Warmth and Light by Zdenka  

Celebrimbor wakes up to warmth and comfort, with Narvi’s arms wrapped around him and Narvi’s beard tickling his neck. He sighs and leans closer. The slight roughness of Narvi’s beard against his skin never fails to send a thrill through him. No Elf can grow a beard unless he’s lived through several Ages, and even then it seems to be inconsistent; Círdan is the only Elf Celebrimbor knows who has actually done it. Celebrimbor doesn’t know why Dwarves and Men should be endowed with facial hair when Elves are not, but he thinks Aulë did good crafting when he decided to give his Children beards.

There is no especially urgent business for today, and so Celebrimbor lets himself indulge, slipping his hands under the covers to run them over the warm skin of Narvi’s back. Narvi stirs and grumbles something unintelligible but does not wake. Celebrimbor smiles fondly. It still seems unbelievable to him sometimes that he can have this. After war and death and destruction, he, Celebrimbor of Eregion, can wake on a lazy morning in quiet peace with the one he loves, can be held and loved in turn. And outside this room is his city full of craft and beauty, and a forge waiting for him and Narvi to work in it. The thought of the forge and the work they can do later is enough to lure him to start the day. The bed is tempting—Narvi is tempting—but Celebrimbor hops out of bed to pull on a shirt and begin making breakfast.

Celebrimbor slices and fries potatoes from Khazad-dûm with salt and a scattering of dried rosemary; sausages from Eregion’s market go in another pan. He also boils water in a small pot for an herbal tisane, throwing in whatever seems interesting. Dried rose petals and elderflower, a small handful of fennel seeds . . . It doesn’t seem like quite enough, so he opens the spice cabinet and adds whatever else takes his fancy. He inhales the fragrant steam. It smells delicious. Narvi likes to tease him sometimes for his more eccentric combinations, but while the results of Celebrimbor’s improvisations are sometimes strange, they’ve never yet been undrinkable.

Everything is just about ready when Narvi wanders out of their bedroom. He is wearing only a pair of loose sleeping trousers, and Celebrimbor takes a moment to appreciate the breadth of his shoulders and the reddish hair along his chest.

“Good morning,” he says in Dwarvish, and Narvi returns the greeting in Quenya. Usually they speak Sindarin together, or a mixture of Sindarin and Khuzdul, but Narvi has learned some Quenya words for them to speak when they are alone, and it pleases Celebrimbor to hear the dearly familiar words on Narvi’s tongue.

Narvi fetches plates and utensils, then Celebrimbor brings food to the table and fills both their plates. Narvi slices bread for them—a loaf bought yesterday in the market along with the sausages—and unwraps the pale yellow cheese from Lindon. They move around each other easily, not getting in the other’s way. They both know where everything is in Celebrimbor’s house, and Celebrimbor has put everything most frequently used in medium-height cabinets that both he and Narvi can reach without discomfort.

“We can finish the lanterns today,” Narvi says while putting cheese on his bread.

“And test them,” Celebrimbor says at once, his eyes alight. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing the effect.” The teacup steams with gentle warmth in his hands. The whole day is theirs to look forward to, and Celebrimbor could almost laugh for the sheer joy of it.

Once they have both eaten their fill, it doesn’t take long to wash the dishes and make themselves ready. Celebrimbor walks to the forge with quick steps, Narvi at his side. But of course the work itself can’t be hurried.

The lanterns—their latest project—are stonework, carved delicately as lace by Narvi’s skilled hands. Celebrimbor has made thin panes of translucent crystal in different colors which slot carefully into place in the stone. He has been trying various combinations: making the panes thicker or thinner or with different curvature, experimenting with the crystals’ opacity and hue and range of colors and the light they carry.

They are almost done; they would have finished yesterday, but Celebrimbor changed his mind about the angle of some of the panes. Narvi makes the needed adjustments, while Celebrimbor slides the panes of the finished lanterns into place.

Celebrimbor keeps stealing sidelong glances to watch Narvi at his work; he loves to see Narvi’s face frowning slightly in concentration, Narvi’s strong fingers deftly handling the tiny chisels to carve away delicate flakes of stone. At last Narvi straightens and puts down the stone lamp he was working on.

“Ready?” Celebrimbor asks with anticipation.

“Yes,” Narvi says, and Celebrimbor can see him smiling under his beard.

Together they set the lanterns in place. Narvi sets a candle in each lantern and lights them while Celebrimbor closes and bolts the forge’s thick shutters. Narvi comes to his side. Celebrimbor puts a hand on his shoulder and speaks the word to douse all the Fëanorian lamps.

Celebrimbor draws in his breath. Within the darkness of the forge, the lamps’ overlapping light gives the effect of a sunlit forest grove, with a dappled green light that seems to filter through leaves. Narvi’s skilled carving has created the leaf-shadows cast upon the floor; Celebrimbor can almost hear them rustle.

Narvi steps away and carefully adjusts the position of one or two of the lanterns. Celebrimbor stands in the center of the room and slowly turns around, making mental notes of where the light quality and color is performing as expected, where it is better or worse, and where the result is simply unexpected—an interesting problem to work at later.

Then he simply sits cross-legged on the floor and tilts his head back to enjoy the illusion they have created. It’s not a true substitute for sunlight—it lacks the warmth, and the light feels different when it falls from above—but it should work very well to light a room, or at a nighttime festival. And he thinks he might enjoy taking this into the heart of Khazad-dûm, when it is his turn to visit Narvi.

Narvi has finished his adjustments; he comes back to Celebrimbor. “Projected leaves are all very well, my friend,” Narvi says dryly, “but we haven’t transformed the floor of this forge into grass, and it can hardly be comfortable to sit on.”

Celebrimbor laughs. “You are right,” he says, taking the hand Narvi offers him and rising to his feet. “But I wanted to look at it from this angle. It’s very beautiful.”

Narvi nods in satisfaction. He takes a moment longer to look around at what they have created together. “I found some things I want to fix.”

“I too,” Celebrimbor says with relish. He goes to open the shutter again, letting in the true sunlight. “How shall we make it better?”

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