Now I'm no Boromir hater, I often defend him from accusations of being a "bad guy". But he's weirdly the most commonplace in our world kind of man in Tolkien's work. He has a good heart but boy does his attitude reek of entitlement in many places. He lacks the humility to truly listen even when the wisest in Middle Earth are speaking. He seeks to push his will and if he can't reason his way into making people do what he'd like he attempts manipulation by pouting a bit "if that hasn't earned some payment then I'll go back to Minas Tirith alone." The whole trip he pushes for the ring to go to Minas Tirith no matter how much others caution him. He misses the cues to drop the topic and keeps trying to force his will upon the company. It smacks of a man trying to convince a woman to go out with him and he just ignores the cringes, the polite answers, the her removing herself from proximity, the gentle nos and when he's given a resounding no he loses his temper and gets borderline violent.
I don't think it's any coincidence that the real time seduction of the Ring on a member of the Race of Man is happening with a man who is in every way so commonplace to the men of reality. Tolkien had served in war, he'd seen the varieties of masculinity in all their shapes sizes and personalities. Who can say how many "noble fighting men" like Boromir he'd seen lose their lives some plausibly due to hubris as much as enemy missiles. Boromir is a good man but more accurately he is the perfect representation of a privileged man of our times trying to perform masculinity versus the Aragorns and Faramirs who possess the quiet confidence that they don't require thanks, submission, repayment, or accolades. The "blood of the men of Westernesse" feels like Tolkien's code for "less likely to be an entitled dick" when it comes to the trilogy.
But Boromir in spite of his flaws is still a good man, he's just a mega Chad and that needs to be acknowledged too.
this is a very interesting take in the sense that I both agree and disagree with it
I just personally think that his obstinence and even dismissal of others' opinions during the council is meant to represent the great divide between the realms
elves are wise and have lived long enough that they are constantly (rightfully) going been there, done that, but at the time of lotr have been practically in hiding and mostly watching their own asses (again, for pretty good reasons)
dwarves are actually, literally in hiding and isolation for practically forever
and when it comes to men, they have objectively been taking the grunt of Morgoth's destruction shenanigans and now, Sauron's continuation of them for a very, very long time
at the time of the council, the line of kings has been broken for a good and aragorn, while the rightful heir, is practically a very weird elf in how he's been raised. this leaves boromir as the only actual human representation in the council.
not only that, but he's the son of the steward of gondor aka the kingdom next door to mordor. this means he's the only one in that room that really knows what it means to be a scared, regular life-span human who has to wake up and face evil every day.
I'm definitely being very defensive about him, but idk, I think it's to be expected that 1) he'll lack humility in the presence of those who (in his eyes) have kinda ignored his people's suffering and are now calling upon them and 2) he'll be more easily corrupted by a vessel of evil promising to solve the very important issues those people have been facing ever since he can remember
If we get Gil-Gadaddy and Elendilf sharing a scene in trop S3 the sheer force of their Dilfness would absolutely obliterate every viewer into smithereens
I still have not yet seen Rings of Power but a clip of High King Ereinion Gil-galad belting out his sad little song just came up as a promo and frankly:
literally all of this was fucking beautiful, that I had to give my full analysis - and by analysis, i mean i rant about how much i loved this little fic series (and am on my knees begging for more @thatlittlered I'm down on my hands and knees begging for it)
from ' an almost kiss '
the dialogue? its like i can hear it in celebrimbor's voice - the softness, the reverence, the unsurety - every word of dialogue is so so beautiful !
"he laughs again - bless the valar! bless the honey of your mouth and the sharpness of your mind and whatever he has done to earn the gift of your appreciation," - like your joking? have my eyes ever read such beautiful, flowing prose before i think not. literally this was so sickeningly sweet, I've only read it like five times.
also the way that self-doubt is woven into this version of celebrimbor. the way he turns it into worship? we love to see a character that reflects your love language !!
"anything to draw the praise you so generously give, even though he tends to think his eyes are small and beady and their only possible use is looking at you." i would be on my hands and knees okay
from ' the craft '
"'your mere presence renders my soul lighter, guren vell, but I know now that what has been bestowed upon Meis not a burden, but a gift unlike no other. just as you are.'"
"'after I have proven myself worthy, perhaps you would consider staying here, with me. perhaps then I will be someone you could imagine a life with.'"
