This is for shinramses, who doesn't have a tumblr, for the tolkien secret santa 2018! This isn't quite what you asked for, but it does include weddings, so I hope you like it!
(this does include fem!Narvi and lots of fluff. enjoy!)
Disclaimer: The Tolkien Estate owns the rights to the Silmarillion and all of Tolkien's works. I don't own any of the characters, concepts, or settings mentioned below.
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It was the middle of the night, and they should probably both be sleeping, but Celebrimbor didn't care. There was nothing he liked better than lying on the roof with the stars above him and his best friend beside him.
Narvi shifted, pressing herself into his side and grumbling, "You're freezing."
"I'm fine," Celebrimbor said mildly. Even if the cold did bother him, the near-furnace like heat that Narvi emanated would have been more than enough to keep him warm.
Overhead, a shooting star streaked past before vanishing behind a thin cloud.
Narvi made a soft, contented sort of sound, and Celebrimbor tilted his head to look at her. She was always beautiful, of course, but there was something about the way she looked under the stars that made his heart beat a little faster. The soft light gentled her face and lit up something she normally kept hidden.
This was the dwarf he'd fallen in love with, so long ago. He loved the passion in her eyes as she debated the finer points of metallurgy and he loved the deft twist of her hands as she worked but mostly he loved Narvi as she was: bright and genuine and so open to the beauty of the world around her.
"You're staring again, aren't you?" Narvi asked, voice wry. She turned her head and caught his expression. Her smile gentled. "Where are you wandering off to, Khalebrimbur?"
"Nowhere," he replied, honestly. For once, his mind was still. He could think of nothing but her and the moment they had now.
"Liar," she whispered, although there was no heat in it. Celebrimbor sat up abruptly, and she rolled over to settle her head in his lap. Her eyebrows shot upwards at the expression on his face. "Something serious, then?"
"No." With the ease of practice, he threaded his fingers through her thick curls. "Well. Perhaps." He tugged a single lock of hair free and wound it between his fingers. "I was just thinking about how deeply, wonderfully in love with you I am."
Narvi laughed. "Oh? Don't you have anything better to occupy your lovely mind with?"
Celebrimbor's lips twitched into a slight smile. He didn't know how to tell her what was going on in his mind, the storm of memories and choices that had led him to this moment. He came from a family of kinslayers, of rulers, of artists. Noble blood, bloody blood, ran through his veins, and fate had stricken his family down for it.
And yet here he was, alive enough to be enjoying this, to be enjoying her, and he couldn't breathe past the wonder that suddenly constricted his chest.
Narvi's smile faded at the look on his face, and she opened her mouth to speak.
He cut her off, the tightness in his chest suddenly flooding out and spilling into the cool night air. "Will you marry me, Narvi?"
Narvi stared at him. "What?"
Celebrimbor's cheeks flushed, and his fingers fidgeted with her hair, but he didn't back down. "Marry me, Narvi."
Hesitantly, she said, "For real, this time?"
He nodded, expression solemn. She sat up, nearly knocking his chin with her skull as she did so, and swiveled around to face him. Slowly, warily, she asked, "Are you serious?"
"I've never been more serious in my life." He took her face in his hands, his long fingers cradling her skull, and he looked her in the eyes. "I love you more dearly than anything, meldanya, and I wish to bind myself to you, body and soul—"
She grabbed his collar and dragged him down for a kiss. When he finally pulled away, breathless and eyes shining, she said, "You talk too much."
Several months beforehand, when Narvi was sketching the designs for the doors to Khazad-dûm and Celebrimbor was sitting on the floor and leaning against her legs, Narvi asked, "Who's in charge of you, anyways?"
Celebrimbor wrapped one slim arm lazily around her calf and leaned his cheek against her knee, peering up at her through his lashes. "You."
She rolled her eyes. "No, you daft thing. Who do I ask for your hand?"
Celebrimbor sat upright, eyes huge. "Oh."
"Oh indeed."
They got married on a warm summer night, when Narvi knocked on his door after the sun set and said, "Let's go now."
He blinked at her, a vision with his hair unbound and his night robe tied loosely about his waist. "Now?"
She just grinned, eyes alight with delight. "Now."
