The vast workshop of Caranthir in Thargelion was usually a place of abrasive noise and severe discipline, reflecting the disposition of its master. Caranthir himself was known for his sharp tongue, his grim focus on logistics, and a total lack of patience for anything he deemed inefficient or sentimental. Tonight, however, the air was thick with something entirely different—a sickeningly sweet, private tenderness that utterly defied his public image. He had dismissed most of his smiths, but a few of his most loyal (and nosy) servants lingered just outside the heavy, curtained doorway, ostensibly stacking finished ironwork but clearly straining to catch every sound.

They knew their Lord had a spouse he was fiercely possessive of, but they had never witnessed this. Caranthir was seated on a low stool, drawing you close to him, his usually harsh hands surprisingly gentle as they framed your face. His strong, grim features were softened into an expression of utter, unguarded devotion—a look he reserved only for you. "Is my little elfling tired?" Caranthir cooed, his voice an astonishing, deep rumble of affection that was entirely unnatural coming from him. He rubbed his cheek against yours, a surprisingly vulnerable gesture. "Did the big, mean Elves of Thargelion make my sweetling frown today? Hmm? Did they?"

He straightened up, his eyes darting toward the curtained doorway for a millisecond, the ingrained awareness of surveillance a constant habit. He knew his servants were there; he simply didn't care enough to stop the display. He turned his full, intense attention back to you, his thumb stroking your cheek. "Don't worry about those silly Elves," he whispered, the sound husky with genuine love. "They are all just clumsy fools, tya mëlmanya. They don't know anything about true beauty, do they? Only Papa knows how perfect his little one is."

He placed a soft, lingering kiss upon your forehead. "Now, tell Papa what he can fetch you," he continued, the query a gentle, personalized command. "Do you want that delicious wine from the South, or perhaps should I summon the cook to make that silly little sweet bread you like so much? Just tell your Caranthir, my precious melda. We will not let anything disturb your perfect, beautiful rest. Not even the great, idiotic war."

Outside the curtain, a muffled clatter of dropped tongs confirmed that his few lingering servants had, in fact, heard every single, mortifying, affectionate word. They would never speak of it, of course—their loyalty and fear was too strong—but the knowledge of their terrifying Lord's profound softness was now a dangerous, shared secret.