"'when all of this is over, I promise to devote myself wholly to you and only you. gerog i chûn nîn. until then...'"
he laces his fingers in your hair so gently, as if to set to work on fragile sheets of gold, but to him, any part of you is far more precious. you feel him carefully pick strands and clasp in them the lovely jewels, up until the last one. curiosity wins and you try to turn your head enough to see, only to witness him touch your hair against his lips before adding the last one.
you can literally see his fucking devotion, his reverence. god, it drives me mad with every line, and my heart is literally aching okay, dude?!!?
also the foreshadowing in this one? i need to know where the foreshadowing leads these two ! I need it like I need air to breathe.
from ' what is in a name '
just the poetic translation of melthoreth has me on my knees. she who speaks sweetly? i hope one day to be loved the way celebrimbor loves the reader in these little fics because I'm sobbing over this little chapter. UGH!
"'what should I call you then?' his kiss falls first between your eyebrows, melting the line of displeasure away. 'meleth nîn?' then on your nose, 'guren vell, as I called you on the first eve that we kissed?' and your cheek, 'or, a new name entirely.' ending with a soft touch of his lips to yours. 'melthoreth,' he whispers, 'for the honey of your mouth.'"
this. this right here is the shit I'm talking about. I'm literally sobbing, clutching my heart. like huh? the way celebrimbor would say this is so pure and soft to me, its like fucking gospel.
your free hand comes to tangle with his own, bringing it to your mouth so you might show your reverence. what has an elven-smith ever made that was important enough to have his hands kissed by holiness itself?
the trading of reverence for things that the elves typically find holy for a reverence of the reader? like its not blasphemic, its like almost better? I love that celebrimbor seems to value the things that all elves do - the sun, the stars, the moon, the valar, the light of the trees - yet, he still seems to love the reader more. ugh its heinously beautiful, and I think its one of my favorite underlying threads that strings these fics together.
from ' daffodil '
okay so this one undoubtedly is my favorite. its the one I stumbled upon first, and the one that drew me into reading the whole of the series. I realized I had read some of them before but the way that daffodil was written was enough for me to re-read the parts I'd already read and read the ones I hadn't. THIS ONE FUCKS OKAY, Y'ALL !
"'if they possessed your charm, anything they sought from their beloved, they would have.' the way that celebrimbor's love is written is so striking to me, as a fellow writer. its deep, it's steady, it's passionate - yet it is written so simply. its so fucking poetic I'm in tears.
I would add more quotes but I would just end up quoting the whole fic. GO FUCKING READ IT !!!
from ' the shadow '
first off, the fact that it goes to a quote "was it casual when you said my smile reminded you of Laurelin, the gold tree of valinor?" I screamed. you sick bastard, u/thatlittleread, I love you.
" his eyes close, 'beyond even that, as if tethered to you, ' as if sawn at the rib and torn apart, truly two halves of a whole, 'it is simply inescapable.'"
"'have you lied to the high king? to me?' never. Malthenhir is the name of he who lives only for your touch, who blooms as if a flower below the sun that is your gze. it was telperinquar, son of curufin, grandson of the great fëanor, who did. the last keeper of a certain sort of sin, long inherited; ambition. no, he has not lied. what other choice was there truly?"
"his breathing in your ear is peaceful when he kisses you, drifting asleep to the sound of your heart. none of this will matter when morning comes. he will wake, he will dress, and he will kiss you softly. he will go to the shadow."
god they are so tragic what the hell!!!! I cannot wait to see where u/thatlittlered takes this, if they plan on continuing. but I am genuinely so in love with this writing style, with the way that a tragic reverence and a sinful ambition and a wholly-consuming self-hatred underlies celebrimbor's character. it truly is the most accurate and well-written version of celebrimbor I've read in fanfic. this is beautiful in every single way and I will likely be reading it over and over again for the next week straight, at least.
this is literally the most important thing that has ever happened to me, I'm just sitting on my bed like-
I have never, ever discussed anything I've written or had it analysed to this detail, and I'm beyond thankful and touched that something I wrote awakened all these feelings, ILY 😩🩷
more under the cut because I'm just, ugh
Celebrimbor is, by my standards, the most fantastic character in all of rings of power. They made some fabulous choices in their portrayal of him, Charles Edwards carried through and beyond and while I love many other characters who are important later on as well (ex. Elrond, Galadriel), I always have a soft spot for tragic characters who, in a way, haunt the narrative long after their story is over.
