Work Text:
Anor shone almost too-bright through the single window of the cell where Celebrimbor worked. If she’d not known better, she would have thought there to be a fire raging outside. But as it was, the blindingly bright light at the window did not flicker or undulate as flames would have, and Celebrimbor knew the difference between the blaze of a wildfire and the sticky, humid heat of summer, and the controlled fires of the Nenuial forges.
If she was frank, the heat did not bother her at all. Celebrimbor noticed it, certainly; whatever others thought of her, she did not suddenly become insensible of her surroundings when she worked, not unless the project was one that demanded every scrap of her attention. But she had been working in the forges from an early age, and their choking heat had long since ceased to bother her. Honestly, the cold bothered her more, though not nearly as much as it did Galadriel and the others who had survived the Helcaraxë crossing, and yet lingered in Ennor.
But the weather was not Celebrimbor’s concern at present. She gritted her teeth as she made the last etching into the front of the necklace she had been working on for… Well, it was either six days or seven; she’d lost track somewhere. Now, it was just the protective charms left…
“Telpe? Celebrimbor? Do you hear me?”
Celebrimbor barely had time to pull a washrag over her work before Celebrían strode into the small work cell. As usual, she looked, well… Not like anyone who belonged in a rough settlement like Nenuial (growing fairer by the year, perhaps, but still, it bore no comparison to Nargothrond or Nevrast, nor to Ereinion’s capital by the coast), nor anywhere in Ennor, really. Especially not in a dusty, sooty forge. She had that same quality of regality that her mother possessed in abundance, if significantly less remote. The light from the windows caught on her and she gleamed silver, pale and bright.
Celebrimbor mopped her sweaty brow and smiled up at Celebrían. “You know, every time I see you, I feel like I should genuflect.”
This earned her a gentle stream of laughter. “Don’t, please. It would make things so very awkward.”
“If you say so, Celebrían. Have you come to tell me I need to go outside?”
Celebrían gently pulled the door shut behind her, effectively shutting out the murmurs of conversation and the dull roar of the forge-fires outside. “Well, you certainly don’t go out often enough for your own health. But mostly, I just wanted to see how you were.”
She leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Celebrimbor’s cheek. Celebrimbor smiled slightly at the gentle tickling on her skin, but still, she waved Celebrían off. “Don’t. You’ll get your dress dirty.”
“Oh?” Celebrían took a step back and a pointed look down at the thin, silver-purple folds of her skirt—which, conspicuously, were still quite clean. “I don’t think I’m in much danger of that, Telpe. Even if I was, getting soot all over you is an occupation hazard here.” Then, suddenly, Celebrían’s hand shot out, clutching the washrag Celebrimbor had dropped over her near-finished project. Her green eyes gleamed. “And what is this, that you feel you need to hide it when I walk in?”
More slowly, Celebrimbor closed her hand over Celebrían’s smaller one, guiding it away from the rag. “You’ll see it when it’s done, Celebrían,” she murmured, “which should be any minute now. Just give me some space.”
Celebrían duly backed away from the table, instead leaning against the other table in the back of the room, alternating between staring out the window and picking up one of the assortment of odds and ends Celebrimbor had left out there. She said nothing when Celebrimbor put up a wooden screen to keep her from getting a good look at what she was doing, only smiled knowingly—Celebrían knew well the habits of a craftsman, and those of an artist.
The first charm was the ward against breaking. Everyone who had ever taught Celebrimbor anything about craftsmanship said that this particular charm had to be laid first. “The first charm has the most potency in it,” her father had told her long ago, “since it isn’t being laid down on top of anything else. The charm with primacy should always be the one that keeps your work from breaking.” She carried those lessons with her, still. They were much preferred to others she could have dredged up.
After the charm was carved came the song that would imbue it with the power it needed. Celebrimbor considered singing it in a whisper, but she thought better of it. The song was short, after all, and did not carry full potency unless properly sung. It was commonplace in the forges. Celebrían wouldn’t think it unusual.
Once she had finished with the first song, Celebrimbor leaned back enough to sneak a glance at Celebrían. She was poring over a book of song-spells Celebrimbor had left at the table. Her hair was braided, but loosely, and a few wavy silver tendrils fell loose about her cheek and the high, stiff collar of her dress. She would look lovely in pearls, Celebrimbor thought absently, reaching back to the days when she had lived on Balar and all you had to do to get pearls was walk on the shore for five minutes. There were none here, though, and Celebrimbor didn’t care to go back to Lindon just to get more. Maybe white quartz instead?
“How goes the translating?” Celebrimbor asked as she started on carving the second charm, a ward against tarnishing. She didn’t need to be distracted with thoughts of other projects while she was still working on this one.
