True-silver by Zdenka  

Narvi ran the comb through Celebrimbor’s hair a final time and set it down. He gathered up a handful of Celebrimbor’s hair in his hand, letting the glossy strands slide through his fingers.

“Narvi,” Celebrimbor murmured quietly. He was bare to the waist, sitting cross-legged on Narvi’s bed while Narvi knelt behind him. Narvi ran his fingers through Celebrimbor’s hair one more time and separated out a section to braid. Today, he had full permission to adorn Celebrimbor as he wished.

Although he was a jewel-smith, Celebrimbor was not one to adorn himself. It was something Narvi had noticed early in their acquaintance. Celebrimbor didn’t twist his hair into elaborate braids like some of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, or put it up with jewelled hairpins like the envoys from Gil-galad’s court at Lindon, or braid golden beads into his hair like Narvi’s own people. Although Celebrimbor took delight in adding the brightness of sapphires or rubies or the brilliance of adamant to the works that he made, he rarely wore jewels himself; his adornments were few and of plain silver. Even when he met with the guildmasters or received the Elvish High King’s messengers, he dressed with almost ostentatious plainness, his clothing that of a simple smith although he was the head of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and lord of Eregion. Narvi had once asked him why.

“I dress as a smith because I want them to see me as a smith,” Celebrimbor had said with a determined expression. “If I wore a warrior’s braids or decked myself in jewels like a Prince of the Noldor, then some of the Sindar would have dark thoughts as to who I might use my sword on, and some of Gil-galad’s councilors would think I had delusions of grandeur. Let them think I have no head for politics at all. Who rules in Ost-in-Edhil? Everyone knows that Celebrimbor has his nose in the forge all the time. It must be Galadriel. To be fair,” he added cheerfully, “she does keep an eye on at least half the city. But I have no interest in interfering with young Gil-galad’s court or his business. As long as he doesn’t interfere with my business too much, we can get along well.”

Narvi had even less interest than Celebrimbor in Elvish politics. But he let himself imagine Celebrimbor with a warrior’s braids, his eyes fierce under his helm. “But you do keep in practice with your weapons.” Narvi had not seen it, but he had seen Celebrimbor lift a sword in the forge to test it, spinning through the sword-forms without hesitation.

“Of course.” Celebrimbor’s eyes glinted. “If something happened, I would feel very foolish to be caught unprepared.  But we are done with that, I hope! I will be content if the swords I make never see use in battle again.”

Much later, when they had grown close, Narvi dared to make the suggestion that there was no reason for Celebrimbor not to wear jewels in private, and in fact, Narvi would rather enjoy putting them on him. With a mischievous look, Celebrimbor had said that he would be glad to trust himself to Narvi’s hands.

And here they were, Narvi’s hands braiding Celebrimbor’s hair. He took a bead of mithril filigree from a bowl beside him and slid it carefully over a thin strand of hair, adding it into the braid.

Celebrimbor shifted a little on the bed. It was always difficult for him to keep still, unless he was working on something, when he might fall into such deep concentration that you could almost shout in his ear without his noticing. Narvi took more beads from the bowl, working them into the braid under his hands.

Celebrimbor glanced sidelong at the bowl of beads. He picked one up, turning it idly between his fingers. “Is it true that mithril is found only here, in the mountains of Khazad-dûm, and nowhere else?”

“If there is mithril anywhere else, it is not known to the Dwarves,” Narvi said.

“Nor to the Elves.” Celebrimbor leaned his head back into Narvi’s hands. “I wonder why that should be. The geological conditions here aren’t unique. Do you think the Valar planned it, for some reason?”

Narvi was silent for a moment, while his hands worked through Celebrimbor’s hair. “There’s a story.”

“Is there? Tell it to me,” Celebrimbor said eagerly. Though he had lived a thousand years or more, a length of time that made Narvi dizzy to think about, Celebrimbor was as hungry as a child for stories and songs.

“Long, long ago,” Narvi began, while his fingers continued to work Celebrimbor’s dark hair, “before Elf or Man walked in Middle-earth, Mahal created the Fathers and Mothers of the Dwarves.”

“I know that story.”

“You won’t know this one if you don’t listen.”

“My apologies,” Celebrimbor murmured.

Narvi reached the end of his braid and fastened it with a twist of wire. He moved Celebrimbor’s hair aside, putting it in front of Celebrimbor’s shoulder so that he could run his hands over the smooth warm skin of his back. Celebrimbor made a soft content sound low in his throat and leaned into Narvi’s hands. “The story?” he said hopefully after a few moments.

Narvi sighed quietly. Green jewels next, he thought, in a range of shades like leaves in dappled sunlight. He continued, “It is said, after he made them, he looked on his work and found that it was flawed, not altogether as he meant it. He raised his hammer to destroy them. But their eyes opened, and they pleaded with him not to harm them in the language that he had made for them. Then Mahal’s heart was moved. He was overcome with love for them, and he cast his hammer aside. He knew that his work was not perfect, but he no longer blamed himself for his failure. Seeing them with the eyes of love, he found them beautiful, and he thought that his work was good.”

“It surely was,” Celebrimbor agreed quietly. He was silent for a few moments, while Narvi lifted a braid and considered the best way to fasten it on Celebrimbor’s head. “And then?”

Narvi held the braid in place with one hand and slid in a hairpin to hold it fast. “Mahal flung his hammer away with such force that it hit the wall of his forge and cracked it. The walls began to shake, and dust trickled down from the ceiling. Mahal would not let his people be harmed so soon after sparing them, and he quickly commanded the rock to stand firm again. The walls steadied, but the crack was still there. To fill it, Mahal seized a handful of liquid starlight from a jar and flung it at the wall. The starlight ran through the cracks and spread all through the mountain, and when it cooled it hardened and became a metal. That was the origin of true-silver.”

Celebrimbor twisted around to look at him, ignoring Narvi’s protests. He was smiling with delight. “A fine story! I like that, mithril being made from starlight. The Eldar say that Varda kindled the stars with silver dew of the Two Trees. Perhaps Aulë had something like that in his forge.” One of his braids that Narvi hadn’t finished yet was unravelling; Narvi caught the end of it and tugged it to make him turn back around. Celebrimbor obeyed, settling back into his place. “And then?”

“And then Dwarves found it and mined it and worked it, and many years later a Dwarf of Khazad-dûm was able to adorn a troublesome Elf with it.”

“What? Am I troublesome, Narvi?” Celebrimbor demanded in mock offense.

“You are if you won’t stay still. You’re hindering my work.”

That braid settled, Narvi selected a necklace and clasped it behind Celebrimbor’s neck. He turned him around by the shoulders so he could adjust the fall of the necklace on Celebrimbor’s bare chest.

Narvi felt something pluck at his clothing. He glanced down to see that Celebrimbor’s deft fingers had already unbuttoned Narvi’s tunic to the waist and were working at his belt. Narvi chuckled. He caught one of Celebrimbor’s hands and ran his fingers up his wrist and arm, pretending not to notice how it made him shiver.

“Narvi,” Celebrimbor said hoarsely.

“Be patient.” The true treasure was here, under his hands. But Narvi meant to add bracelets for his wrists, rings for his fingers—until his Celebrimbor was splendid and shining. And then both their patience would be rewarded.

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