Marvel: Silver Hand

The golden light of the trees from Celebrimbor's earlier memory had long since faded, replaced by a cold and oppressive silence. Alexander leaned against the cave wall, still trying to process the weight of what he'd seen. Fëanor's oath, the passion in his voice, the unwavering resolve in his sons—it all felt too vivid, too real. The younger Celebrimbor's reluctance to join in stood out like a beacon, but the oppressive shadow of his family's choices loomed large.

Celebrimbor's voice echoed in Alexander's mind, steady but firm.

"Brace yourself, Alexander. What I am about to show you is worse. Much worse."

Alexander frowned, looking at the ethereal figure of Celebrimbor as he materialized in front of him. "Worse than watching your family bind themselves to vengeance and bloodshed? What could possibly be worse than that?"

Celebrimbor's expression darkened. "The fruit of that oath. You must understand the true cost of unbridled ambition and misplaced loyalty. You must see what it truly means to follow a path soaked in blood."

Before Alexander could protest, he felt the pull again—the sensation of being wrenched from his body and plunged into another world, another time. The blinding light gave way to darkness, then to the sound of rushing waves and the faint echo of lamenting voices.

Alexander found himself standing among a vast host of Elves on a rocky shore. Ships bobbed on the waves, their sails catching the wind as the sea crashed against the docks. The night sky was clear, stars shimmering above like distant watchers to the events unfolding below.

He looked down at himself and realized he was once again inhabiting the younger Celebrimbor's body. He could feel the tension in his limbs, the unease churning in his stomach as he stared at the scene before him.

"This is the Flight of the Noldor," Celebrimbor said in his mind. "My grandfather led our people out of Valinor, defying the Valar themselves, in pursuit of vengeance against Morgoth. It was a time of pride and folly."

The host began to move, marching toward the ships with an air of determination. Alexander could hear the whispers and murmurs around him, voices filled with doubt and fear. But above all, there was the unyielding resolve of Fëanor, whose commanding presence seemed to drive the crowd forward.

Alexander's attention was drawn to the sound of raised voices ahead. As the Noldor approached the harbor, they were met by another group of Elves—tall, proud figures whose silver banners fluttered in the wind. Their leader stepped forward, his expression stern as he raised a hand to halt Fëanor's advance.

"Who are they?" Alexander asked.

"The Teleri," Celebrimbor replied. "The people of the sea. They refused to aid us, refused to lend us their ships. My grandfather… did not take their refusal lightly."

The air grew thick with tension as Fëanor exchanged words with the Teleri leader. The argument escalated quickly, voices rising in anger until, suddenly, swords were drawn.

It happened so fast. One moment, the two sides were shouting, and the next, blades were clashing. The Noldor surged forward, their numbers overwhelming the Teleri as chaos erupted along the shore.

Alexander was horrified. "They're killing their own kind!" he shouted.

"Yes," Celebrimbor said grimly. "The first Kinslaying. A stain on our history that can never be erased."

The younger Celebrimbor stood frozen, his sword in hand but unmoving. Around him, the sounds of slaughter filled the air—shouts, screams, the clash of steel, and the sickening crunch of blades meeting flesh. Blood stained the white sand as the Teleri fought desperately to defend their ships, but they were no match for Fëanor's host.

Alexander could feel the younger Celebrimbor's horror, his revulsion at the sight of his kin murdering one another. He wanted to look away, to close his eyes and shut out the carnage, but the memory would not let him. He was forced to watch as the Noldor cut down the Teleri, their bodies falling into the crimson-stained surf.

"Why are you showing me this?" Alexander demanded, his voice trembling with anger.

"To teach you a lesson," Celebrimbor replied. "Even the wisest, even the noblest, can fall to darkness when their hearts are consumed by ambition and vengeance. Never trust anyone fully—not even those closest to you. Trust must be earned, not given blindly."

The memory lingered, the screams echoing in Alexander's ears, before finally fading to black.

When Alexander's vision cleared, he found himself in a very different scene. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blood, and the sky was a roiling mass of grey clouds. The younger Celebrimbor stood among a group of armored Elves, their faces grim as they prepared for battle.

"Where are we now?" Alexander asked.

"Beleriand," Celebrimbor said. "After the Flight of the Noldor, my family's followers made an encampment here. But Morgoth, the Dark Lord, did not leave us in peace. His forces attacked us, and we were forced to defend ourselves."

The sound of horns blaring in the distance shattered the tense silence. Moments later, the ground seemed to shake as a horde of Orcs emerged from the treeline, their guttural cries filling the air. They charged toward the Elven encampment with savage ferocity, their weapons glinting in the dim light.

The younger Celebrimbor drew his sword, his grip steady despite the fear in his eyes. Alexander felt his heart race as the Elves formed ranks, preparing to meet the oncoming tide.

"Fight, Alexander," Celebrimbor said. "Feel what it's like to face the horrors of war."

The Orcs crashed into the Elven line, and chaos erupted. Alexander's body moved instinctively, slashing and parrying as the younger Celebrimbor fought with practiced precision. Each swing of the sword felt heavy, each impact jarring as he cut down one Orc after another.

The battlefield was a nightmare. Blood sprayed through the air as swords clashed and bodies fell. The screams of the dying mingled with the growls of the Orcs, creating a cacophony of agony and rage. Alexander felt every blow, every wound, every drop of sweat and blood as if it were his own.

An Orc lunged at him, its jagged blade aimed for his throat. Younger Celebrimbor sidestepped the attack and drove his sword into the creature's chest, the blade piercing through its armor with a sickening crunch. He pulled the sword free, blood dripping from the blade, and turned to face the next attacker.

Alexander lost track of how many Orcs he killed. Dozens, perhaps more. The fighting was relentless, and the stench of death was overwhelming. His arms ached from the effort, his body screaming in protest as he pushed himself to keep going.

By the time the battle was over, the ground was littered with corpses. The younger Celebrimbor stood amidst the carnage, his armor splattered with blood and his sword trembling in his hand.

The memory faded, and Alexander found himself back in the cave. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as the weight of what he'd experienced hit him like a tidal wave. His stomach churned, and he vomited onto the floor, the bitter taste of bile burning his throat.

Celebrimbor appeared beside him, his expression cold. "Get up."

Alexander wiped his mouth, glaring at him. "What the hell was that? Why would you put me through that?"

"Because this is what it takes," Celebrimbor said sharply. "You want revenge? You want to take down Ryan and Vanessa? Then you must understand what you're walking into. You will face horrors like this—and worse. If you're not prepared, you'll die."

Alexander clenched his fists, anger and determination burning in his chest. "I don't care how hard it is. I'll do whatever it takes."

Celebrimbor's expression softened, just slightly. "Good. Then let us continue. There is much more to learn, and time is short."

Alexander nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow as he steeled himself for what was to come. The path ahead was dark, but he would not falter. He would finish what he'd started—and he would make Ryan and Vanessa pay.