I watch him as he works, with careful artisan's hands, so intent that he doesn't seem to notice that he's being watched. He is cutting a rough ruby, and he seems to handle it more delicately than anything else. He squints at it, bending his neck. As his black hair falls across his face, suddenly I see him, really see him, in a way that I never have before.
The lines of his focused face are as intricately carved as the etchings on his jewels.
I watch him turning the ruby in his hands, and I realize that for him, the cold, sharp gems fill the void of things he would rather caress. Oh, Celebrimbor, we both desire something far beyond our reach.
Sometimes I wonder if he knows that.
I have heard the rumors of his love. He ignores them, or tries to, by spending more and more time working. Occasionally he lets others observe him, as with me. After all, I don't spread the rumors either. I listen, and I suspect, and I have not yet confronted him.
Suddenly my own feelings are in the way.
He is the proud son of his father, the last of the Feanorians, I tell myself. Like them, he holds his craft higher than all else. Like them, he will reach too high, believing he cannot fall, and only on the way down will he see that he led himself into his own fall.
I know well the hopelessness of my desire. Even if he returned my love - and I know already to whom his heart is given - still I know that the time will come when he falls like the rest.
But my heart does not listen to my mind.
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