The light of the Two Trees was dimming into the silver hour of Telperion, casting long, violet shadows across the high terrace of the House of Fëanor. Within the safety of the stone arches, the brothers were engaged in their favorite pastime: dismantling each other's secrets with the precision of master smiths.

Celegorm leaned back, a wicked glint in his blue eyes as he watched Maedhros sharpen a spear with unnecessary intensity. "It is truly a marvel, Russandol," Celegorm drawled, "how often you find yourself 'patrolling' the borders of Hithlum. One would almost think you preferred the company of Fingon’s golden ribbons to the fires of our own father’s forge. Does Atar know you’ve been sharing 'strategic secrets' in the starlight?" Maedhros didn't look up, but the tip of his spear bit deep into the whetstone. "Fingon is a companion of the spirit," he replied, his voice a low, warning rumble. "We share a vision for the Noldor that you would not understand." "A vision? Is that what we're calling it now?" Caranthir snorted, his face flushed a simmering red as he drained a goblet of wine. "At least Maedhros has the sense to hide his tracks. You, Celegorm, return from your 'hunts' with Aredhel looking like you’ve been wrestled into the dirt. If Atar catches the White Lady scaling the walls of Formenos, he’ll forge a cage for the both of you."

Curufin let out a short, dry laugh, his analytical gaze shifting to the corner of the terrace where his son stood. "We are all hypocrites," he noted, "but none so bold as my own Celebrimbor. He ignores the hunters and the warriors to pursue a star that has never deigned to look at the earth." The brothers turned as one toward the young smith. Celebrimbor was the image of his grandfather—the same sharp jaw, the same haunting intensity—but the fire in him was a hearth-light, lenient and kind, lacking the jagged, consuming arrogance of Fëanor. "He wants the 'Unapproachable,'" Maglor hummed, plucking a dissonant chord. "The firstborn of Fingolfin. The one who looks at the world as if it were a failed experiment."

The irony was a heavy, unspoken weight. Years ago, you had harbored a secret, burning crush on Fëanor himself—drawn to the terrifying, singular flame of the High King. Now, you were faced with his virtual incarnation. Celebrimbor had the face of the man you once wanted, but none of the cruelty. "Careful, Tyelpë," Amras chirped, leaning over his shoulder. "She’s seen the original sun," Amrod added with a grin. "She might find your 'kindness' a bit... boring." Stung by the laughter, Celebrimbor didn't retreat. Instead, he did something that made the brothers fall into a stunned silence. He walked directly to where you sat in the shadows and sat at your feet, his soot-stained hand reaching out to boldly cover yours. He leaned back against your knees, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a shameless, public affection that was entirely unlike the guarded nature of his kin.

"Let them talk," Celebrimbor whispered, his voice steady as he looked up at you. His grey eyes were wide and honest, searching yours. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist, his presence warm and grounding. "They see the pride of your house and call it ice. But I know what you look for. I know the fire you once admired." Despite the warmth of his touch and the bold claim he was making in front of his father and uncles, you remained entirely unfazed. Your unique, crystalline eyes looked down at him with a detached, stoic beauty, neither pulling away nor returning the pressure of his hand. "See?" Caranthir remarked, though he sounded almost impressed. "He’s practically worshiping her, and she looks like she’s counting the cracks in the marble. You can be as affectionate as you like, Tyelpë; she still hasn't blinked." Celebrimbor didn't move. He simply leaned his head back against your lap, closing his eyes. "I can wait, Aunt," he murmured for you alone. "I am a smith; I know that the hardest metal takes the longest to soften."