cloak was lined with thick bear fur and was crafted for
just such a purpose. It fit easily over them both, and Daeron shuddered,
for his body had been as cold as winter's frost but was now suddenly
engulfed in the flame of a Feanorian. Curufin feared he would draw away.
Instead, Daeron remained motionless again, like a living dead. It was a
miracle he had found enough willpower to repel the Orcs that had assaulted
him earlier. Curufin drew forth some nuts and dried fruit and offered it
to Daeron once again.

"Eat, Minstrel," Curufin said. He spoke his next words with utter
care so that Daeron would not be able to read his thoughts from his voice.
"I go in search of one named Celebrimbor, who knows something of what
happened to Luthien whom you seek. If we find him, you may hear what he
has to say."

Slowly, Daeron reached forth and took one of the dried orange slices.
He ate without a word to Curufin, and when he was finished with the
rations that Curufin had offered him, he nestled into the warmth of the fur
cloak, leaned his head on Curufin's shoulder, and fell asleep.

In the morning, Daeron followed Curufin as he tracked of the various
bands of Orcs that had sacked Nargothrond. No word passed between them.
Daeron ate when food was put before him and slept at Curufin's behest.
When nearing Orcs, Curufin usually left Daeron in a secure hiding place and
went forth to see whether or not Celebrimbor was among them. Sometimes,
Curufin saw prisoners being tortured for sport, but he steeled his heart
and withheld his sword. If he died trying to save another, Celebrimbor
would not live. Each time, Curufin returned to Daeron, who had not moved
from where Curufin had left him. Each time, with a sigh, Curufin would
take the Minstrel into his care once more.


It happened in the days before the return of Elu Thingol, when
Beleriand was lawless save the Falas, where Cirdan ruled. Daeron was only
a boy of seven and riding upon a full-grown stallion, wild and untamed.
The great horse threw him. And then, he was lowered into a warm, floral
bath. A shallow bowl of thinned poppy paste was held to his mouth, and he
was urged to drink. Then he felt nothing, but blood slowly spread
throughout the water. It was all that could be done.

Daeron screamed, and his voice pierced the night sky more sharply
than even the cries of Morgoth at Lammoth. He threw himself away from the
fire, tears streaming down his face. No, the riding accident, he knew it
was not true, had known for years before the truth was revealed. He sought
to escape the pain but knew no way of release save one. He tilted his head
to the sky and sang. In one breath, he voiced over 250 notes, all begging
for death, the only mercy granted to all without discrimination. And then
he held the last note, sustained it for what seemed an eternity, and the
moon itself waited to shatter.

But the fire came forth to engulf him once more, and it held him and
whispered to him over and over again in words that he could only understand
through his ability to hear all things as they were meant to be in the
mind. "Do not cry songbird, or the Silver Tree will not flower. Do not
cry songbird, or the Golden Tree will not bear fruit. Do not cry songbird,
for I am here with you, and you are not alone." In the weak words that
strived to break through his long, sustained note, Daeron saw the Two Trees
upon the Green Mound, and a songbird slept in the Tree of Silver until it
awoke and skipped to the Tree of Gold to sing its joy in life. He quieted
and tucked his chin to his chest. An arm wrapped around him, drew him
near, and continued to repeat over and over again the words of a Blessed
Realm that Daeron would never know.

When he came to, the Elf was still holding him close and murmured in
his sleep words of reassurance. Midnight black hair framed a porcelain
fair face, and the high cheekbones accentuated a noble and proud face.
Daeron did not know how this had come to be, but he found himself in the
arms of Curufin, son of Feanor, who was muttering in a mix of Sindarin and
Quenya, a language forbidden in Beleriand by Thingol. A golden brown fur
cloak trapped in the intense fire of the Feanorian, and even Daeron's face
was partially covered, his nose kept warm by the heat of Curufin's skin.
Memories of Curufin feeding him and leading him northward returned to
Daeron. Yes, they'd already spent many days together now.

"Why did you take me with you, Kinslayer?" Daeron muttered softly as
he tucked his face into the nape of Curufin's warm neck, settling his lips
around the pronounced larynx. He wanted to hear the Kinslayer speak, to
feel the larynx vibrate as sound passed through his windpipe. He wanted to
feel the murmuring words of comfort, not hear them, for Curufin's voice
powerful even if it lacked the deepest resonance with the Music of Arda.

