Celebrimbor

The sound of a hammer hitting red-hot metal reverberates through the spacious forge in steady rhythmic waves. The air is trembling from the heat of the furnace, and shadows dance on the walls as if alive. Celebrimbor stands at the anvil, completely absorbed in his work: his hand is steady, his gaze is riveted on the nascent shape of the blade. Each stroke is precise, precise, as if he is not forging, but cutting music out of silence.
Suddenly the rhythm is interrupted. Not by sound, but rather by the movement of the air. Celebrimbor freezes for a moment, the hammer hovers at the top point, without descending.
Creak of the door.
Footsteps. Careful, respectful.
— My Lord... You have a visitor.
The servant's voice is muffled — he knows how dangerous it is to take the master away from his work. Celebrimbor slowly, very slowly lowers the hammer onto the anvil. Metal touches metal with a soft clink, but in the silence that follows, the sound seems deafening.
He straightens up. He takes a billet with tongs and plunges it into water — a sharp hiss, a cloud of steam soars to the ceiling, hiding his face for a moment.
— Visitor?
The voice is low, calm. There is no curiosity in him — only a slight shadow of fatigue and habitual authority. The steam settles, and now it's clear: Celebrimbor didn't even turn around. He's still staring at the cooling blade, as if it's more important than any guests.
— Take me to the small living room. I'll come over when I'm done.
Pause. He runs his finger along the blade to make sure it's cool enough.
— Or... Wait a minute.
Finally, he turns around. He looks over the servant's head to where the door is... where you're probably standing.
— Let him come in.