Hammers smite the anvils. White-hot forge fires roar. Cool waters sizzle in anger whenever they come in contact with next glowing piece of great Ñoldorin craftsmanship. Both Elves present have always loved this music of creation far more than any song that is sung up in the halls of light and white marble.
The master of this workplace dunks his creation, the head of a pick-axe, into the water. He leaves it at the bottom of the bucket and doesn't take it out, even when the clouds of steam have subsided.
The other lowers her hammer. "What is it, Lord?"
He smiles when her silver eyes meet his, "Do not let me break your concentration, but..." he looks to the bucket, "this metal is trying me."
She furrows her heavy brows and doesn't bother to hide her skepticism when she responds, "Trying you? How?"
He picks up the pick-axe head and lays it onto the anvil once again. "I just cannot get this curve smoothed out the right way... Won't you lend me your expertise, my Lady? You have a much finer eye for detail."
She lays her own hammer and handywork aside and crosses her arms. "My dearest Lord, master smith of the Ñoldor, creator of the finest wrought steel of our realm... You speak like a fumbling apprentice! What is the meaning of this?"
He raises his hands, "It is true...! I need your keen eyes to... Did you say your dearest?"
She looks ready to hurl a string of insults at him, but at those words she closes her mouth without a sound. She picks up her work again and hammers down on it with twice the vigour. He says nothing more and watches her until she stops pounding the steel.
"My Lady..."
She looks to him. Again those eyes send a shiver down his spine. In contrast to their cold light, her long russet locks seem even warmer.
Silence falls between them, save for the roaring of the fire. She is the first to speak.
"Why the childish excuses? I demand you be truthful with me."
He nods slowly and reaches out his hand, which to his surprise, she takes in hers. "I am sorry. Please forgive me." He bows before her and courteously kisses her soot-stained leather glove.
"I cherish every day we labour here together and I wish for them to never end. That, my Lady, is the truth."
He looks to her face which to his great relief, no longer shows anger.
"...Thank you," she says. She lets go of his hand, gently, not with any force. He watches her turn and slowly walk towards the stairs that lead out of his dim forge-hall.
"I shall see you again tomorrow... my dearest Lord."
