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thatlittlered · 2 days ago

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an almost kiss | celebrimbor

warning(s): afab!reader (use of the word lady), discreet TROP spoilers

GIF by @suguretos

author's note: this is based on @morganas-pendragons' request for a first kiss, which I turned into an almost kiss because I already technically wrote that and her delicious thoughts on touch-starved brimby... I mean, just look at him

read the rest of "the craft" here

-.-.-

The air is thick from the heat of the forge when you peek inside, expecting to find every smith hard at work, but as the fog clears, only Lord Celebrimbor himself can be seen, completely engrossed in his craft.

It is a sight.

You have been inside before, of course, but what could you learn of true creation from a simple visit? Seeing the master Elven-smith at work is a revelation.

It serves your curiosity to not be discovered, yet guilt eats at you at the thought of taking advantage of his good nature and hospitality to serve your own whims. He looks different here, too, where he is shed of noble duties. The careless roll of his sleeves and his apron serve to remind you that in this little corner of the world, he is nothing but a talented craftsman. A true creator.

‘My Lord.’

The clatter ceases once you make your presence known. A sharp tool you could not possibly think to name rests in his hand, but he quickly lays it aside when he looks at you. The lines of dedication on his face melt away as he smiles.

‘My Lady.’

‘I am sorry to have startled you.’

‘You haven’t.’

He dares not move, dazed to have you here when he has been absorbed by the very notion of you for hours – days even. It almost makes it seem possible to will his desires into existence. How long need he think about your touch before that too is bestowed upon him? He will offer the time, however long it may be.

He wonders briefly how he might look to you now. The last member of the House of Fëanor, renowned smith and Lord of Eregion by his own right, caught by surprise and rendered speechless by an offer as simple as your company. You, on the other hand, seem to always be at ease, always drawing nearer.

‘I am sorry to disturb your work as well.’

‘You aren’t.’

‘To disturb you then.’

‘Impossible. I was the one to invite you here in the first place, was I not?’

‘Oh, but that was an arranged visit. I come now of my own volition, that is an imposition in itself.’

‘I only regret that you’ve caught me unprepared and ill-mannered.’

‘I don’t believe you could ever be caught ill-mannered, my Lord.’

‘Perhaps it is the delight of your presence that ensures it then.’

His laughter eases the years away from his face and you wish to tell him that. You wish for him to know your thoughts as plainly as they come to you.

‘You’ve such a kind and earnest smile, Lord Celebrimbor, as is all else about you. Almost like a warm glow washing over us, akin that of Laurelin itself.’

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, of your mere thought to compare him of all elves to the gold tree of Valinor, but oh, curse it too. Curse that he cannot ever find within himself the words to reciprocate, in spite of all the nights he lies awake to thoughts of you.

How can someone so skilled with a hammer not possess a trace of the skill of the tongue? You must teach him. You must make him worthy of you.

He watches in silence as you look around. A tentative hand comes to trace the intricate carvings on the furnace.

‘Everything in your city seems so carefully crafted.’

‘Well, I suppose I have an eye for detail, given my work.’

‘Undoubtedly so, but I think it’s much more than just that. It is a labour of great love and dedication to mind such details.’

‘A true craftsman recognizes nothing is ever negligible, despite how it may seem. Even from sand, comes glass.’

‘What a wise thing to say,’ you turn to him, ‘you truly are most interesting, Lord Celebrimbor.’

‘I can only hope to keep up with you, my Lady. You most certainly surpass me in both words and wisdom. Your company is a blessing.’

‘As is yours.’

Your hand is a comfort unlike any other when it reaches for him. He has not been touched in eons, but even if he had, it would not compare. His own hands are filthy with remnants of his work and it brings him shame to dirty such pristine skin. The Valar must have loved you as well, for they, superior creators as they are, ensured your beauty would reach even to your fingertips.

‘Would you show me what you were working on?’

‘Nothing exciting, I fear. I was only cutting out some pieces of emerald from their cluster.’

‘How can that not be exciting? Cutting a brilliant, precious gem from what was but a mere piece of rock not long ago.’