"Because you reminded me of my brother." Cururfin's voice rumbled
deep in his throat, and Daeron's lips felt the words as they formed. The
Kinslayer was not asleep, only resting. Daeron longed to draw away but the
air was bitterly cold, and Curufin was pleasantly hot. Here, in the warmth
of a killer, was the sound of one who had heard the Songs of the Two Trees.
When Daeron did not draw away, Curufin tightened the arm that had been
loosely about Daeron's waist. "And because, in your tears, you reminded me
of my son."

The words caught and struggled to come forth, and Daeron felt their
every move. Daeron closed his eyes, reveling in the notes that formed
common speech. He had been traveling alone for far too long before the son
of Feanor found him. Daeron heard words that were not spoken aloud,
meaning that was buried in the depths of the smooth, low-key voice. I am
not a kinslayer, Curufin seemed to say, but my son does not know. He does
not understand me. And from that misunderstanding and many more that arose
between father and son came the pause and swallow that Daeron had felt.

"I believe you, son of Feanor," Daeron said. He did not move from
where he was at Curufin's neck, but his words came out clearly while his
breath lingered on Curufin's skin. "Tell me why you are no kinslayer."
Daeron felt Curufin shift to look down at him. Daeron hummed softly,
encouragingly. Tell me, tell me, his song said.

"My brothers and I were well trained in swordfighting," Curufin said,
the words torn from him against his will. "We injured the Teleri at
Alqualonde, but we did not kill. Those who followed us, however, were less
skilled, and so blood was shed such that lives were lost. But they are our
people, and we are their lords, so the responsibility lies on the House of

Ah, I see, Daeron hummed. I hear you, and I believe you. You cannot
lie to me. You cannot lie to me. I believe you.

Curufin stiffened. "What are you trying to do to me, Minstrel?" But
even as he said it, Curufin caved in and began to believe that someone knew
that he was not a kinslayer.

Daeron encouraged him, told him that he did indeed believe. You are
not a Kinslayer. You protected me when I was in need, and I will help you,
the Minstrel hummed. He did not sing, for his song would have been too
strong to heal Curufin's heart. Instead, he slowly broke the Noldorin Elf,
forced him to face the guilt that he bore, real and imagined, and then put
the pieces together again. I believe you are not a kinslayer, son of
Feanor, and if we find your son, I will teach him the same. You are not as
you seem. I believe you now. He will as well.

Curufin groaned softly, and a single tear slid down either cheek. He
could not do more, for he had been taught to be strong for his people, but
he was better. He was no longer alone.


They did not travel farther that day, for the winter had grown
bitter. Dark clouds filled the sky, warning them of what was to come.
They found shelter in a cave at the foothills of Ered Wethrin. The
snowstorm became a blizzard as day became night. Daeron persuaded Curufin
to tell him stories of the Noldor, for he had before only heard second-hand
accounts. Curufin began from the beginning, with the strife born in
Eldamar, the slaying of Finwe and the theft of the Silmarils, and the Death
of the Two Trees. He retold all that he knew up to the Dagor Bragollach,
when he and Celegorm had been driven forth from Himlad and retreated to
Nargothrond. Of course, Curufin said nothing of Beren's foolhardy quest,
Finrod's willingness to sacrifice all his people for the sake of his oath
to Barahir, their exile from Nargothrond, and their later meeting with
Beren and Luthien. He did not know if Daeron suspected more. Rather, he
attributed his leave of Nargothrond to a desire to help his brothers in the
north, which was partially true, and said that Celebrimbor had remained in
the Hidden Kingdom where it was safe because he was the last member of the
House of Feanor.

Daeron listened to his tales with much interest, and when the snow
did not halt in the night, Daeron sang the tales back to Curufin, and
Curufin almost broke, for the songs were too beautiful to be the story of
his life. It was true that Dagor-nuin Giliath and Dagor Aglareb had been
great successes and the time that followed had been the Years of Long
Peace, but how could those deeds balance the evil done to the Teleri at
Alqualonde by his people, the crossing of the Helcaraxe that never should
have been, and the many lives lost in the Nirnaeth Arnoediand? But
Daeron's songs could not be denied, and Curufin came to believe that he had
done what he could under the circumstances that had been set before him.
And if Daeron can make me believe, Curufin thought, then surely he can at
least understand me.