It would be easy to dismiss him as an elf simply driven by ambition and hubris, but he is so much more than that and they really fleshed it out in the few scenes they had to work with. He is soft, he is tender and loving and appreciative of everything around him, so it was very important to me that anything I wrote would be true to his character, however silly it may seem.
On the other hand, I just love writing about love. It is so important to me and always has been. My favourite kind of fiction, my favourite kind of literature and poetry and everything. Love should be soft and passionate and tender, however that may look to each person. It should feel as warm and safe as I try my best to portray in what I write.
The dialogues, the characters, the dynamics might be different, but this one thing will always be the core of my thoughts and writings.
@everyone thank you so much for taking the time to read this story I have put my heart into
@oldtowrs thank you for going above and beyond and making me feel this beautiful way 🥰
oh !! my !! god !!! i love love love your celebrimbor pieces. the way you write him is exquisite. i love his shame, and his yearning. i love how you write his love, his touch, literally all of it drives me to a sickeningly sweet madness and ugh i love it and will be reblogging it to my fic recs with a full analysis later. thank you!!!! you are brilliant <3
UGH I LOVE YOU
He's so interesting to write 😩 Please tag me if you do, I wanna see 🩷
warning(s): afab!reader, spoilers for the rings of power
GIF by @fukutomichi
author's note: nurse! she's out and reading wuthering heights again!
this is chapter five of "the craft"
-.-.-
Wine flows plenty in your cups, more than one would expect from an elven celebration. Alas, it is not a day of joy only for Elves, but for Dwarves as well, united as they stand now, bound by an amicable agreement and the hope of a prosperous new day. Celebrimbor shines among you, the Lord of Eregion and Creator of the Rings, etched in time and history as of now.
You cannot tear your eyes away during his speech. From across the room, his gaze catches yours as he speaks, widening his smile. You will gladly let him have this moment for his own, relish in it while you bask in the glow of him.
‘To a lasting friendship between Elves and Dwarves.’
From the corner of your eye, Lord Annatar can be seen retiring from the company, more solemn than you would expect on such a joyous day. Celebrimbor notices as well, judging by the furrowing of his brows. Annatar is a mystery in itself, a higher being by your beloved’s words, but that is all you know about him. The cloud that shrouds him hinders your ability to trust, however helpful he might make himself. Especially so when you see the effect his departure has on Celebrimbor.
The Dwarves do not seem offended, half a mind on their cups and another half on the Seven they have been gifted - or traded, to be precise. Celebrimbor joins you where you stand, gleeful once again when he is looking only at you. His eyes fall on the still-full goblet in your hand.
‘Do you not enjoy this wine?’
You laugh, ‘Do not worry yourself with every trivial matter, my love. I will drink at the table, with you by my side.’
His hand reaches for your unoccupied one, bringing it to his lips. His gaze is soft but you can see his eyes, torn between you and the balcony. You can feel his nerves as if nestled within your own body. Perhaps love has made you One.
‘Will you see everyone to the dining room? I will join you in a moment.’
You would not deny him, not on this day. Still, your own worry for him persists.
‘I do not think my word counts as that of the Lord of Eregion does. Perhaps it is better that you do.’
‘You are to be Lady of Eregion. Your word and mine are one and the same.’ His thumb is tender on your cheek, paying no mind to whomever might be watching, ‘Please, Melthoreth.’
How can one refuse?
‘Now, let us all pass to the dining room. Wine is rather heavy on an empty stomach.’
The crowd disperses easily, led by attendants of the palace while Celebrimbor places his own cup in your empty hand. A kiss is laid on your forehead as apologies. ‘I won’t be long now,’ he whispers in your hair and you smile.
True to his word, he is not. Your Dwarven friends are happy to have him on the table, as are you, but there is something amiss, no matter how he forces his smile. His worry, now permanently nestled in your gut as your own, persists. Privacy is needed if you are to discover what the cause of it is.
-.-.-
Privacy, unfortunately, comes only in the deep of the night, when all guests have retired, sated with plenty drink and food. Celebrimbor, per his duty, escorted the Dwarven Lords to their chambers before retiring himself, to your surprise, without paying you a visit. Well then, if he will not come to you… you must go to him.
