The High King And High Queen Of Lindon Are Trying To Have Some Downtime (they've Just Woken Up From A

I'm still so mad about the adar death but I gotta say Celebrimbor-after just being shot with a frick ton of arrows-telling Sauron that soon he will "go to the shores of morning, borne hence by a wind that you can never follow", calling Sauron the shadow of Morgoth and telling him that he's just a prisoner to the rings is peak feanorian defiance and just peak in general

Explicit (slow burn, 18+ only) - Rings of Power - Gil-galad x OFC (Elf)

Includes S2E8 of Rings of Power - spoilers ahoy!

Gil-galad had only taken a handful of steps when his gaze passed over yet another collapsed building. From the looks of things, it had once been an open, airy shop that had faced directly into the plaza. The roof had caved in, creating dusty shadows, and even his keen eyes might have missed the slumped figure had he not heard the tiny whimper from the darkness.

Eregion has been destroyed; Sauron is gone. And yet, the sun still shines, as the ruined city holds the last thing that High King Gil-galad had ever expected to find.

Themes: #Idiots in love, #love at first sight, #soulmates, #smut with feelings, #fix-it, #everybody lives

Content Warnings: Explicit content eventually (slow burn), canon-typical violence

Part 1 (includes A/N and credits)

Part 2

He had no intention of doing so at all.

But those obligations never ceased.

No sooner had Gil-galad left Linnea’s side - looking back over his shoulder once and very nearly turning around again, seeing her standing there alone and uncertain - but that Elrond was back. They were drawn into a hasty conference with the surviving Lindon soldiers; he had to arrange defense for both what was left of Eregion, as they continued to search for survivors, and for the northern valley. They would all be spread too thin, but the valley was well-positioned. Along with the Elven rings, it would be enough.  

And they were modestly supplemented by Eregion’s forces as well, those that had made it through the battle. He sent two soldiers to Linnea; it was a diversion of resources that he could admit to himself would have been better spent elsewhere, but that beast inside him that had been awoken would not rest until it knew she was protected. If he could not stay close to her, warriors who had survived the siege were acceptable substitutes.    

And as the hours passed, as the sun crawled its way across the sky, as he left Eregion and rode north, and sat and waited for Galadriel to awaken, the certainty settled within him. 

He would court Linnea properly, he promised himself. She deserved that. But the conclusion of it was already as clear to him as day: this was his wife, this was his queen. He knew that with every fiber of his being, and yet, part of him still struggled to believe. 

He still wondered if he might wake up from this dream any moment. 

And he could only assume that Linnea felt the same; she had gone from the peace of Eregion to the tumult of battle to the loss of her family to finding her lifemate - who happened to be the High King of the Noldor - in a matter of days. The world had to feel as though it spun madly beneath her feet and she was moments away from falling.

He should do something about that. But it would have to wait, as Galadriel finally stirred.

As the sun set, the valley was full of stars. 

Golden stars, small campfires in the night, as the exhausted survivors finally found rest. Makeshift shelters had been erected, cobbled together from the army's supplies and what had been recovered from Eregion, and it would do well enough until the morning when they would leave for Lindon.

Some of them. Some would stay, under Elrond’s leadership. The valley was a promising place to raise a new stronghold, and it would be needed for the fights to come. Gil-galad had chosen the sword, but he would not neglect the shield; they would need to fortify their defenses as well as muster new offense. 

Linnea was seated on a small stool in front of one of the campfires as Gil-galad approached, watching a kettle that had been hung over the flames. He was glad to see that she was clean, and had found clothing as well - he suspected her own, recovered from the rubble. The simple dark blue dress fit her well, and the style suited her. 

There was much and more to do. But one task asserted itself over all else, as the camp grew quiet.  

She rose as he stepped into the circle of light, leaving his guard just outside it. His steps had been unerring; the soldier acting as quartermaster had been able to give him a basic location, but his feet had known where to go.

Or perhaps it was his heart. 

