Marvel: Silver Hand

The golden and silver light of the two trees bathed Alexander in warmth and tranquility. Their luminous branches stretched high above, shimmering with an ethereal glow. He could feel their power deep in his soul—a calming presence that seemed to momentarily soothe the chaos within him. For the first time in days, he felt at peace.

As he marveled at the trees, he felt a hand gently rest on his shoulder. Startled, he turned to see a man standing beside him. The stranger was strikingly handsome, with piercing grey eyes that mirrored his own. Long, dark hair framed his sharp cheekbones, and his pointed ears revealed his Elven nature. He radiated an air of elegance and authority that left Alexander momentarily speechless.

Before Alexander could speak, he heard Celebrimbor's voice in his mind.

"That is my father, Curufin—one of the greatest Elven smiths of all time."

Alexander blinked in shock, struggling to process what he'd just heard. "Your father? Wait, why is he looking at me like that?"

"This is one of my memories, Alexander," Celebrimbor explained. "You're seeing through my younger self's eyes. You have no control here—it will play out as it did long ago."

Alexander opened his mouth to argue but found himself unable to speak. His body moved on its own, responding to Curufin's command.

"Come, Tyelpë," Curufin said, his voice calm yet firm.

"Yes, Father," Alexander heard himself say, though the words weren't his own. He realized Celebrimbor had been right—he was merely a passenger in this memory.

Curufin led them toward a massive building in the distance. As they approached, Alexander couldn't help but admire its grandeur. The structure was unlike anything he'd ever seen, its intricate architecture shimmering with an otherworldly brilliance. Every detail seemed to sing of craftsmanship beyond mortal comprehension.

When they entered, Alexander's breath caught. The forge within was vast, its walls lined with tools and materials of unimaginable quality. The air was warm, filled with the comforting hum of magic and metal. At the center of the room stood another man, taller than Curufin and somehow even more commanding in presence. His features were similar to Curufin's, though his beauty was more intense, his movements fluid and precise. The glow of the forge's flames danced off his face, giving him an almost divine appearance.

Curufin greeted the man with a slight bow. "Father."

The younger Celebrimbor followed suit. "Grandfather."

Alexander felt a spark of awe as he turned to Celebrimbor within his mind. "Who is that?"

"That is Fëanor, my grandfather," Celebrimbor replied, his tone reverent yet tinged with sorrow. "He was the mightiest of all the Elves—the greatest smith to have ever lived. Even I and my father could never match his brilliance."

Alexander's eyes widened. "The greatest smith of all time? Even better than you?"

"Yes," Celebrimbor admitted. "He surpassed me by miles. Everything I know, everything I accomplished, was built on the foundation of what he and my father taught me. Watch closely—there is much to learn from this memory."

"Today, we begin the next step of your training," Fëanor said, his voice smooth yet commanding. "You have potential, Tyelpë, but potential means nothing without skill. We will see if you are worthy to carry on the legacy of our house."

Younger Celebrimbor nodded, his expression determined. "I'll do my best, Grandfather."

Fëanor's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Your best will not suffice, but it is a start. Curufin, prepare the materials."

Curufin moved with practiced ease, gathering tools and raw materials from the forge. Fëanor stepped forward, his eyes gleaming as he began to explain the art of smithing. He spoke of balance and precision, of the importance of imbuing one's will into the metal. Every word was filled with a passion that bordered on obsession.

Alexander absorbed the lessons through younger Celebrimbor's eyes, feeling the rhythm of each hammer strike, the careful application of heat, the delicate shaping of the metal. It was as if he were the one learning, his mind expanding with each moment.

After hours of instruction, Fëanor and Curufin stepped back. "Now, Tyelpë," Fëanor said, gesturing to the forge. "Show us what you have learned. Forge a dagger."

The younger Celebrimbor hesitated but nodded. He gathered the materials and set to work, his movements cautious at first. Alexander could feel his nerves, the weight of his family's expectations pressing down on him. But as the work continued, Celebrimbor's confidence grew. Each hammer strike felt more precise, each motion more fluid.

Four hours later, the dagger was complete. It gleamed in the light of the forge, its design elegant yet practical. Celebrimbor held it up, his heart pounding as he awaited their judgment.

Curufin examined the dagger closely, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. "It is a fine blade. You have potential—perhaps more than I did at your age."

Fëanor took the dagger next, running his fingers along its edge. A rare smile crossed his face. "Well done, Tyelpë. You may yet surpass your father."

The younger Celebrimbor's chest swelled with pride, and Alexander couldn't help but share in the feeling. For a moment, he felt like he truly belonged to this world of masterful craftsmanship and familial legacy.

The memory shifted, and Alexander found himself in the forge once again. Ten years had passed, and the younger Celebrimbor was now taller and stronger, his movements more assured. He worked tirelessly at the forge, the sweat on his brow glistening in the firelight.

"What is he making?" Alexander asked Celebrimbor.

"My greatest creation during my younger years," Celebrimbor replied. "A sword I named Aranwrath. It was a masterpiece—a blade fit for a king."

Alexander watched as the younger Celebrimbor poured his heart and soul into the sword's creation. Every detail was painstakingly crafted, every imperfection smoothed away. The process was grueling, but the result was breathtaking. The sword gleamed with a brilliance that seemed to reflect the very essence of its maker.

When the sword was finished, Celebrimbor held it up, his eyes shining with a mixture of pride and exhaustion. Alexander could feel the immense satisfaction radiating from him, as if the blade itself were an extension of his being.

The memory shifted again, and the warmth of the forge was replaced by a chilling darkness. The sky was clouded, and a somber tension hung in the air. Alexander found himself standing among a massive crowd of Elves, their faces grim and uncertain.

At the center of the gathering stood Fëanor, Curufin, and six other Elves. They were armed, their swords glinting in the dim light. The younger Celebrimbor stood nearby, his expression a mixture of confusion and dread.

"Who are those six?" Alexander asked.

"My uncles," Celebrimbor replied. His voice was heavy, laden with regret. "This is one of the darkest moments of my life. My grandfather, my father, and my uncles are about to make a terrible mistake—the Oath of Fëanor."

As Alexander watched, Fëanor raised his sword, his voice ringing out over the crowd. He spoke with fiery passion, vowing to reclaim the Silmarils, the jewels he had crafted and lost. One by one, his sons swore the same oath, their voices filled with conviction.

But the crowd was not unified. Whispers of dissent rippled through the assembly, and Alexander could feel the unease in the air. The weight of the oath was palpable, its consequences looming like a shadow over the gathered Elves.

Younger Celebrimbor stood frozen, his hands trembling as he watched his family pledge themselves to a path of blood and vengeance. The memory ended abruptly, leaving Alexander with a sense of foreboding that lingered long after the scene faded.

Alexander found himself back in the cave, the glow of Celebrimbor's memories fading. He sat in silence, his mind racing with everything he had witnessed.

"That was… a lot," he said finally, his voice shaky.

Celebrimbor appeared beside him, his expression somber. "I warned you that my memories would not all be pleasant. You have seen the heights of my family's skill, but also the depths of their folly."

Alexander nodded, running a hand through his hair. "I need a minute. That was… intense."

"Take your time," Celebrimbor said. "There are more memories to show, but you must be prepared for what comes next."

As Alexander leaned back against the cave wall, he couldn't shake the feeling that his journey was only just beginning—and that the lessons of the past would be crucial in shaping his future.