Master of the Craft
The halls of Aulë stretched vast and deep, carved from the bones of the world itself. Here, the air was thick with the scent of metal, stone, and fire, humming with the sound of hammers striking anvils. Unlike the wilds of Oromë, the twilight of Irmo's gardens, or the shifting, living forests of Yavanna, this was a place of order—a place where raw matter was subdued and given form by will, skill, and craft.
Alcaron stood before the forge, clad in the sturdy garments of a smith rather than the finery of a prince. The heat was relentless, but he did not flinch. He had learned endurance from Tulkas, balance from Nessa, and the way of the hunt from Oromë. He had shaped wood and guided growth under Yavanna's hand. He had walked among the souls of the dead and understood their fates under Námo and Vairë. He had borne sorrow in the halls of Nienna and emerged stronger.
But here, standing before the master-smith of the Valar, he was but a student once more.
Aulë placed a chunk of raw metal on the anvil before him—a dull, unshaped mass, unyielding as the mountain from which it was hewn. The Vala's voice rumbled like stone grinding against stone:
"Forge a blade, Alcaron. Take the raw ore and shape it. Show me what you have learned."
It was a simple task, one that he had done before in his father's halls. The Noldor were no strangers to the forge. He had worked metal as a prince of his people, his hands trained to the hammer and chisel worked with this Valar before. But here, before Aulë not as a smith of the Noldor, but as a student of might and magic, he would prove his mastery—not just as a craftsman, but as one who had walked the path of the Ainur and learned their ways.
Alcaron grasped the metal and set it into the forge, watching as the heat consumed it. He had learned from Yavanna to guide life with his will, to encourage growth with his fëa. He had learned from Estë the ways of healing, of channeling power to mend that which was broken. And so, he reached into himself and called upon his spirit, willing the metal to yield, to listen, to take shape beneath his hands as the trees did when he sang to them.
The metal did not respond.
Frowning, he pushed harder, his fëa surging into the task, pouring into the molten iron like water into parched earth. He felt the substance shift, felt it tremble as his power sought to take hold of it. He reached out as he had done with the saplings of Yavanna, as he had done with the spirits under Námo's gaze, expecting the metal to recognize his will and obey.
Instead, the molten iron snapped under the force of his command, breaking apart in an explosion of slag and fire. Sparks flew, the forge roared, and Alcaron staggered back, feeling as if he had struck an immovable wall.
Aulë had been watching in silence, but now the Vala stepped forward, shaking his head. He gestured to the ruined metal, its form shattered beyond repair.
"You have learned to guide life," he said, "but metal does not listen. It must be shaped with skill, not will. If you force it with your spirit, you do not forge a blade—you create a piece of yourself in the form of metal. And that is a danger no smith should ever allow."
Alcaron stared at the ruined ore, his brow furrowed. "I only meant to shape it, to guide it. Why did it break?"
Aulë's eyes gleamed like the heart of the forge. "Because you sought to make it yield to you, rather than to understand its nature. You treated it as a tree bending to the wind, as a song waiting to be sung. But this—" he gestured at the metal "—is not like the living things Yavanna nurtures, nor the souls that Námo tends. It is earth and stone, the foundation of Arda itself. It does not move on its own. It does not grow, nor listen, nor obey."
He picked up a hammer and placed it in Alcaron's hand.
"It must be shaped by knowledge, not force."
Alcaron exhaled slowly, gripping the hammer as he looked at the forge. His fëa had been too strong, too direct. He had poured himself into the work as he had with the trees, as he had with the fates of the spirits in Námo's halls. He had expected the metal to respond, to take shape as an extension of himself.
But the lesson was clear: to bind one's fëa too deeply into an object was to risk being bound to it in turn.
If the object was lost, stolen, or destroyed, it would take a piece of the creator with it. If he continued down this path—if he poured his soul into every sword he forged—then each blade would carry his essence, and should one fall to corruption or ruin, it would wound him in ways that no healer, not even Estë, could mend.