Her smile was beautiful as she saw him, and the Two Lamps could not have been brighter.

He couldn’t stop himself. He was at her side before he quite knew what he’d done, sliding his arms gently around her waist - and it was like drawing a young willow to himself, slender and supple, her body curving pliantly against him to fit with him perfectly. Her hands rested on his upper arms and he leaned his forehead down to meet hers and closed his eyes, and he wished that the moment might never end, that he might simply stay right there for the rest of eternity. 

“Linnea,” he whispered. “My lady.”

His lady, and he could tell she’d noticed. She pulled back slightly, making sure to meet his eyes, and murmured back to him. “My King.”

That pleased the great beast. 

He took her hands, bringing them to his lips for a more lingering kiss than that first time - a promise of what was to come, and a reminder that they were in this together. But even as he did, he kept his eyes on hers, hoping that they would say everything that he hadn’t had time for yet. 

“I have heard you are to depart in the morning,” she said quietly.

He nodded, keeping hold of her hands between them. “I leave at first light, with the bulk of our forces. We travel at speed to fortify Lindon. But there are those who will remain - those who are too injured to travel as yet, or those who will begin the work of building here. Many of the survivors of Eregion will stay. And that is why I have come - to learn your will, my lady.”

“My will?”

She looked confused, and he couldn’t blame her; he was fumbling, dancing around the offer he did not want to make. He had spoken of Lindon earlier, and she had seemed to agree, but that had been before the plans for the valley had been laid. Perhaps she would prefer, at least for a time, to stay with the people she knew. Her entire life had been uprooted, and as much as he wanted her by his side, immediately, it was perhaps more than he could fairly ask.

But he would not know unless he did ask.

“It is your choice,” he said softly. “Should you wish to stay for now, I will not stand in your way. I promised you that there would be time, and so there shall be, no matter where we find ourselves.”

The confusion faded from her face, but uncertainty was left in its wake. He saw her lips tremble, felt a shiver run through the hands he still held. 

“Then - you do not want me to come with you?” 

He cursed himself for a fool. Clearly, he knew even less of courtship than he’d thought, to have spoken so clumsily. Everything had been ripped away from her; he owed it to her to leave nothing unsaid, nothing that was not plain when it came to him. Especially when it had all happened like this, when they had met and fallen before a single word had been exchanged. 

“I would have you with me always,” he murmured, breaking the bonds on his tongue and his heart. “Yes, lady. I would have you come with me now, I would have you begin to make your home in Lindon as soon as may be done. But mine is not the only will, and it is your choice.” 

Linnea took a deep breath. She looked reassured, and he ran his thumbs gently over the backs of her hands.

“I would like more time to sort through the shop,” she said softly. “A few days, if that is possible. If I am to live in Lindon now, I would not leave anything behind that might be saved.”

It made sense, as much as it made the beast inside him growl at the thought of being separated. There was no way he could linger; the best he could do was to ensure that she would be able to travel to Lindon. He offered her a gentle smile, stroking her hands again.

“I understand. I shall leave an escort with you, that you might come safely when you are ready…melethel.”

It was an endearment that he had never spoken, not in two thousand years. It felt strange on his tongue and at the same time, the most natural thing in the world. And he saw it strike home, more than embrace or touch or glance had yet done - she heard the truth in his voice. 

“Very well,” she said. “But keep yourself safe as well, meleth nín. For me.”

Meleth nín. Beloved. Never had he thought those words would pass another's lips, for him, and the urge to kiss her flared up. He squashed it again, promising the great beast soon, soon.

“I will exercise the utmost care,” he promised. “And I shall count the moments until you arrive. Were you able to save much from your workshop thus far?”

“A few things,” she said softly. “Some yarns that my mother had spun and dyed. Some of my father's tools. I have hope that there may be more. But the looms were all crushed beyond any thought of repair.”

“We shall commission new, from whichever crafter in Lindon you choose,” he said. “And you shall have a workshop to do with as you will.”