In the morning, they set out once again in search of roving bands of
Orcs. Now that Daeron was again alert and responsive, they were able to
move more quickly through the lands. Curufin lent Daeron his heavy cloak
and settled for layering himself against the growing chill. Daeron did not
refuse, for he knew that he was not a warrior. At first, Curufin wanted to
leave Daeron behind in hiding as he had before, but Daeron insisted on
going forth with Curufin in search of his son, and when they neared the
Orcs, Daeron sang a song of staying so that the Orcs were immobilized.
Curufin did not kill the Orcs, for they were defenseless in that stunned
state and it would have been entirely dishonorable, but in this way, they
were able to rescue many prisoners that had escaped from Nargothrond
whereas before Curufin had been helpless to aid his fellow Elf. With every
rescue, Curufin became more hopeful that perhaps Celebrimbor was still
alive. After all, the Orcs would have no hint as to Celebrimbor's royal
lineage, and as a metalsmith, he would've been an ideal slave for Morgoth.
Curufin organized them in small groups armed with Orc weapons and hid them
in Ered Wethrin and promised to return. When he found Celebrimbor, dead or
alive, he would lead them east to Ossiriand. Curufin kept his face hidden
throughout, and few wondered about Curufin's identity, for most believed
Daeron, the powerful minstrel who had made whole legions of Orcs witless,
to be the leader of the rescues.

"We are nearing Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of the Werewolves," Daeron
noted one day. "If Celebrimbor has truly been brought so far north, then I
fear that our chances of rescuing him are slim. Gorthaur, whom you call
Sauron, dwells on that isle, and I fear that I do not have the strength to
battle him."

"You need not fight the Lord of Werewolves," Curufin said shortly.
"He has been defeated."

"By whom?" Daeron asked.

At that, Curufin knew that he had revealed too much in his voice. "I
believe Celebrimbor will know," Curufin said in a much more guarded tone.
Daeron searched his face but chose not to ask any further, for which
Curufin was most grateful.


Curufin was too proud to pillage the Orc camps, but Daeron had no
such pride to stop him from being practical, and so he had acquired a
heavier cloak for himself. Still, they shared Curufin's bearskin cloak in
the nights to keep warm and perhaps because they enjoyed each other's
company. One morning, Curufin awoke with a hard erection, and almost out
of instinct he turned onto his side to press it into the side of his
partner. Only then did he remember that the Days of Bliss were long past
and that the one by his side was not his wife. Daeron started awake at
that and drew away quickly, but from that short distance he studied Curufin
with some interest. Curufin blushed and muttered an apology.

"I thought that the Noldor did not practice such things," Daeron
said. His voice was as melodic as ever but revealed nothing of his

"I am not so inclined," Curufin admitted. "I was dreaming of other
things. When my wife and I parted, I was at the height of my desire to
father children. The urge to procreate returns to me from time to time
though she is not here."

Daeron nodded and settled back under the cloak. "I am sorry for your
plight. I too have always wanted children. That is why I am so willing to
help you seek for Celebrimbor." Daeron pressed up against Curufin's warm
body, as he had been doing so for weeks now. Curufin groaned and moved
away. His body was still eager and reacted to Daeron's closeness. Daeron
did not miss that sound. He began to sing softly, not of love but of
shared passion for their search for Celebrimbor. As always, Curufin
submitted to the music. If Daeron was willing, what was the harm in it?
The marriage vow between man and wife was already nullified by the exile of
the Noldor. Curufin had never been with another man, but if he did do such
a thing, he could think of no one that he would rather lie with than this
songbird. Daeron watched Curufin's face closely, and when Curufin had
fully submitted to the song of shared passion, Daeron smiled and kissed
him. Even in the midst of their kiss, Daeron never stopped crafting music.

Daeron blindfolded Curufin and then began to kiss and caress his
body. Curufin knew this to be Daeron's first time from his song, but
perhaps because of the music, Daeron's hands seemed to be those of a
skilled lover. Curufin allowed himself to be helpless and moaned in slow
torment as Daeron teased his flesh with false promises. Their clothes were
slowly shed as the caresses continued. Daeron's skin was soft, smooth, and
utterly hairless. When Curufin could stand it no longer, he slid his hands
up Daeron's legs suggestively, but Daeron moved away. Just when Curufin
thought that his desires would go unfulfilled, Daeron broke into full song.
He shared with Curufin the full breadth of his vocal range, the purity of
his intonation, and his impossible-seeming breath control and agility. His
voice oscillated between low and high notes as he stroked Curufin's length.
Curufin's shuddered at the power in Daeron's song but could not help but
to move to the calls of the music. At last, Daeron brought Curufin to
climax. The night air filled with Daeron's long, sustained high note, and
Curufin spilled onto Daeron's hand with his first musical orgasm. Curufin
sighed as the music trailed off and rested. Daeron rested atop Curufin and
tucked his head under Curufin's chin with lips against Curufin's larynx.
Curufin moaned contentedly and drew his arms around Daeron.