Alcaron took up another piece of raw ore and set it into the forge once more. This time, he did not push his fëa into it. Instead, he watched. He listened—not with his spirit, but with his mind. He observed how the metal changed under heat, how it glowed from within, how it softened not under his command, but because of the laws that governed the world itself.
He lifted the metal, placed it upon the anvil, and struck it not with will, but with knowledge. Each strike of the hammer shaped it—not by force, but by understanding. He worked with the metal, not against it.
And slowly, the blade began to take form.
Aulë watched as Alcaron worked, his strikes now precise, controlled. The raw ore that had once shattered beneath his reckless will now flowed beneath his careful hands. It was no longer a battle of dominance—it was a conversation between smith and steel.
When at last Alcaron lifted the blade, Aulë nodded in approval.
"You have learned the first truth of the forge: metal is not clay to be molded, nor a beast to be tamed. It does not yield to command. It only becomes what it must be through patience, skill, and knowledge."
Alcaron turned the blade in his hands, feeling its weight, its balance. The firelight gleamed along its edge, and for the first time, he saw it not as an extension of himself, but as something whole unto itself—something that could exist beyond him.
He understood now. To create was not to possess. To shape was not to control.
Aulë gave a final word of warning: "Beware the temptation to pour yourself too deeply into your work. If you bind your fëa to a thing, it is no longer just a blade or a jewel—it is a part of you. And if it is lost, so too shall be a piece of your soul."
Alcaron bowed his head, absorbing the lesson. He had mastered the first step, but he knew there was still much more to learn.
Aulë stood before the great anvil, the heart of his forge, where countless wonders had been wrought since the beginning of Arda. The firelight gleamed off the silver rings he placed upon the metal surface—two identical bands, so alike that no mortal eye could discern one from the other.
He turned to Alcaron, his gaze deep as the roots of the world.
"Tell me, child of the Noldor, which of these rings is the greater?"
Alcaron stepped forward, studying them both. They were flawless in craftsmanship, polished to a mirror sheen. No mark distinguished one from the other, no flaw betrayed a secret. He hesitated, then reached out with his spirit, seeking to feel what his eyes could not see.
A flicker—faint yet unmistakable—brushed against his own fëa. One of the rings was not merely silver. It was more. It hummed with a presence, as if it had life within it.
He pointed to that one. "This ring carries power," he said. "Its maker wove something of themselves into it."
Aulë nodded. "You have chosen truly."
He lifted the ring Alcaron had chosen and held it between his fingers. The firelight played across its surface, but something darker lurked beneath—something that was not meant to be there.
"The one who forged this ring was a smith of great skill," Aulë said. "But he was not content to create something that would simply endure. He wished to make it more than metal and form. He wished it to hold his essence, to be bound to him as a child is to its parent."
He set the ring back down and placed his hand over it.
"And when the ring was shattered, so too was he."
Alcaron's breath caught. "He died?"
Aulë's voice was quiet but firm. "Not in body, but in spirit. When the metal broke, it took with it a part of his fëa—ripped from him as a branch torn from a living tree. And what was left behind was hollow. The wound never healed."
Alcaron looked again at the ring, a cold unease settling over him. He had heard tales of great artifacts that carried the power of their makers, relics imbued with might beyond their material form. Such things had always seemed glorious, proof of mastery. But now, he saw the shadow that lay behind them.
Aulë gestured to the second ring, the one that held no such power.
"This was made with equal skill, with steady hands and a keen mind. But its maker did not pour his spirit into it—only his craft, his will, his understanding. And so, when the smith laid down his hammer, the work was finished. It did not call to him. It did not hold him. It was complete, and it could be given freely, lost, or broken without harm to the one who shaped it."
Alcaron frowned. "But if binding one's fëa makes a creation mightier, why should we not do so? Do we not put our heart into all that we make?"
Aulë's gaze sharpened. "There is a difference, Alcaron, between putting your heart into your work and putting your soul into it."
He took up the bound ring once more, holding it between thumb and forefinger.