She smiled. The grief had returned to her face with the mention of her parents, but it did not dim her beauty in the slightest. “My lord is kind.”

“My queen deserves nothing less.”

Her eyes widened, and he had to make an effort to stop himself from gulping. Yes, they both knew what was happening, that was plain but still - he cursed himself for a fool once more, he should have waited, should have made it more special, kept his promise to court her and then asked her to wed properly instead of blurting it out like a child -

Her smile didn't change. But tears sparkled in her blue eyes, spilling over and down her cheeks - but when he went to wipe them away, she tightened her hold on his hands.

“I never thought,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “I never thought - and then for it to be you, I…”

He pulled his hands free, cupped her beautiful face in his palms, and kissed her.

Sunlight exploded in his veins at the touch of her lips, and if he'd thought that her face was the softest thing in Arda, it was nothing to compare to this. He felt her arms slide around his neck, clinging to him, and he wrapped his around her slim waist to hold her tight. Yes, this - not the moment and yet exactly the moment, this little campfire in the night. His guard only a few feet away and none of it mattered, absolutely none of it. Not when he'd finally found her.

And soon, soon, there would be much more. 

He drew back slightly, contenting himself for now with those few earth-shattering seconds. Linnea’s eyes were hazy, filled with desire, and…oh, and.

“Verinín,” he whispered. It wasn't a question; it was a statement, as if he had asked properly. But perhaps he had; perhaps it had been asked, and answered, when their eyes had met that very first time. 

Betrothed.

They were interrupted by the merry clatter of Linnea's kettle finally coming to a boil, and she left his embrace to tend to it. He watched, eyes lingering over her figure with love, as she lifted the iron pot from the fire and set to making the tea.  

He would deprive her of none of the ceremony, if that was what she wanted. He would have a betrothal ring waiting for her by the time she arrived in Lindon, and then they could talk about it. If she wanted a betrothal feast, he would heartily grant it; if she wanted to wait the full traditional year before the wedding, he would find the patience. A year would be gone in the blink of an eye…and yet, his body burned at the thought of that wedding, the real wedding. Not the feast where they would exchange blessings, invoking the names of the Valar and of Eru. Not even trading the silver betrothal rings for golden ones. 

No. 

After their friends and kin had departed, after they were alone in his - their - bedchamber. Linnea in his bed, his to love, his to wed through the union of their bodies. The act that truly made a marriage for their people, that which was only to be shared with their lifemate. He would be her first and her only; she would be the same for him.

It was not the nature of Elves to dwell on the physical. Gil-galad had not pined for that aspect of marriage; he had more longed for the idea of a partner, a queen, someone to share his life with. But faced with the thought, the reality that he would have all of it - yes, that was ample spark to set his skin alight. 

“Would you like some?” she asked, stirring him from his thoughts. “I often enjoy this tea at night before retiring.”

He stepped closer, intending to accept her offer. The aroma of the tea was pleasant - something herbal, earthy, soothing - and as it hit his nose, his vision clouded over.

“Ereinion. Come.”

He smiles, replacing his quill in the inkpot. The smell alone had told him that their evening tea was done steeping, but he never grows weary of his queen’s voice speaking his name. 

He rises from his desk. Linnea is by the fireplace, lying back in the lounging chair he had specially commissioned for her. The kettle that hangs above the hearth is worked steel, engraved and beautiful in addition to functional. The cups are fine too, elegant porcelain, painted with the golden leaves of the great Tree. For a moment his vision blurs, he sees durable iron and simple clay, but then those memories of the past are gone.

She smiles up at him, lying back and stretched out. Her hair is loose around her, a riot of chestnut waves cascading over her blue nightrobe. It is cold outside, snow swirling on the other side of the window, but in the light of the fire, Linnea’s skin glows, her cheeks pink, her bare feet peeking from below her robe. 

He sits down next to her, in the more traditionally-made chair, letting out a sigh of contentment. Linnea turns over on her side to be able to see him, and as she does, her nightrobe moves, revealing the proud curve of her stomach beneath her creamy silk shift. And before he takes his cup, he reaches out, gently running his hand over their child.