The corridors are dark and empty, yet you have grown to feel comfortable in the palace even in his absence. The certainty of his love, warmer than sunlight, embraces you everywhere you stand. You see him in the art painted on the grand walls, in the meticulous details of the chandeliers, in the corners of the ceilings carved into holly leaves. The city is his child, born of his love for every thing. Who loves he who loves all else? You must. You will protect his heart, inside your gentle hands.
For the very first time since the beginning of your nightly visits to each other, there is a guard stationed outside his door. You suppose it is to be expected, given the presence of foreign royalty in the palace. Eregion does not often host guests, especially not of the non-Elven kind. The thought makes you smile, proud of your beloved’s accomplishment. ‘A time of peace,’ he had whispered in your ear when you lay together, ‘to ensure that naught will keep us apart.’ A half-truth, for you know Celebrimbor is not one for selfish intentions, but a truth nonetheless. With the completion of the Seven, there is naught to keep you apart.
Not even Harthalion, a friend to both his Lord and you, and well aware that you are most definitely not someone he needs be guarded from. The door is held open for you as he nods in respect, bidding you goodnight.
His bedchamber is empty, bed still made and study piled with sketches and designs; undoubtedly connected to the many piles gathered in his forge. The bath chamber is where he lies, submerged in warm water, the scent of lavender filling the air. He is lost in thought, looking intently at the sliver of mithril in his hand.
‘Melda?’
The spell of pensiveness is broken, but he does not fear. Only surprise can be found in his eyes when he looks at you, his upper half riding up the water, revealing him to you as you have not yet seen him. A single pair of candles burns in the corner of the room, but he would swear their light burned brighter when you entered. There is a whisper of your name from his mouth.
His beckon draws you nearer, your hand coming to rest on his, firmly grasping the edge of the tub. His head falls upon it and his lips press on your knuckles before staying there, as if breathing in the scent of your skin. Your other hand tangles in his hair, caressing the soft locks. Water drips from it, down his cheeks where you tenderly kiss the drops off his skin. Celebrimbor melts at the comfort.
‘I thought this a night of celebration. What troubles your dear heart?’
He does not answer, emerald eyes looking up at you before returning to the precious piece of the ore. Your fingers gently cradle his jaw, bringing him back to you. ‘A burden shared is a burden halved. Do not keep from me, my love.’
‘I never can. You are half of me, it is as if I have known you all my life.’
‘Is such the ease you feel in my presence?’
His eyes close, ‘Beyond even that, as if tethered to you,’ as if sawn at the rib and torn apart, truly two halves of a whole, ‘it is simply inescapable.’
‘Do you wish to escape it?’
‘No, never.’
Your forehead comes to rest on his. ‘You are half of me as I am half of you… let me share your sorrows, as I share your joys.’
‘I am not certain it is a sorrow.’
‘What is it then?’
An unease, a concern rooted where he cannot take you. Things hide there that you do not know.
‘Annatar insists on the making of more rings.’
‘More rings? For Men?’
‘His reasoning is sound. The Realm of Men has taken the brunt of Morgoth’s destruction, that much cannot be denied.’
Your frown deepens at the thought, ‘True as it may be, they have also proven to be most susceptible to his influence. They cannot be trusted with such power, especially as evil reappears on their lands.’
‘It is that power that they need in order to banish it from them.’
Your breathing is loud in the small chamber. ‘Have you written to Lindon about it? Perhaps the High King’s opinion would help.’
There is a shift in the air at the mention of Lindon, one that cannot be missed.
‘The High King was against the creation of the Three, even when it was his own people’s last chance to remain on Middle Earth. I do not need to write to him to know his answer when it concerns peoples he does not even trust.’
‘Gil-galad is not a tyrant. A discussion would, at the very least, bring forth another perspective. Besides, he did, in time, give permission for the forge of the Three, and the Seven as well, did he not?’
Celebrimbor does not meet your eyes. An earnest child with no treacherous bone in his body, his mother had called him once.
‘I fear we do not have that time, just as we did not have it then.’
‘Malthenhir,’ your honeyed mouth wills him to look at you, ‘do not keep from me.’
‘I do not.’
‘Have you lied to the High King? To me?’
The taste is bitter on his tongue. You believe him, of course.
