Niphredil by Dawn Felagund, Grundy, , Idrils Scribe, , Nienna

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Celebrían

Written by Idrils Scribe. Illumination by Dawn Felagund.

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dearest, I would be much obliged if you could send me some Niphredil bulbs, as the flower is unknown here in Aman. I would share the scent with Amarië, and remember Lúthien by them. They would also be a great comfort to Queen Melian, who sends her regards.

 

It had been but a footnote buried in one of Finrod’s longer missives, but Celebrian had been eager to fulfill her illustrious uncle’s request - more than eager, even. She knew of Finrod’s lasting obsession with all things Dwarvish, his nostalgia for days gone by and friendships lost. She had endeavoured to double his joy by dispatching not just the real flower, but its likeness wrought in Dwarvish gems. She might have known that so prestigious a commission would … escalate. 

 

The box of filigreed stone Celebrimbor had brought her upon his return from Khazad-dûm was certainly too large to hold the simple hair-combs she commissioned. The hammer and anvil of Durin’s emblem were finely wrought in the lid’s geometrical patterns, with seven stars rendered in mithril. She eyed it with trepidation. 

 

Celebrimbor laughed at her hesitation. “Ai, niece, I vouch for Narvi! She did not put a snake in there!” 

 

“Neither is it a hair comb.” Celebrían answered him adroitly. 

 

He smiled, bright and open. “Did you truly expect the greatest craftswoman of Khazad-dûm to send the legendary Felakgundu an ordinary comb? Narvi was deeply honoured by this commission. Few Dwarvish artisans will have their work immortalized in Valinor!”

 

“Oh.” Celebrian felt foolish for not understanding this sooner. Perhaps it took a fellow crafter to do so. Despite her hundred winters she suddenly felt like a silly little girl, unworthy to touch the mysterious Dwarvish chest.

 

“Go ahead, open it and be awed!” encouraged Celebrimbor, smiling fondly.  

 

With careful hands Celebrían lifted the lid and folded back the layers of cloth-of-mithril that shielded the jewel within from view. Underneath, cocooned in a layer of indigo velvet, lay a single, utterly perfect sprig of flowering niphredil.

 

Her breath caught in her chest and she felt tears prick her eyes at the delicate, vulnerable beauty of it. This was no simple hair-comb with a flower motif such as she had believed to be ordering. 

This was a circlet to fit a forest king.

A waterfall of niphredil rained down as she lifted the mithril head-band from its wrappings. The flowers would trail over the ears and down to the base of the skull, curling around to the back. They were absolutely, impossibly, impressively perfect.  

Where her eyes could not find a single give-away in the blooms, the touch of her fingers revealed that the petals were of white opal, shimmering with just the right whirl of color to evoke a morning of palest spring. The stems and leaves were jade, and peridot accents for the green splashes on the inner petals. What appeared to be morning dew sparkling on the petals proved carefully placed and exquisitely shaped diamond droplets.

“Come here,” said Celebrimbor as she sat down once more, struck silent by the masterpiece she held in her hands. He rose to stand behind her, and reverently lifted the circlet from her fingers to place it on her head. She felt him adjust some clever Dwarvish fastener at the back, and the jewel molded itself to fit as if made especially for her. 

 

He took her by the elbow to carefully turn her towards the mirror above the fireplace, and once more she could do nothing but gasp. 

 

“A vision of a lost world.” Celeborn’s entry had been quiet as a stalking lynx. 

 

He was carrying a simple wooden crate, the contents obscured by a wax cloth cover. The rich scent of forest humus rose from it. He must have freshly dug up a glade of Niphredil.

 

Her father set down the bulbs, and extended his hand to carefully touch the jewel-flowers hanging down over her silver hair, so like his own. “Just so did Lúthien array herself with dwarvish work to dance in the glades of Neldoreth, when Doriath still believed in the good faith of the Stunted Ones.”

 

Celebrían cast a cautious look at Celebrimbor. Even now Celeborn remained prone to brooding over his destroyed home.

 

“Ai, Adar,” she sighed, laying a hand on his shoulder and feeling his knotted tension unwind beneath the comfort of her touch. 

 

Celebrimbor was less gentle. “It has been an age of the world. How long will you stew in bitterness? Has the time not come to forgive?” The close collaboration between the jewelsmiths of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and those of Khazad-dûm was a long-standing source of disagreement between the Lord of Eregion and the head of the Mírdain.

 

Celeborn gave Celebrían’s hand a gentle pat and turned to the window. The casements stood open to the balmy air, and for a long, dragging moment he looked out across the shimmering roofs of Ost-in-Edhil, glazed tiles reflecting the summer sun in a riot of colour. 

 

“Aye, kinsman. Grudges serve no purpose, and they tend to poison their bearers. But I counsel my daughter not to forget.” Celeborn once more touched the jewel as it rested on the silver fall of Celebrían’s hair. “My kind-hearted child. Send this Dwarf-jewel to Finrod, he will be enthusiastic as ever. But for pity’s sake, before he starts parading it around Valinor, remind him to keep it from Queen Melian’s sight.”

 

Celebrían lifted the crate’s wax cloth cover to reveal the delicate bulbs beneath, each one nested in layers of soil and straw. Celeborn was a forester at heart. He had taken utmost care so that this living gift would weather the long journey west. Her father might remain stuck in the losses of his past, but he was quite literally sowing the seeds of renewal. He, too, would have some growing to do.