“My lord?”

He shook his head, coming back to himself. The vision was fading, and he stared down at Vilya on his hand. The ring’s power had unlocked his foresight, showing visions of the future, but seldom had they been so clear. More often there had been fleeting images, flashes, cloaked in metaphor that he was forced to try and puzzle out. 

But this had been as if he was really there. He could still feel the warmth of the fire on his skin, the faint hint of cold through the window. 

He could still see Linnea, reclining back in her chair. Lovely, warm, pregnant. Carrying their child.

For a moment, he considered telling her, explaining. But that was a much longer conversation than he had time for this night. And there was something else he could say to her instead, something much closer to now.

“Ereinion,” he murmured. “My name is Ereinion. And it would please me to hear you use it.”

Few enough called him by his name, these days. And Linnea’s expression said she was unsure; he understood, it had been so fast between them, there had not been much time at all for her to adjust the High King in her mind to include just him. 

But she licked her lips, and met his gaze, and smiled. “Ereinion.” 

It sounded just as lovely as it had in the vision, and nothing would do for it but for him to kiss her again. 

He could savor it more, that time. He could cherish the feel of her in his arms, the sensation of her fingers cupping his face and threading through his hair. The softness of her lips and the taste of her mouth; would he ever grow used to it? As the centuries passed, Valar and Eru willing, would it feel different? He prayed not.

He felt her back off, but only slightly - and his eyes were still closed, but he felt her smile against his lips.

“If that is my reward for saying your name, I fear I shall wear it out,” she whispered. “Ereinion.”

He laughed, his lips still brushing hers. “Never, my lady,” he vowed, finally opening his eyes. “Never.”

But as much as Gil-galad did not wish it, the hand of time was marching forward, and he had more to do that night before he could find rest. He sighed, stepping back and once more taking her hands.

“I must go,” he murmured. “I am sorry. But I promise you, in Lindon, there will be time for us.”

She stepped forward, following him, and released one of his hands. In the next moment, hers was over his heart, and he reached up to hold it there. And he could swear there was a warmth coming from it that penetrated even his breastplate, reaching down into his very soul. 

“I understand,” she whispered. “It is not so long to wait. And you are worth it.”

He had no idea as to what he had done to merit this gift, but it had been given to him. And he was not foolish enough to refuse it, or to do aught but hold it tight. 

“Travel safely, melethel. For you carry my heart with you.” 

“And you mine.” She stretched up on her tiptoes, giving him one final kiss. “Ereinion.”

TBC...

absolutely adorable!

Nobody: Camnir:

⠀😳 👉👈

Elrond being a nerd :)

This bit where Gil-Galad asks him if he knows the work of Celebrimbor and he's like "pfft of course why did you need to ask" (inside he's going: no, don't infodump.)

THIS ELF IS NOT OK HE IS NERDING OUT LOOK AT HIS FACE

Lord Celebrimbor is here. I am going to work with him. I am literally freaking out. Gil-Galad had no business making me freak out like this.

The Rings of Power by Roberto F. Castro

oh high king please scream

A new poster for episode 8

The way this creep just slides into frame 😂

Kemen: You're sooo pretty

Elrond: Standing within 100 feet of you makes me want to bathe in disinfectant.

aww brimbyyyyy

An Artist's Gaze

A/N: This is my first time writing for Celebrimbor, let me know what you think!

Pairing: Celebrimbor x Reader

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ringing of hammers and the hum of the forge fill the space around you, a symphony you’ve always found soothing, even exhilarating. But today, there's a heightened anticipation in the air as you catch sight of Celebrimbor across the workshop, quietly absorbed in his work. His concentration is intense, his brow furrowed, his gloved fingers moving with expert precision over a small circlet he’s crafting—a piece fit for a High King.