Never. Malthenhir is the name of he who lives only for your touch, who blooms as if a flower below the Sun that is your gaze. It was Telperinquar, son of Curufin, grandson of the great Fëanor, who did. The last keeper of a certain sort of sin, long inherited; ambition. No, he has not lied. What other choice was there, truly?
‘Annatar insists, but I have refused.’
Your frown melts away, ‘The matter has been put to rest then, why does it continue to trouble you?’
‘He will make them nonetheless.’
‘Without your oversight? That is unheard of - insulting even.’
There is a half-hearted laugh from him, ‘I do not know if one has room to be insulted by the actions of a god.’
‘If he truly is that.’
His mouth opens, but words fail him. ‘You have not seen what I have. He is no earthly being.’
‘Perhaps, but that fact alone does not grant him trust without measure.’
His hand leaves your hold, dipping back into the water that is starting to cool. There is a scar running down his chest, a marking of the First Age and his life as a warrior, now long forgotten by most, but not his skin. What he might call ambition in pursuing greatness, might just be the urge to leave the same mark on the world as it has left on him.
‘Where am I to place my trust if not in a god?’
Your hand reaches for his own again. ‘Place it in me, where you know it will never be betrayed. Your gifts are precious, Celebrimbor, they need to be protected as such.’
He hums, ‘Perhaps that is your gift; to calm a storm with only an embrace.’
‘If I could make it so, no worry would ever come to you again, my love.’
His voice breaks when he reaches for you, ‘I do not deserve such kindness.’
‘Only good things are deserved by the likes of you, Celebrimbor.’
The way he kisses you is careless - desperate. He is a man on fire and only your holy mouth can put it out. You feel him drag himself up higher in the tub, hands firmly grasping your cheeks before venturing lower. He is pulling at your arms, then your waist, trying to bring you closer. He only stops when he sees the brooch pinned on your chest. It is the holly leaf he has given you. He removes it with reverence, placing it aside. The realization makes his resolve waver, timidness overwhelming him again.
You are happy to continue for him. Your belt is shed first, then your tunic. The sheerness of your underclothes makes you glow in the candlelight. A nymph. An otherworldly being, more beautiful than any of the Children of Ilúvatar. One with a mouth so sweet, it could cause winter to melt into spring. Light to reach where darkness has been since the Dawn of Time. Do you know this of yourself? How can he tell you - show you?
He closes his eyes when you shed your final layer and join him. You think out of respect, but that is not the only reason. He is simply too weak, too overwhelmed with even the notion of your bare form. He is a weak and timid man, he thinks, but you love him nonetheless. That must count for something.
A giggle escapes that holy mouth, ‘Will you never look at me again, Malthenhir?’
His eyes open slowly. Sinful as the rest of you may be, he can look nowhere but your eyes. Eternity lies within them.
‘I would look at you forever.’
Your gaze softens, ‘Be careful what you wish for. That is time we have now.’
‘How have I kept myself from you for so long?’ his hand flies to your face, still bewitched. It dares not wander further.
‘You have been busy, with things greater than you, or I.’
‘There is nothing greater than you,’ he assures, ‘forgive me, if I have not shown you that. I often do not know how.’
‘Do not torture yourself, my love. I do not blame you for the responsibilities that were placed upon you.’
You move closer and his hand takes the opportunity to trail further, goosebumps in its entire wake. He wants to have you closer, as close as two bodies can be without morphing into one. Perhaps that would be acceptable as well, so long as he never has to part from you again. The flush of his cheeks deepens as he places both his hands below your thighs, bringing you so that there is but a breath keeping you apart. Your thighs rest on his, his large hands keeping you in place by the waist while he takes the time to look at you again.
‘How inconsiderate of the Valar… to send all these gifts my way at once.’
You smile, hands tangling in his hair again, in the way he so loves. ‘Am I a gift?’
He kisses your cheekbone, your chin, your neck.
‘The greatest I have ever been given.’
‘Love is not given, Malthenhir. It is earned, and you have earned mine.’
Adoration pours out from every inch of his body for you, his eyes are only the beginning. But, oh, how his eyes love you.
‘If only I had known you sooner.’
‘Sooner?’
He hums, his head finding the perfect home in the crook of your neck. He lays kisses there, abundant.
‘Sooner. From the moment I came to exist, if I could help it,’ his head turns to the side, kissing his way down the slope of your shoulder, ‘although in my heart, I feel I have known you forever. I simply knew not your face.’
