Some time after the return from Forochel; Imladris, Third Age.
Celossiel sat at her workbench, slowly plaiting her silver strands into a long braid. It caught the light emanating from the hot coals, as did her eyes, and she felt the warmth of them on her skin. She tied the braid with a simple leather cord and twisted it at the base of her neck. Standing, she removed the mixture of silver beads and shavings from the scale she had prepared, then delicately tilted them into two waiting crucibles, no bigger than a cup. She took them up, one by one, and placed them carefully within the waiting oven.
‘Will you do it?’
She remembered how anxiously he had looked at her, his bronze hair like fire and molten metal in the glow of the forge.
It did not take her long to learn how plainly emotion truly dances on his face. He seemed detached at first: distant and unreadable. His manner had been brusk with her before, and a time or two she even thought him rude–at least, until she set aside her own pride long enough to take note of the circumstance. Somehow, she kept finding herself on the periphery of those he held close when confronting his fresh grief, and he had no fault in that.
Hir Ithilwë on the other hand had been kind and open from the first, his keen eyes always seeking out the needs of those around him, guiding them through their troubles with a gentle word. He was liked and likable, making fast friendships where he went, always respectful and treating all alike, but troubling them not with his own woes.
They were parted now, Amathlan and Ithilwë, orders taking Amathlan to the cold, dark realm of Angmar. Another foolhardy plan, though for once not of his own devising, and one he would not be alone in.
She opened the oven door, removing the crucibles with a pair of tongs. The beads were reduced to a red-hot liquid now, and she brought the containers back to her bench, tilting them deftly into the waiting molds, the liquid sprouting a flame before settling within. The molds had taken time to prepare, the intricate weaving design requiring care and attention she had not needed to exercise since Eregion.
Of course, Ithilwë had discovered their purpose before she had a chance to carve the wax. But what she promised one she could not refuse the other, and though the need for secrecy had doubled now, she thought Amathlan easier to throw off the scent than Ithilwë, who spent more time listening than he did speaking, where Amathlan had a tendency to act and react.
The thought brought a crease to her brow, remembering her confrontation with the tempestuous Elf. It still left a bitter taste in her mouth. She felt discomforted losing her temper like that in still-new company, but foolish and spiteful he had been, condemning her for a decision he himself would have taken without a moment’s consideration for others. She was beholden to none, where he had Ithilwë and his orders.
There had been no time to fetch them when the Manling, Ioranir, had snuck away, and even with the haste they made, they had been too late. Her heart was heavy with sympathy for the young Forodion1. What a terrible way to lose one’s home and kin. She supposed there, they had something in common. She shook her head, trying to dispel the dark, gruesome images from her mind, both ancient and fresh.
She let her thoughts instead wander to her father, and a warmth filled her immediately. She remembered his strong arms lifting her to the table so she could watch him work, learning the names of the instruments and passing him what he asked. She remembered the songs he sang as he worked, his voice resonant, the melodies calling to the metal, speaking to it.
She began humming one now, softly, as she cracked open the molds. From them, she removed twin silver rings, stems still attached: they were flowing and delicate, a graceful tangle of miniature twig and branch, weaving and twining together towards the center, where the tips danced to form a head.
Her hum rose to a gentle song as she placed each on a rod and sawed off the ring-stems, then filed them with care to a smooth surface. With each pass she took a finer file, slow and deliberate in the delicate work, the song reaching its zenith as the metal reflected like a mirror. She did not rush the process, each movement steady and practiced, just strong enough to polish, but not to bend.
The song falling slower now, she reached her hand to a small case, removing from its cushion two small uncut gemstones, each polished to a perfect sphere. One a fire opal, catching and blazing in the glow of the forge, the other a white star-sapphire, appearing to gleam with its own radiant light.
Each she set carefully within the delicate silver nest and pressed the malleable branches around each sphere, holding them safe and close as just as the song reached its conclusion.
A star for one, a flame for the other. She studied each for a moment, before setting them aside in twin cases, whispering a thanks in veneration of Aulë. There they would wait for Amathlan’s safe return.
Her hand tightened on the case.
1 Forodion, S. 'son of the North'