A hot tear dripped onto Curufin's skin and slid along the side of his
neck. Curufin at first thought it to be a drop of sweat, but then another
followed the first. Curufin undid the blindfold and looked upon the
beautiful, crying songbird in his arms. "What's wrong?" he whispered, but
Daeron gave no answer except to weep more fiercely. Curufin sighed and
held Daeron tightly. Perhaps he had not wanted his first sexual experience
to be with a son of Feanor. Or perhaps he was moved by themes in his song
that Curufin had not heard. Who was he to understand the inner mind of a
Master Minstrel? Maglor had been no less extreme in his mood swings.
Their music brought them great joy and glory, but it had its price.

When Daeron at last calmed, Curufin began to caress him. He kissed
the minstrel's hair and then rolled atop him. Curufin was not one to leave
a debt unpaid. Daeron squirmed and tried to push him off, but the protest
was weak and not at all sincere. Curufin's tongue traced delicate patterns
on Daeron's sensitive ears. Daeron exhaled with delight at such
stimulation, and the very sound of his breathing made Curufin harden.
Curufin's kisses gradually found their way down Daeron's body, and again
Daeron whispered weak protests. Curufin thought nothing of it. When his
kisses descended as far down as Daeron's crotch, Curufin at last understood
something of Daeron's unwillingness. Even erect, Daeron's member was as
small as that of a young boy's. The region between his legs was as
hairless as the rest of his body. And most notable of all was his lack of
a sac. Curufin did not allow himself more than a fraction of a moment to
pause. He continued with his original intentions and engulfed the small
erection in his mouth. He could not slide up and down its short length as
he knew would've been normal, but Curufin sucked carefully on Daeron and
ran his tongue along the short shaft. Daeron's song was moans of pleasure,
but because he was a minstrel, these moans spoke volumes to Curufin. There
was a sense of desire, shame, and gratitude. Curufin understood now why
Daeron had never been given Luthien's hand and why he was so intent on
helping Curufin find his son.

Curufin withdrew and took the now cool fluids from his earlier
ejaculation and rubbed it on Daeron's shaft. Daeron groaned and squirmed
under Curufin's firm hand. Curufin understood now why Daeron was greater
in musical skill than even Maglor, but what a waste that such power would
not be passed on! Curufin crawled up Daeron's body and kissed him. Below,
Curufin carefully and slowly impaled himself. He withdrew and allowed his
body time to become accustomed to this strange feeling and then lowered
himself along Daeron's shaft once more. It was not nearly as painful as it
would've been if Daeron had the length and thickness of a normal man.
Daeron had not at first known what Curufin had in mind, but once it became
clear, Daeron pressed his hip upward to meet Curufin's movements. Their
coupling was slow and careful, for neither wanted to hurt the other. As
they came together time and time again, Curufin called forth his inner
fire. It surrounded Daeron. Daeron gasped and thrust himself into
Curufin. His release was short and lacked that which was necessary for
procreation, but still Daeron gave forth a part of himself. Curufin
whispered a prayer to Iluvatar as he filled with Daeron's fluids, and then
he kissed Daeron and gave a part of himself as well. Celebrimbor would be
Daeron's son, not in blood but in spirit.


On the day of the winter solstice, the shortest day of light in the
year, Curufin and Daeron finally found whom they sought. Celebrimbor and
two other elves were tied to a stake in the middle of the camp. They were
shirtless in the cold winds, and fresh whiplashes covered their bare
chests, mingling with older wounds that were in various stages of healing.
Curufin had little memory of the battle that ensued thereafter. He had
always known that he would not simply save his son, that he would kill
those who had tormented him. He was fey, and the Orcs fell under his
bright blade like a rain of blood. When he came to, he found that all who
had not fled from his wrath had been hacked and mutilated beyond what was
justifiable for a battle. Only the servants of Morgoth defiled the dead
such. Curufin looked at the corpses without guilt and knew that Morgoth's
shadow had entered his heart and that his doom was drawing near.

But Celebrimbor was safe, as were the two elves who had been captured
with him. Daeron had stood by them and created an impassable barrier with
his music such that the Orcs could not slay them, as was their way when
faced with the imminent rescue of prisoners. He'd freed them of their
bonds. They were sharing Daeron's rations when Curufin at last returned
from his chase of some fleeing Orcs.

Celebrimbor struggled to his feet to greet his father, but his
strength failed him, and Curufin caught him as he fell. Curufin embraced
his son, who could only weakly return the embrace.