Celebrían sighed slightly. “Much the same. We’ve moved on to Iathrim court records—it’s about the only thing the Iathrim kept written down. Apparently, it was very common for the Edhil in Region and Nivrim to steal from each other’s vegetable gardens. The only interesting thing in them—that I found today, anyways—was an account of a brawl between three Nandor and two Haladin over some dispute over fishing rights on the Celebros.” Her lips quirked. “I wonder how Thingol would react if he knew I was translating his people’s documents into Quenya.”
Celebrimbor thought back to the complaints Maedhros occasionally received from Ban-adhering Úmanyar when Curufin was heard speaking Quenya. She remembered also the even less friendly missives that occasionally came from Doriath over the issue. Thingol had called on the natives of Beleriand to shun any who spoke Quenya. Well, Doriath already ignored anything that went on outside its borders as a matter of course (Celebrimbor recalled too-vividly fleeing dragon fire only to find that Thingol’s heart could not be moved to pity for even the smallest Noldorin child—who then proceeded to burn as surely as their parents had), but outside of Doriath, there wasn’t anyone who could really afford to shun Quenya speakers. So it was angry letters instead, for those who even wanted to follow the Ban. “Very poorly, especially considering his kinswoman is the one translating them. I don’t suppose the archives have received any more Quenya documents?”
“Just one.” Celebrían smiled down at the ground, oddly wistfully. “A letter—a nís in Dorthonion writing to her sister in Nargothrond. It’s dated to just before the Dagor Bragollach.”
“…Ah. What is to be done with it?” Celebrimbor finished with the second charm, and ran her hand over the grooves in the metal, frowning pensively. “Is it to be translated and put away?”
“Actually, we were hoping to track down either the writer of the letter or its recipient.”
Celebrimbor’s brow furrowed. “You realize they’re probably both dead, Celebrían. Or have returned across the Sea.”
She nodded, her mouth seeming caught between a grimace and a rueful smile. “I know. But I’d still like to see it back to one of them. Even if I had to go to the Undying Lands to deliver it.”
Celebrimbor made a nervous sound in the back of her throat. “Well, I hope you’re not planning on going soon.”
Celebrían laughed as though the very notion was absurd—Celebrimbor noted, with some relief, that that seemed to be exactly how she thought of it. “Oh, no, not until you decide to leave, at least.”
“That could be Ages more,” Celebrimbor cautioned her. As much as she loathed the idea of separation, the warning came instinctively to her lips. Celebrían was, after all, the kin of Exiles. That doomed weariness would come on her, in time, pressing on her shoulders like a yoke.
But Celebrían only smiled sweetly, running her hand over the binding of the book of song-spells. “Well, in all likelihood, you’ll decide to leave around the same time as Mother—you’re both so stubborn; I doubt either one of you will be ready until you’ve completely exhausted yourselves.”
At that, Celebrimbor couldn’t help but laugh. “I’d say you have the measure of us both, then.” No, she was not lured by the promises of Aman. Those promises would be snatched away from one of Fëanor’s house in a heartbeat, and besides, there was enough in Ennor that was good and green that going to live in the realm of the Valar just seemed… unnecessary. And considering that she would never be allowed to leave again, undesirable as well. She would go there driven by the weariness of the Exile, some day, but today, Celebrimbor’s shoulders were unbowed. She hoped for many more days like this.
The second spell sung, Celebrimbor moved on to the last charm, a ward against theft. Where the first two charms derived from Tengwar, this run was derived from Cirth, and old Cirth at that, not the Cirth that had recently seen a resurgence in use in Eryn Galen. The Amanyar didn’t use such charms; in Aman, the very idea that someone might steal from you was taboo even to imply. The Sindar considered it blasphemous to use magic for such ‘petty’ ends. This was a charm Celebrimbor had learned from Laiquendi refugees in the days of her wandering, long ago.
No song to empower the ward, either. The Laiquendi had made many songs, but not one for this charm. Instead, Celebrimbor took a small knife from her belt and made an incision on her right thumb. She watched as she let a single drop of blood fly to the charm, and it hissed and fizzled on contact, turning black, then disappearing entirely. The charm was only as good as Celebrimbor’s own life, but then, she had no intentions of dying soon.
A satisfied smile slowly unfurled over Celebrimbor’s lips. She stood, and held the necklace out to Celebrían. “Do you like it?”
Eyes widening slightly, Celebrían took the necklace out of Celebrimbor’s hand. It was silver, with no jewels (Celebrimbor had been trying to get her hands on peridot for months, to no avail, and had finally given up). Three silver ‘flowers’ were strung on a fine chain, domes of petals and sepals over a solid, circular base. It wasn’t Celebrimbor’s typical style, but then, she’d been experimenting lately.
“Yes, very much.” Celebrían slipped her free hand—refreshingly cool, despite the time she had spent in the forges—over the back of Celebrimbor’s neck and grinned. “I wonder what I can give in return.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll think of something.”