‘You know it now, my heart. There is no use in mourning the time lost when so much of it is still left.’
He rises again to meet your eyes, ‘What if there isn’t? It was not long ago that we were threatened with extinction if we did not depart for where there is no return from.’
‘It is your own achievement that has gifted us more time. Enough to fight this war.’
‘And if we lose?’
Your frown deepens, heart breaking at the sight of him so vulnerable, ‘What do you mean, my sweet?’
‘I cannot bear the thought of being separated from you now that I’ve found you,’ he grasps your face, his expression one of anguish, ‘no longer for perhaps a day,’ he gives a bitter laugh, ‘and even that would feel as if eternity, I fear.’
‘No parting is permanent, meleth nîn. Time can only separate two for so long before they are together again.’
He shakes his head, tears escaping from his lovely eyes. Them, too, you kiss away, but they do not stop. They are a knife in you, plunged into your side and twisted so that his sorrow might drown you too. You must carry you both to shore.
‘You must never go where I cannot follow.’
‘There is nowhere I would want to go, where you cannot follow. If we are ever to be apart, it will not be of my choosing.’
You have both lost far too many, to a power than no being on Middle Earth might ever resist. The end of your time here is not for you to know, as nothing had prepared you for that of others’.
‘Haunt me then,’ he weeps, ‘do not leave me to the Shadow.’
‘Do not go to it,’ you whisper. You welcome him into your arms completely, cradling his very being in your own if that is what it takes to shield it from the horrors, ‘Seek the light leading to the Shores of the Morning. Whatever happens, we will find each other there.’
‘I cannot lose you. I have finally found you, after so long.’ His sobs are muffled against your skin.
‘You will not lose me,’ you assure him with a caress, ‘you have given me a name. You know my face, my voice. You can never lose me now… it is the tether binding us together. You need only look, and you will find me.’
His cries soften in the comfort of your embrace. The heat of your naked skin envelops him, soldering the two of you together.
You kiss him, salty tears on both of your tongues, and he returns it. Desperate again, he holds on to every part of you he can grasp, tasting you again and again until that is all his mind knows. You stay here, interlocked and connected as any two separate beings can be, parting only when the water runs cold and both candles have burned down to their wicks.
When abed, you cling to each other again. ‘For what it’s worth,’ you whisper in the deep of night, a mere hour before the Sun comes up again, ‘I will do everything in my power not to separate from you. No longer for perhaps a day, and even that would feel as if eternity, I fear,’ you repeat his words, ‘and do not worry yourself. You and I, together, will settle the matter of the Rings come morning.’
His breathing in your ear is peaceful when he kisses you, drifting asleep to the sound of your heart. None of this will matter when morning comes. He will wake, he will dress, and he will kiss you softly.
He will go to the Shadow.
-.-.-
Melthoreth = (poetically translated) she who speaks sweetly
melda = beloved, dear
Malthenhir = (poetically translated) master of golden hands
Telperinquar = the Quenya version of Celebrimbor's father-name
warning(s): gn!reader in this one, but afab!reader in previous parts
GIF by @quietparanoiac
author's note: if you look hard enough at this gif, you will see me under his apron
all parts of "the craft" can be read here
-.-.-
He seeks you out in the deep of the night, when most others should be abed. Lord Annatar himself seems to possess no such earthly need, but the smiths’ minds and bodies desperately do and he, in turn, needs their hands. He has little choice but to withdraw. Celebrimbor is happy to forego rest, if it will grant him time with you.
‘Come with me,’ is all he says. To the ends of the Earth, gladly. He offers his arm to guide you but does not rush or drag you; simply leads the way. It is a path you have walked many times over.
While in the hours of the morn, Celebrimbor always seems anxious, eager and youthful in his inability to do without your presence, the night has cast a veil of calm over him. A comforting realization that you do not disappear as if a dream when his eye is not on you, and he might be with you whenever he wishes. Wherever he wishes.
The forge seems larger, somehow, in the shadows. Colder, too, until he notices your discomfort and pulls you further to his side. No elf is known for the warmth of their body, and yet, when he holds you against the rich velvet of his robes, you’d think he was the Sun himself.
‘Bear with me,’ he whispers in your hair, ‘it will be more comfortable once I light the fire.’