"To put your heart into a creation is to labor with passion, to shape with love, to strive for excellence. But to put your fëa into it—to bind yourself to it—that is something else entirely. Then it is no longer merely a thing of your making. It becomes a part of you."
His fingers tightened, and a hairline crack split along the silver band.
Alcaron felt it. Not in his body, but deep in his spirit, like a thread of sorrow plucking at his fëa. He gasped and took a step back.
Aulë nodded grimly. "Do you see? Even without making it, even without truly binding yourself, you could feel the strain of what had been done."
He placed the ring back onto the anvil and rested his great hands upon it.
"A smith may take pride in their craft, but they must never become a slave to it. If you bind your fëa to what you create, then you are forever chained to it. If it is stolen, it is as if you are stolen. If it is wielded for evil, then you become its unwilling accomplice. If it is broken, it will shatter more than metal—it will break you."
The weight of the words settled over Alcaron. He thought of the works of the Noldor, of the treasures they shaped, of the glory they sought through the labor of their hands. He had always believed that the greatest works came from the deepest passion. But now, he saw the peril that lay hidden within that fire.
"Then how do we create truly?" he asked, his voice quieter. "How do we pour ourselves into our work without becoming bound to it?"
Aulë smiled, and it was not the smile of a master who had won an argument, but of a teacher who saw his student reaching understanding.
"By putting your fëa into the process of creation, not the object, the creation itself. By shaping with wisdom, not possession."
He gestured around them—to the vast halls of the forge, to the great pillars that upheld the mountain, to the works of stone and steel that would endure beyond the ages.
"These are my works," Aulë said. "I shaped them, I labored over them, I poured my will into their making. But they are not me. If they are destroyed, I will mourn them, but I will not be lessened. Because I gave them my craft, my thought, my love—but I did not give them myself."
Alcaron looked once more at the rings. One was mighty, but cursed. The other was simple, yet enduring.
And he understood.
To create was an act of devotion, but not of possession. The work must be made to exist beyond its maker—to be shaped and released, not clutched and held. A creation bound too closely to the fëa of its maker could never be truly free. And neither could the maker.
He exhaled, feeling the lesson settle into him like tempered steel cooling in water.
Aulë placed a hand upon his shoulder. "Now that you understand the peril of binding your fëa," Aulë said, "it is time you learn the true nature of power in creation."
He gestured to the table beside him, where three objects lay: a sword of dark steel, an amulet set with a deep-blue gem, and a golden circlet, plain but radiant.
"These were made by hands skilled in craft, yet they are more than mere metal and stone. They bear power, though not the kind that would consume their maker."
Alcaron studied them, reaching out with his senses. Unlike the silver ring that had once been bound to a smith's fëa, these objects did not pull at him. They did not whisper with an unnatural presence, nor did they feel alive. And yet, he could tell—they were not ordinary.
Aulë picked up the sword first.
"There are many ways to make an object mighty without surrendering to it. This blade, for instance, is no ordinary weapon. It has been sung into being, its very metal woven with a Song of Sharpness. The edge will never dull, nor will rust ever touch it."
He ran a finger along its keen edge, and Alcaron swore he saw the air itself split like silk where it passed.
"But it does not carry a piece of my fëa, nor of its maker's. It does not bind us. It simply is—a blade made stronger by knowledge and will, not by sacrifice."
He set the sword down and lifted the amulet.
"This bears a different kind of power," Aulë continued. "The stone has been enchanted with the essence of the sea. Whoever wears it will feel the tides in their blood, will never be lost upon the waters, and may even calm the storms around them."
Alcaron's eyes widened. "But how? If it is not bound to its maker, where does its power come from?"
Aulë smiled. "From the Song itself. Every element of this world has a voice, if one has the ears to hear it. Fire sings of hunger and change. Water sings of flow and patience. Stone sings of endurance and memory. A skilled smith—or a wise enchanter—can weave these songs into their work. A blade may bear the song of the wind to make it swifter. A shield may hold the song of the mountain to make it unyielding. These things are given power, but they do not take from their maker."
Alcaron nodded slowly, beginning to see.
Finally, Aulë took up the golden circlet.
