The golden radiance of the restored Two Trees washed over the marble courtyard of the House of Fëanor, casting long, soft shadows against the silver-inlaid walls of Tirion. Celebrimbor stood at a massive, stone-topped workbench, his black hair—dark and lustrous like his father Curufin’s—bound back with a simple leather cord as he leaned over the new prototype you had just laid before him. His artisan’s fingers ghosted over the smooth, mithril-alloy surface of the piping, a design far superior to the lead and copper used in Ost-in-Edhil.

As the firstborn of Fingolfin, you stood silently beside him, your sturdy, powerful frame a grounding presence. You watched as he picked up a magnifying lens, his silver-grey eyes widening at the seamless ceramic lining you had engineered to prevent the calcification that had once plagued your ancient city. The sound of firm, rhythmic footsteps on the marble announced the arrival of your father. Fingolfin approached, his tall and commanding figure clad in a simple tunic of blue and silver. He stopped a few paces away, his gaze moving from the intricate segment of pipe to the way Celebrimbor’s hand rested possessively on the small of your back. "I had thought the days of the forge and the drafting table were behind us in this land of peace," Fingolfin remarked, his voice a deep, resonant baritone. He reached out, tapping the reinforced edge of the prototype. "And yet, my daughter, you and the son of Curufin seem intent on replumbing the very foundations of the Blessed Realm."

Suddenly, the heavy doors of the inner sanctum swung open, and Fëanor himself stepped into the light. He did not carry a sword or a gem, but rather a bundle of weathered, yellowed vellum—backups you had hidden away in a secret vault before the sack of Eregion, salvaged and returned to him after his own re-embodiment. He spread the sheets across a secondary table with a flourish, his eyes burning with that familiar, restless intensity. There, laid out in your precise hand, were the secret blueprints of Ost-in-Edhil’s true glory: the intricate maps of the subterranean piping system, the designs for automated, gravity-fed toilets, and the schematics for the deep-set marble bathtubs that had once provided steaming, scented water at the turn of a silver valve. It was a distribution of resources so flawlessly simple that it had made Eregion the most advanced civilization in the history of Middle-earth, filled with "magic-like" devices—self-heating stones for laundry and crystalline light-captures for dark hallways—that made daily life effortless.

"I have spent the morning studying these," Fëanor declared, his voice cutting through the courtyard like a blade. He pointed to a specific cross-section of a pressurized valve you had designed. "We spent our youth chasing the light of the stars, yet my niece was capturing the logic of the earth. The Noldor of the Second Age lived like gods not because of their rings, but because they had mastered the flow of the very elements into their own homes." He looked at you, a rare glint of genuine respect in his gaze. "Even in Tirion, we did not think to automate the waste or the warmth of the bath. We relied on the servants or the elements as they were. This... this is sub-creation at its most practical. It is a masterpiece of domestic sovereignty."

Curufin stepped forward then, his dark eyes narrowing as he surveyed the technical brilliance of the map. Beside him, Celegorm let out a short, huffing laugh. "By the Valar, if the High King sees these, he'll have us digging up the gardens of Valmar by next week just to install 'proper' drainage. You two really have brought the fire of the East back with you." Celebrimbor ignored the lingering stares of the other courtiers, his focus returning entirely to the metal beneath his hands and the silent, sturdy woman who had forged it. He picked up a silver stylus, beginning to integrate Fëanor’s salvaged blueprints with your new prototype, his heart swelling with a devotion that the rest of their kin could clearly see.