#I SWEAR THE CELEBRIMBOR GIRLIES ARE ALL ON ONE WAVELENGTH!!!!!!

[morganas-pendragons]

ME @ THIS FIC

what is in a name | celebrimbor

warnings: afab!reader, no spoilers

GIF by @winterswake

author's note: quoting shakespeare in a celebrimbor fic, I am the devil :) special thanks to @morganas-pendragons for being a babe and helping me pick names

all parts of "the craft" series can be read here

-.-.-

 ‘Man cárat, Hîr vuin?’

 The book in your lap lies abandoned when Celebrimbor steps out from the shadow of your room, flustered to have been caught staring. Your keen ear forestalls any knock on your door, and it seems that the Lord of Eregion himself cares little for impropriety, if it will bring him to you faster.

 ‘I was watching you.’

 You smile for him, always.

 ‘What for?’

 ‘To commit you to my memory.’

 ‘Our memory does not fail. You will not forget me.’

 ‘Perhaps, but I wish to be able to recall every detail. Every strand of your hair. Every bead on your dress.’

 ‘You must study me from closer then.’

 He closes the distance as if drawn to you. His hand upon your cheek, where it has belonged ever since the fateful day of his confession. It almost burns to be away from you.

 ‘You might only see my eyes from this distance, my precious heart.’

 ‘I shall cherish every eyelash then.’

 ‘My lovely Celebrimbor! You speak of my tongue, but what about yours?’

 ‘You have taught me.’

 ‘You have taught yourself.’ you whisper. ‘Or, perhaps, love has taught us both.’

 ‘Love,’ he speaks the word, as if tasting it on his tongue for the very first time.

 ‘Does it come as a surprise that I love you?’

 His eyes slide shut of their own accord. He wishes to remain in this moment forever, to have the words echo in his mind until the End of Days.

 ‘It does, my Lady, for I do not know how to be deserving of it.’

 You frown, ‘I would say that you are and always have been, if you did not insist on calling me by title, even now.’

 The moonlight hides the emerald of his eyes, yet his dark irises are maps entire for you to get lost in.

 ‘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.’

 ‘Melthoreth,’ you cannot help but trace your lips back over his, branding the name upon his mouth. ‘Is my mouth sweet, my love?’

 He lets you take charge, his valiant efforts are rewarded with the generosity of your lips and tongue. There is a sigh; muscles relaxing as if his very soul is being breathed into your being. He would accept that, too, and trust that you keep it safe.

 You part to allow him to breathe, but he would much rather prefer you didn’t.

 ‘As all parts of you, but I venture to say it is my favourite one.’

 You kiss him again, this time slow enough that he might hear his heart beating in his ear. If it is his favourite part, then he should have it.

 ‘A bit uncouth that you might give me a new name, while you get to keep yours.’

 The way you are looking at him might well and truly shatter him.

 ‘I will take whatever name you wish to give me.’

 Your forehead comes to gently rest on his, your lips replaced by the tip of your thumb on his own. He gazes at you like you are the Moon, and flushes at your touch like you are the Sun. You are both, to him. Every heavenly creation.

 ‘Celebrimbor,’ you roll his father-name on your tongue as if to caress it, ‘the silver fist.’

 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 silver fist and the hands of gold,’ you hum, ‘Malthenhir.’

 His eyes shine with emotion.

‘That is the only name I wish to be called when we are alone.’ A single tear escapes him, but you quickly kiss it off his cheek, ‘A name born of your love.’

 ‘I shall call you by many names when we are alone,’ you promise, ‘and they will all be born from my love for you.’

-.-.-

‘Man cárat, Hîr vuin?’’ = What are you doing, My Lord?

meleth nîn = my love

guren vell = my sweet heart

Melthoreth = (poetically translated) she who speaks sweetly

Malthenhir = (poetically translated) master of golden hands