"And here," he said, "is where you must understand the true mastery of binding."
He held the circlet in his great hands, and Alcaron felt something shift—not in the world around him, but in his own presence. It was as if the very air recognized the crown in Aulë's grip.
"This was made not just with skill, nor only with the Song of the elements, but with a binding that is unlike the ones I warned you of."**
He placed the circlet on his brow, and in an instant, the forge felt different. The fire burned brighter, the anvils gleamed with a deeper light, the very air seemed aware of Aulë's presence.
"This circlet is bound," Aulë said, "but it is not tied to me—it is tied to my authority."
Alcaron's eyes widened in understanding.
"You mean—this binding is not of fëa, but of will."
Aulë nodded. "Exactly. A smith may forge an item and bind it to themselves without binding themselves to it. The connection flows only one way. This is how kings forge crowns that hold their power, how warriors wield swords that answer only to them, how doors remain locked to all but their rightful master."
He removed the circlet and set it down. The moment he did, the forge returned to its usual state, the heightened presence fading like a receding tide.
"This kind of enchantment allows power to flow through an object without making it a prison for its maker. It is mastery over creation—not servitude to it."
Alcaron pondered this deeply. He had seen artifacts of great power before, and he had always assumed that the mightiest among them carried a piece of their maker within them. But now, he understood:
Power was not in sacrifice. Power was in understanding.
And he, more than most, had knowledge beyond even Aulë's sight.
He closed his eyes, feeling the echoes of his dreams—the visions of another world, a place beyond the Song of Arda. There, magic worked in strange ways, unbound by the limits of this realm. He had always thought those dreams were gifts of foresight, visions of possibilities.
But now he wondered—perhaps they were instructions.
He opened his eyes and met Aulë's gaze.
"I think I can do more than this," he said.
The Smith of the Valar raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Alcaron's voice was steady. "I have seen enchantments in my dreams—bindings of a different nature, methods beyond what even you describe. If I can weave them into my craft, I believe I can create something…new."
Aulë studied him for a long moment, then let out a rumbling chuckle.
"Good," he said, clapping a heavy hand upon Alcaron's shoulder. "Then it seems I still have something to learn from you as well."
Seventy-eight years had passed since Alcaron first stepped into the halls of Aulë. Seventy-eight years of fire and steel, of sweat and song, of lessons in power, restraint, and mastery. No longer was he the eager, reckless pupil who had once tried to command metal as he had commanded life and fate. Now, he was a true craftsman—one who understood not just the act of creation but the wisdom behind it.
And now, Aulë had given him one final task.
"Create something," the Vala had said. "Something that holds all you have learned here, a work that is truly yours."
Alcaron had hesitated at first. A sword? A crown? A great amulet? But no… these were symbols of power, of rule, of might. They were not what he wished to leave behind as the mark of his mastery.
Then he remembered something Aulë had shown him long ago—an object simple in form, yet infinite in meaning. A ring.
Or better yet, two rings.
One for himself. And one for Nimloth.
Not as mere adornments, nor even just as tokens of love, but as a bond, a reflection of all that he had learned. Rings, unlike weapons, were not meant to wound. Unlike crowns, they did not demand dominion. They were personal, close to the skin, ever-present. A symbol of connection, a promise unbroken.
And so, he set to work.
For days and nights, Alcaron labored in silence, his hands steady, his will unwavering. The forge burned with a light not of this world as he wove into the metal all that he had mastered—the precision of a smith, the wisdom of a dreamer, the restraint of one who knew the perils of creation.
He chose mithril as the base, for it was light yet unyielding, gleaming like captured starlight. Into the molten silver-white metal, he wove songs—Songs of Strength, of Beauty, of Harmony. But more than that, he wove in the knowledge of enchantment from Aulë and from his dreams: of power that did not bind the maker but made it so, that the rings and their power may only respond to him and those that he deemed worthy.
Their bond was one-sided—they were bound to Alcaron, but he was not bound to them. No force, no being, could claim them from him. He alone could choose who was worthy to wear them, and at his command, they would fall from any unworthy hand.