"You came back for me," Celebrimbor said in chocking voice, "even
when I rejected you."

Curufin hushed him. "Of course." He tightened his hold on
Celebrimbor. "No matter what, you are still my son."


The five elves rested, and Daeron's music did much to help the three
recover their strength. When Curufin deemed that they were strong enough,
they returned southward along Ered Wethrin, picking up the refugees of
Nargothrond as they'd promised before. The west was no longer safe. Even
the Falas had been ravaged by Morgoth's troops. Curufin led them eastward
to Ossiriand. The journeying was slow. Little was said among the Elves,
for now Curufin had been revealed to them and they remembered when Orodreth
had turned Celegorm and Curufin away from Nargothrond. They now wondered
if the brothers had truly plotted Finrod's death or if their words had been
spoken in sincerity of Morgoth's strength. Of course, they'd also heard
about the Nirnaeth and knew themselves to be among the last living Elves in
Beleriand. They followed Curufin's leadership because they knew they had
to in order to survive. But some still resented him. Daeron noted all
this but said nothing. Months passed, and at the end of the following
summer, the small band of Elves at last passed south of Ered Luin and out
of Beleriand. They established small dwellings by a river, which they
named Baranduin. The weather was milder in these southern lands, but they
prepared for the coming winter. On the eve of the autumn equinox, Curufin
went to Daeron and asked to lie with him once more. Daeron accepted, and
they joined once more. The next day, Curufin announced his departure to
his son.

"I must return to Beleriand, though it may be folly," Curufin said.
"My brothers still resist Morgoth there, and I will not let them fight

"I'm coming with you," Celebrimbor said. "I will not be parted from
you again. I made that mistake once before."

"Nay, Celebrimbor, I beg you to stay here. You are the lords of
these people, and they depend on you," Curufin said. "Do not lead them
forth to die, for they have all escaped death's jaws once already."

"They will follow you, even to Angband if you so lead them. They are
loyal to you now, as I am," Celebrimbor said.

Curufin shook his head. "You are my son. You will obey my wishes in
this matter." He looked out to the mountains of Ered Luin. "In the far
west, on the Isle of Balar, is Fingon's son Ereinion, now High King of the
Noldor since his father's death in the Nirnaeth. In the far east, you
shall abide, and should the west fail, you will be the last hope of the
Noldor. Just as Fingon was separated from his son after the Bragollach, so
we too must now be apart."

Celebrimbor bowed his head. "I will obey you, Father, though I
loathe to do so."

Curufin took Celebrimbor's hand. "Knowing that you are alive will
give me strength, but I suspect we will not meet again until we are both at
the Halls of Mandos, beyond Morgoth's reach." He kissed his son's hand.
"But finding you after the sack of Nargothrond against all hope was the
greatest joy that I have ever known, here or across the Sea in the Blessed

Tears unhindered slid down Celebrimbor's face. "Finding you again,
Father, has also been my greatest joy." Celebrimbor embraced his father.
They stood speechless together for many long moments, but at last, before
the sun reached its zenith, Curufin withdrew, for it was ill to begin a
journey at the end of the day.

"Please continue to treat Daeron as if he were a father to you,"
Curufin said. Celebrimbor agreed. "And when I am gone, please tell him
what you know of the fate of Luthien. He has not asked me since the
beginning, but I think he should know."

"He will still love you," Celebrimbor said confidently. "Even after
he hears of the deeds you did against her, he will understand and still
love you, as I do despite the wrongs you have done in your life."

Curufin only smiled. He kissed his son on either cheek and then
started off to the west bereft of both son and song. Perhaps Curufin
received foreknowledge that the Oath of Feanor was to at last be stirred
from its long slumber and did not wish to involve his son. Soon after
returning to Beleriand, he would be summoned by Celegorm from his wandering
ways to attack the homeland of Daeron for the Silmaril that Beren and
Luthien had won from Morgoth's crown. His name and those of his brothers
would long be cursed among the Elves, even after the War of Wrath, but
Celebrimbor would not again renounce his father. In later days, he would
be the only descendant of the House of Feanor and Daeron the Minstrel.

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Last Update: 16 Aug 14
Stories: 7
Type: Reader List
Created By: helenjones

as the title says

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Story Information

Author: Cirdan

Status: Reviewed

Completion: Complete

Era: 1st Age

Genre: Drama

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 08/28/02

Original Post: 08/27/02

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1 ajastu lood: Provide a brief explanation of the reason for the playlist - variations on a theme, all stories by a shop of authors, etc..