You sigh when he leaves your side, even if it is only for a moment. He smiles from where he stands, across from you. The fire casts a warm glow and illuminates his figure as he stands before it. He looks beautiful.
‘What are we doing here, my love?’
You watch him move to light as many candles as can be found around the room. It must necessary, to make up for all the lost daylight. The stars are bright, but not bright enough.
‘You asked me to show you the ways of my craft. I would never deny you.’
You laugh and he approaches you again, cradling your face in his palms.
‘At the hour of the wolf?’
He frowns, ‘Are you tired?’
Your head turns to kiss the inside of his palm, ‘No, it is you I do not wish to tire. I was simply posing a suggestion, for when the opportunity and time arose.’
‘It has arisen. No one shall disturb us now.’
‘And what of your rest?’
‘I have had many years to rest. Centuries even. My days might be consumed with plenty, but my nights are to be reserved only for you.’
You cannot help but smile.
‘What are we to make then?’
‘Whatever you wish. You are the craftsman, and I, your assistant. Have you poured any thought into it?’
His tender hand moves a rogue strand of your hair, tucking it behind your ear. Believe what he may about the sharp skill of your tongue, it is incredibly difficult to think when he touches you like this. You, too, have been mercilessly affected by the long-standing illness of love.
‘I have, but I am not sure it is achievable.’
‘I shall make it so, whatever it is.’
You smile bashfully, ‘I thought I might make you a daffodil.’
‘A daffodil?’
‘Yes,’ your fingers dance with his own, interlocking, ‘it was my favourite flower in the meadow I called home so long ago.’
He smiles so sweetly. ‘And you wish to make it for me?’
‘As you have given me the leaf of holly to wear for your lovely city. Daffodils are some of the few flowers that happily grow under such a shrub. I thought it might be fitting, seeing as my heart, too, has grown so much upon my coming here.’
His eyes shine with unshed tears, overwhelmed with joy.
‘We will make it happen then.’
A chair is pulled for you by his side as he begins to work on the sketch. You peek, just over his shoulder. It is a quick, sloppy drawing by his standards, but you cannot help but marvel at how skilled he is, even at that.
‘That is perfect.’
You see his frown, ‘Are you certain?’
‘Absolutely. It is perfect just like this.’
Your hand comes to rest beside his in a caress, until the piece of charcoal falls from his hold.
‘What now?’
‘A smith would carve their mould next.’
‘Ah,’ you whisper, ‘and what would one who is neither a smith, nor a talented carver do?’ The gentle rest of your head against his shoulder is enough to make his head run empty of thoughts. ‘Would they, perhaps, seek assistance from their beloved?’
‘If they possessed your charm, anything they sought from their beloved, they would have.’
You watch in silence as he works. Skilled fingers carve out the shape of a daffodil, just as his mind had put to paper. It is impossible to look anywhere but at his hands. Hands moving with the precision that only years of love and commitment to his craft may bring. How can one look at the work of the thin blade when the candlelight illuminates the back of them, filled as they are, with prominent veins?
You wish to touch him but dare not disturb. To what end would a single touch serve any way? You must study him under proper sunlight, in a land forgotten by time, where only he and you might wander, or simply lie naked on fresh grass. A proper, thorough exploration. Every line, every mark and every scar for you to find and admire. To kiss, eternally.
Celebrimbor, bless his dear heart, seems oblivious to your distraction. Always the worshipper and never the worshipped, no more. You will make certain of it, just as he is making certain now, that the daffodil your heart desires will surpass the beauty of even those born of Ilúvatar’s thoughts. You see it in the gleam inside his eye, in the devoted concentration on his face.
His smile lights up the world when it is finished. It is hard to discern if his enthusiasm comes from a place of love for you, or for his craft. It might be both, it does not matter. You would not have him choose.
The mould is perfect when he shows you.
‘What now?’
The Elven-smith is overjoyed to be asked. Overjoyed to share this part of him with you.
‘This technique is the most trusted. It is older than you, or I, perhaps even combined.’ His gentle hold on your hand brings you closer to him, his breath warm in your ear as he places an apron on you, ‘Let us find you some gloves, I would not have you injured.’
Being Celebrimbor’s student is proving to be a much greater challenge than it initially appeared. Not for lack of skill, or guidance, but for the effect his confidence has on you. There is something in the manner he moves and speaks, something about the mess he has made of his hair by running those lovely hands through it. He must have sensed your distraction, but he makes no mention of it and his hands anchor themselves on your own, leading you toward the large canister.