You’ve only spoken with him a handful of times over the years, as your own work takes you often to other cities, each with its own demands and requests for your intricate armor designs. But today, you've been summoned here by Celebrimbor himself, a request you couldn’t easily dismiss.

When he notices you, a flicker of a smile lights his face, though it’s softened by a slight shyness. “Thank you for coming,” he says, his voice gentle yet purposeful. “I’ve been working on a new set for Gil-galad, but I wanted your opinion on some… details. Especially to match this,” he gestures to the circlet, setting it carefully on the bench between you.

You examine the circlet, noting the fine etching of stars along its band, the delicate but powerful shapes carved with unmistakable expertise. “This is beautiful,” you murmur, meeting his eyes briefly before your attention returns to the piece. “The stars… are they a nod to Gil-galad’s lineage?”

He nods, seeming pleased that you caught the detail. “Yes. I wanted it to reflect his heritage, but I also want the armor to carry the same strength. Subtle, but… unmistakable.” His gaze flickers back to the circlet, and he runs a hand through his hair—a touch of nervousness you wouldn’t expect from one so skilled. “Your work, though… the precision of your designs. It’s unparalleled. I thought you might have ideas on how best to harmonize the pieces.”

You find yourself smiling, a bit surprised by his earnest praise. “Flattery from the master himself? I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

His cheeks flush a soft pink as he laughs quietly, adjusting a tool on the bench to avoid your gaze. “Merely the truth,” he says, clearing his throat. “But I appreciate your humility.”

You lean closer, studying the circlet’s design again, envisioning how it could complement the armor’s larger surface. Your fingers brush his on the table as you reach for a sketch he’s begun, and he goes still, a breath catching, though he doesn’t pull away.

“The armor,” you say softly, “could carry these same stars, but larger, perhaps along the chest and shoulders, so they appear as if they’re guarding him from all sides. A constellation of protection.”

His gaze lifts to yours, admiration shining through his reserve. “You always find a way to bring lightness to strength,” he murmurs, as though the words slipped out unbidden. He holds your gaze a moment too long, his shyness momentarily forgotten, and in that quiet space between you, the warmth of the forge seems almost unnecessary.

The silence stretches, charged, until Celebrimbor seems to realize how intensely he’s been looking at you. His eyes widen slightly, and the faint pink deepens in his cheeks as he glances back down at the circlet, quickly busying himself with adjusting a few sketches on the table.

"Thank you," he says, clearing his throat as he tries to recover his usual composure. “Your insight is… invaluable. I would be honored if you would consider assisting with the chest plate. Gil-galad deserves a piece crafted with the care and precision you bring.” He’s fidgeting now, his fingers adjusting the circlet for the third time, his voice losing a little of its steady confidence.

You smile, reaching out to gently stop his hand as it fusses over a perfectly aligned sketch. “I’d be glad to work on it with you. No need to be so shy, Celebrimbor. We are, after all, just discussing armor.” You tilt your head, letting a hint of warmth seep into your tone. “And if you’re interested, I know a lovely spot near the river—a quiet place for tea and lemon cakes as the sun goes down. Seems like a perfect end to a day at the forge, don’t you think?”

His hand stills under yours, his mouth opening slightly in surprise before a hesitant, boyish grin breaks across his face. “I—I would… I would like that very much.” He’s still blushing, but the usual shyness has melted, replaced with something softer, more open, as though the promise of an evening by the river has somehow lifted a weight from his heart.

“Good,” you say, letting your fingers linger just a second longer before releasing his hand. “Then let’s finish this work so we’re free to enjoy it.”

For the rest of the afternoon, he works by your side, his quiet confidence slipping back into place but interspersed with glances your way, a little less guarded each time. You both work in the comfort of an unspoken promise, the memory of warmth to carry with you until the golden light fades, leaving only the sound of the river and the sweetness of lemon cakes in its wake.

Celebrimbor’s cries when the illusion was lifted and he could see how his beautiful city, his new forge were being destroyed, with the theme of Eregion echoing against the sinister music was probably one of the best scenes of TROP in this season.