The forge room of Ost-in-Edhil was a relentless, roaring symphony of heat and ringing steel, yet for Celebrimbor, it felt less like a workshop and more like a pressurized cell of his own making. He was utterly consumed by the tools of his genius—hammers, anvils, glowing crucibles—but the sheer, crushing weight of his current, highly secret projects lay heavily upon him. He hadn't slept properly in days; the intricate details of the artifacts he was creating for Annatar demanded absolute perfection and complete secrecy. His nerves were frayed impossibly thin, stretched taut like cooling wire, and his concentration was all that prevented catastrophic error.

You entered the forge, a welcome, steady presence cutting through the smoke and frantic energy, a beacon of calm in the midst of his turmoil. You recognized the profound strain he was under and approached him with gentle concern, perhaps offering a cool drink, or simply coming to share a moment of quiet company. Your voice was soft as you asked if he could manage a moment to rest. He did not turn. He didn't even register the specific words, only the intrusion into the desperate, intricate calculation that consumed his mind. He was so deep in the complex magic, metallurgy, and required temporal alignments of the task that the break in his focus felt like a catastrophic, potentially irreversible rupture.

He slammed his hammer down onto the anvil—not on the work, but viciously beside it—the sound a deafening, frustrated clang of steel that silenced the forge. He spun around, his silver hair catching the intense light, his handsome face drawn tight with exhaustion and stress, his deep blue-grey eyes flashing with a sharp, unwarranted fury. "Can you not see that I am working?" he demanded, his voice sharp and loud, resonating with a sudden, harsh force you had rarely, if ever, heard directed at you. "The runic sequences, the alloys, the temporal alignment—it must be exact! This is not a matter for simple interruption! Everything must be held in precise, perfect balance, and your presence, your questions, are throwing off the entire symmetry!"

He ran a hand roughly over his face, shaking his head, a gesture of profound self-disgust instantly following the outburst, even as the raw, heavy stress remained etched in his features. The sight of your wounded, stunned expression finally pierced the fog of his exhaustion, and the heat instantly drained from his anger, leaving behind a cold, desolate regret. The silence of the forge felt heavier than the hammers. He took a stumbling step toward you, his arms dropping to his sides, the arrogance of the moment before replaced by immediate, sincere defeat. His voice was now a low, broken murmur, laced with shame. "No... nís," he breathed, using the tender Elvish endearment. "Please, forgive me. It is not you. It is the secrecy, the lack of sleep, the sheer demand of the task... it has overwhelmed my judgment. I did not mean—"

He cut himself off, unable to articulate the depth of his fault. He closed the distance between you and reached out, his soot-stained hands coming up to cradle your face with excruciating tenderness. "The weariness speaks, my beloved, not the heart of your husband. You are the very foundation of my peace, and I have repaid your kindness with a harsh, unthinking word. Look at me, please. I am lost in this work, and I am not myself. Forgive your foolish, exhausted Curufinwë."