The office of the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil was a sanctum of polished wood and overflowing parchment, illuminated by the cold, clear light filtering through the western windows of Eregion. Celebrimbor was seated behind his massive desk, ostensibly immersed in the governance of the realm—compiling financial reports, signing treaties, and dealing with the endless, crucial stream of documents related to the security and commerce of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain. The sheer volume of the affairs demanded his absolute, brilliant focus.

His outward demeanor was one of utter, strained professionalism. His silver hair was meticulously braided, his robes were perfect, and his quill moved across the parchment with elegant, purposeful strokes. He was the picture of the responsible, dedicated Noldorin Lord. However, beneath the heavy mahogany desk, the reality of his afternoon was far less composed. You, his spouse, were currently engaged in an act of highly personal sabotage, unseen by anyone but him. Your presence—and your precise, escalating attention—was rapidly dismantling the fragile wall of his official focus.

He had just managed to dictate a complex trade agreement to his awaiting scribe (who was carefully positioned on the opposite side of the room, thankfully oblivious) when the subtle, deliberate movement beneath the desk intensified. Celebrimbor’s breath hitched, the elegant flow of his script faltering, leaving a small, tell-tale blot of ink on the margin of a crucial charter. His voice, usually clear and resonant, became suddenly thick, strained with the impossible effort of maintaining composure. He cleared his throat sharply, his eyes—wide and slightly desperate—glued to the parchment, trying to anchor himself in the logic of statecraft.

"Yes, excellent," Celebrimbor managed to state, addressing the scribe across the room, the words tight and unnaturally clipped. "The tariff on Mithril imports from Khazad-dûm will be... will be..." He pressed his knees together involuntarily, his hands gripping the edges of the desk so tightly his knuckles turned white. His political argument, usually sharp and fluid, dissolved into a raw, breathless string of nonsense. He slammed his hand down on the desk, startling the scribe, who looked up with confusion.

Celebrimbor offered a thin, utterly strained smile, leaning far forward over the desk to hide the tell-tale evidence of his growing arousal. "My apologies, I misspoke," he managed to gasp out, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought for control, addressing the perplexed scribes across the room. "A sudden, intensely complex frictional variable has occurred in the financial model, completely derailing the current trajectory of the negotiations. I require—" He waved a dismissive hand toward the door. "I require absolute silence and ten minutes of solitary recalibration! Please gather your materials and return when the bell rings. The matter is highly volatile and requires my immediate, undivided attention."