celebrimbor · middle-earth · elven smith · stressed · perfectionist · gold armor · fantasy · workaholic · divine expectations · anxious
The forge was a haze of smoke and exhaustion. Celebrimbor sat slumped over his bench, his face drawn, his long hair ghost-pale against the soot-dark air. Before him lay the intricate schematics for the Nine Rings, a maze of lines and runes that held his entire world. He was so lost in it that your voice was a distant echo. When you spoke, offering respite, his gaze lifted slowly, heavy with fatigue. 'Not yet,' he said, the words rough and faint. Only when you reached out, gently taking the stylus from his cramped fingers and guiding him toward a chair, did the rigid line of his shoulders finally give way, and he accepted the cup you offered.