The rings shimmered as he worked, the metal responding not with hunger, but with obedience. They were not alive, they had no will, only purpose.
And thus, the rings became more than mere adornments.
They held within them the touch of all four elements.
Air flowed through the rings, granting the wearer a lightness of step, a grace to their movements, and a voice that carried with quiet command.Water murmured in their depths, a soothing presence that calmed anger and brought clarity to clouded thoughts.Earth lent them resilience, a hidden strength that would not falter, that would not break.Fire flickered at their core, a warmth that did not burn but inspired, kindled courage, and banished despair.
But these were only glimpses of their true power, power that would come to the wearer that Alcaron deemed worthy.
For in Alcaron's hands alone, the rings became something else entirely.
When he wielded them, they did not merely grant affinity with the elements—they answered him as if he were one of the Ainur themselves.
With but a thought, the winds would rise at his call, bending to his will as if he were Oromë upon the hunt or Manwë in the Air. The seas would stir, the waves obeying his voice as they would Ulmo's. The earth would shift beneath his feet, the very mountains bowing to his command. And fire—fire would blaze at his touch, leaping forth like the wrath of Aulë himself.
And yet, unlike the creations of Melkor, Alcaron's did not seek dominion over life. He had learned to guide, not to rule. To shape, not to consume and so too had he shaped his creations.
This was mastery, not bondage. Power, but not corruption.
And when the final hammer blow fell, the rings were done.
Even Aulë stood in solemn awe.
"You have surpassed all that I could have foreseen," the Vala rumbled, turning the rings over in his massive hands. "These are not just great works, Alcaron. They are perfect."
When Aulë held them aloft, they gleamed like twin stars, alike in craftsmanship yet each unique in design.
Alcaron's ring was a thing of stark beauty. Its band was wrought of mithril and obsidian, the dark veins running through the silver like the meeting of light and shadow, as the Noldor themselves walked between wisdom and pride. The Elven runes upon it were not carved but woven into the metal itself, shifting ever so slightly, their meaning changing like whispers upon the wind. At its center sat a gem of deep blue sapphire, polished smooth, gleaming with an inner light like the depths of the sea at twilight. When he slipped it onto his finger, it pulsed, as if recognizing its master.
Nimloth's ring was its reflection, yet wholly its own. The band was slender, its mithril interwoven with pearl, its surface etched with delicate ripples, like waves caressing the shore. Along it, slivers of opalescent moonstone shimmered, catching the light in hues of blue and silver, gleaming as though kissed by Telperion's last light. At its heart rested a single white diamond, pure and clear, reflecting not just the stars above, but the depth of the love he bore for her.
Aulë studied them for a long moment before turning his gaze to Alcaron.
"These are unlike any I have seen," he murmured. "They are powerful, yet restrained. They will answer to you and those you deem worthy, but they will not consume. You have done what few ever achieve, Alcaron—you have created without losing yourself."
He looked down at the elf before him, pride glinting in his deep-set eyes. "You are no longer just my pupil. You are a true master of the forge. And perhaps, in time, even I will learn from you, more than I already have."
Alcaron bowed his head, but there was no arrogance in his heart—only satisfaction, a sense of completion. He had come seeking knowledge, and now he left with more than he ever imagined.
The rings were done. His time in the forge had ended.
(AN: So I kinda hated this Amazon trash, and as I watched it and thought about this story, I thought, why not let Alcaron create the First Rings of Power and let Celebrimbor try to replicate them and Sauron do the same, but neither had the training that Alcaron had. Yes, Sauron, or Mairon, was a Maiar of Aule, but he never had the training that Alcaron had because why should he? They are in completely different situations. The Valar have declared that Alcaron is to learn from them, but Mairon only had to learn from Aule, and then there were no solo lessons, but lessons that all the Maiar of Aule took, and most of them worked alone anyway and just identified with Aule's teachings more than with the others, or at least that is what I tell myself thinking about this. Anyway, I'm rambling. I hope that explanation works and is somewhat fine with the lore.)