When the Leaves Fall Golden by Dagstjarna  

For the Noldor, your life doesn’t begin when you are born, but on the day your eldest maternal sibling is born. Or, If you’re an only child, your life day is the day of your mother’s eldest maternal sibling. For Celebrimbor, that was his aunt F’s birthday in mid September, or the end of Yavie. His aunt F, his mother’s older sister, was born in the years of the trees. They came from a family of talented potters in a neighborhood of Tirion dedicated to ceramics. Celebrimbor remembered walking there in the narrow, winding streets filled with the smell of clay and laughter and pots of every size, some smaller than an apple, others big enough for two grownup elves to crouch in. 

Like most Noldorin children, Celebrimbor had received a thorough education in all the main crafts. He and his cousins and friends spent their time in different parts of the city being tutored by various people, elders and experts in their art. Every family had a speciality, with children free to follow their own inclinations and apprentice under any teachers they wanted to. Sometimes the possibilities had been almost overwhelming. Then, once they were old enough that they had lost all their baby teeth, they got to walk in the new year parade wearing their first colorful clothes. Before that age, children wore black or white unpatterned clothing that would show off the stains and smudges of materials from their crafts, to encourage them to be free and messy and creative with everything they did. Once they lost their last tooth, they got their first set of colorful patterned clothing, and they got to wear it for the first time in the new year parade. Colorful clothes were a sign of maturity and trust, of growing knowledge, and responsibility. 

Celebrimbor remembered the first colorful clothes he wore had been a deep, rich midnight blue, hand-me-downs from his uncle Maglor. For the past year before that Celebrimbor had been growing out his hair, so by then it was plaited.

I am so proud of you, Tyelpë. His father had told him, glittering with jewelry in the treelight. You are the brightest star in my sky. 

If only that were true, Celebrimbor thought sadly, trying not to look to see if Gil-Estel was shining in his window. 

Now his hair was so long it would trail on the fallen leaves if he didn’t have it draped over his arm. His cloak was golden-yellow, and the dogwoods were bright with their crimson berries. 

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