‘Wax melts easily when heated, but the clay I poured around it, is resilient to fire. Once we place it in the furnace, it will melt away and leave behind an empty space in the shape we desire. Afterward, we will pour our metal in this small opening.’
‘It is a fascinating process,’ you hum, once the door of the furnace is closed.
‘Not as fascinating as watching you do it.’
You laugh, ‘I am merely following your excellent direction.’
‘Is it, excellent?’
‘Beyond excellent, I would say, but keep in mind, I might not be the most objective critic.’
‘And yet, yours is the only opinion that matters,’ he whispers close to your ear, his hands drifting lower down your arms, where your sleeves end, and skin is peeking out. The touch leaves goosebumps in its wake. ‘You are an excellent student.’
‘Truly?’
He hums positively, ‘A kiss is well-deserved, I think.’
‘I hope not for all your trainees.’
His laugh is lovesick.
‘Only for you, my love.’
He holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, letting you happily lean in. You have earned this, after all. His body always slackens when you kiss, as if falling into bed after a tiresome day. You feel it in the way he surrenders control, your soft mouth moving languidly upon his. Your tongue caresses his for a mere moment, and in that second, he lives an entire life. It is only natural he protests when you part from him.
‘Should we not keep an eye on the furnace?’
It is the intensity of his gaze that despite the lack of words assures you that, even if the entire room -the entire world- caught on fire right now, he would look nowhere else but right at you. He would simply stay here, within arm’s reach, for you to do with as you please.
‘The forge is mine to burn,’ he almost answers, yet with a playful kiss, he relents.
When the wax seems to have melted, he, alone, pulls the canister from the fire, unwilling to risk having you hurt. You watch, patiently waiting, while he removes any debris; another unbefitting job for the one he worships. Finally, it is handed to you for a more suitable task.
‘Now we must pack the clay in hot sand. Could you see to that while I alloy the metal?’ He asks it so gently, so lovingly, you almost feel bad for teasing him so.
‘I will certainly see to the task, Master Smith.’
A sound of annoyance escapes his lips before he kisses your cheek, ‘Do not call me that. Every apprentice does.’
‘Forgive me, Malthenhir,’ you turn your head, returning the kiss. His eyes soften.
The chuckle he lets out is almost a whisper.
‘I would forgive any crime if that was how you asked.’
‘I vow to never take advantage then.’
The pouring of the metal is a mesmerizing sight. Your ears catch Celebrimbor speaking, but your mind does not register the words. The elven ear is keen, but the heart is prone to distractions, especially those involving gazing at the one you love.
‘Now, the back pressure will fill out the details of the mould, and as it cools, it will draw from the gates and sprue.’
He notices, at last.
‘I thought you insisted that distraction does not a good smith make, my love.’ His expression is soft, eyes gleaming with amusement to have caught you. You, however, think he should know exactly what the subject of your fascination was.
‘I cannot help but be fixed on your hands.’
His gaze falls on the back of his palm. ‘What about them?’
You step toward him, taking hold of it within your own as your eyes meet and stay locked. You touch his fingers to your mouth, an unconventional kiss, but an expression of reverence, nonetheless. He watches as if witnessing a holy revelation.
‘They are precious hands,’ you kiss again, ‘skilled in every thing.’
The flush of his cheeks deepens, but his daring thumb remains on the cusp of your bottom lip, tracing its shape.
‘Might I kiss you again?’
‘And our work?’
His arm wraps around you, almost lifting you off your feet. His voice comes out a throaty whisper.
‘I believe our work is done for the day.’
Your forehead finds its place, pressed against his own.
‘We must retire quickly then, before dawn breaks and we’re disturbed again.’
He all but carries you to your chambers; the first night you sleep in the same bed. Celebrimbor glows under your touch, sated with kisses and whispers of love. In complete darkness, as the touch of your hand is lulling him to sleep, he murmurs that he cannot possibly wait a proper year to marry you.
Come morning, he has daffodils planted under every holly tree in the palace gardens. Evergreen holly for eternal life. Golden-yellow daffodils for hope, and new beginnings.
-.-.-
Malthenhir = (poetically translated) master of golden hands
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