You see as he does. The beauty of things. Their importance. The dark green rock sits large and proud on his workbench, cleaned of any remnants of the earth that birthed it, yet still a long way from its final form. He senses your enthusiasm in the hesitance with which you approach.

‘It is mere jewel-craft. Petty work. I aspire to larger projects now that I’ve been provided with a forge suited for them. I have you to thank for that.’

‘Hardly. It was the High King’s wise foresight to recognize that your gifts would be of much use in the fight against evil, and the work of Herald Elrond’s persuasion to make it possible.’

‘Ah, Herald Elrond does indeed possess quite the persuasive tongue. It is to be envied.’ And envy it he does, especially so when Elrond visits and spends your shared dinners conversing you whilst he himself can only gaze lovelorn. ‘But, please, do not undermine your contribution. You have been the most insightful of councils. I… I, for one, am glad to have you here.’

For the first time in the weeks that you have known each other, he finds the nerve to approach you first. Not as your host, but as your… friend. It helps to see you distracted by the ore in front of you, too entranced to notice he is studying you in return.

‘Do not worry, it is not fragile. You may touch it if you’d like.’

Your daring hand springs forth.

‘It is beautiful.’

‘It will be more valuable once it’s cut.’

‘More valuable, perhaps,’ you hum, ‘but not more beautiful. I believe the colour is the same as your eyes.’

Your honeyed mouth renders the elven-smith incapable of sensible thought. You could ask him to cut off his hand and he would happily oblige you, let you pick the knife even. 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.

That is why;

‘You should have it then.’

A breath is released. This is not quite the facile manner of speech he had hoped to master. Foolish, traitorous mind going hand in hand with a foolish, traitorous mouth. You, in all your benevolence, simply blink in surprise. Teach him! Teach him how to speak his love.

‘I couldn’t possibly.’

‘I’m sure you appreciate it far more than any other would. If you want it, I wish for you to have it.’

‘You are so generous, my Lord, but whatever would I do with such an ore? Its beauty is undeniable, but I am no craftsman.’

It is quite a large rock. Childish embarrassment rushes through him, the kind he has not felt since he was but an elfling apprenticed to his father and found comfort in his arms when he was brought to tears by his uncle’s temper.

Perhaps being in love is a childlike, vulnerable sentiment in itself.

‘A piece then.’

He does not await your answer. The tool is large and sharp in his talented hands. The piece he cuts is roughly the size of your palm as he presses it inside with reverence.

‘There you go.’

You inspect it with a caress of your lovely finger.

‘I can polish it if you’ve changed your mind.’

‘No. No, it is perfect just like this.’

The sunlight is bright and warm as it pours from his window and you take the opportunity to hold the piece up against its rays, revealing hues of forest green. The light reflects off it for a moment, drawing your attention back to Celebrimbor. He, too, looks glorious under the sun’s cast. You wish to study him further. To know all the markings of his face. He wishes it too, so he does not draw back when your feet bring you closer, and allows you to hold up the stone again, this time near his eyes.

‘I was right then; they are the same colour.’

Perhaps being in love is a glorious sentiment instead. The gentle and warm embrace of affectionate words. No one has spoken of his eyes before. No one has come this close either. None but the wind that he can recall. All his memories and senses have been replaced by you, as if he was brought to existence by your meeting.

All these things, he might never find the words to tell you.

You do not mind.

You care only for his kind soul, his emerald eyes and the soft beating of his heart under your palm. Your heads bow together as if in silent communication, foreheads and noses touching so that you might come to breathe the same air. An almost kiss.

Does he remind you of the gold tree now that your touch has eased the years off his face, and your proximity has once again brought forth the gleeful radiance of his smile? Always, yes.

An almost kiss, and a joy short-lived when his assistant decides to interrupt you.

‘My Lord.’

You do not fly apart, but separate slowly, painfully instead.

‘Thank you, Lord Celebrimbor, for your gift, and for your company.’

Mirdania lowers her head as you take your leave, perhaps in respect, or, perhaps, in embarrassment. For you, there is none. Not for Celebrimbor either, when he is left gazing at the shadow of you that remains. Her words fall on deaf ears.

#celebrimbor x reader #celebrimbor #the rings of power #rings of power #trop #trop season 2 #trop spoilers #the lord of the rings

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