And so they ran, hand-in-hand, into the city to find somebody to marry them. It was a small affair, neither wholly Dwarvish nor Elvish in nature, and both of them were giddy throughout the whole ceremony. Narvi painted Dwarvish runes into his forehead and cheekbones with the tip of her pinky finger. Her tongue stuck out between her lips when she worked, and Celebrimbor had to resist the urge to grab her and kiss the blush from her cheeks.
Afterwards, they ran—kissing and giggling and shamelessly, delightedly in love—beyond the walls of the city, sneaking past the guards and hiding their red faces in the shadows. In the meadows beyond the hill, Celebrimbor dropped to his knees before her and kissed her lips, her shoulders, her wrists, murmuring I love you, I love you, I love you, until he bound his fea to her, for better or for worse and for all eternity.
When they first met, Narvi's first thought was that Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion was a firestorm. He was ever in motion, flitting around the room to talk with anybody that caught his eye, slipping effortlessly from Westron to Sindarin to Quenya to Khuzdul, either oblivious to or uncaring of the shocked looks he garnered from the dwarves unfamiliar with him. Even when standing still, his fingers fidgeted with the many rings he wore about his fingers or pulled at the loose threads in his clothes
(or, later, wrapped around her fingers or threaded through her hair or tugged at her sleeve)
and his eyes were ever alight with passion and distant as his mind rushed ever onwards, exploring new theories and paths and ideas.
Narvi was used to the steadiness of dwarves, to the steadfastness of their walks and their thoughts and their smiles.
Celebrimbor was a butterfly, a hurricane, a passing breeze, but—
But in the forge his hands grew still and his eyes grew terribly, impossibly bright and Narvi thought—
He is a firestorm.
Galadriel stared knowingly at Celebrimbor when he came into the city council meeting with Dwarvish braids in his hair and a sheepish expression. When he slid into the seat next to her, she simply said, "Your grandfather is turning in his grave right now."
Primly, Celebrimbor stuck his nose into the air. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Later that afternoon, she pressed a necklace with the Fëanorian star dangling from its chain into his hand with a sly smile and a congratulations before wandering off to do whatever it was she did in the afternoons.
Narvi stole it from him several days later and wore it under her shirt when she left on a trip back to Khazad-dûm to deliver commissions and collect new ones. Her sister cackled delightedly when she saw the charm, eager to hear about the handsome elf lord Narvi wrote about in her letters.
When she came back to Eregion, she wore proper marriage braids with a pretty wooden bead in her beard and a broad smile.
That night, when Celebrimbor crawled into her arms, she braided it into his hair and kissed the tip of his ear.
When Celebrimbor first met Narvi, he was struck by her eyes. They were the brightest green he'd ever seen, and he couldn't stop thinking about them. Almost everything he made that month was covered in emeralds.
(She laughed, later, when she noticed, and he blushed and stammered until she grabbed his most recent work—a pretty headpiece of gold and emeralds—and put it on and they both laughed at how ridiculous she looked in such a painfully Elvish thing)
(She wore it for months after, and he crafted rings and necklaces and earrings to match it)
They met at a formal meal of some sort, dignitaries from all over the continent meeting to discuss things. Celebrimbor was distracted the whole time, hyperaware of the young Dwarrowdam with her bright green eyes and her intelligent expression and her pale hair.
It wasn't until the very end, when the moon was at its zenith and the dancing was over, that he mustered up the courage to approach her.
"Hello," she said, with a slight quirk to her lips.
He flushed. She likely guessed that he'd spent the entire night avoiding her, and her eyes gleamed with that knowledge. "Hello."
She dropped her head into a formal bow. "Lord Celebrimbor, I presume?"
He bowed, too, because he didn't know what else to do with his hands. "I'm afraid I don't know your name."
She looked up, and he was struck by the laughter in her eyes. "Narvi."
Narvi, he thought, and found that the word made his heart still.
Narvi. Narvi. Narvi.
Almost three months after their wedding, Celebrían spilled into Celebrimbor's forge and barreled right into Narvi. She stepped backwards, nearly tripping back into the doorway, and looked up with all her youthful outrage plain on her face. "You married Tyelpë and didn't tell me?" she demanded.
Narvi laughed and reached out to ruffle Celebrían's hair. "We didn't tell anybody, little one."
Celebrían pouted. "I've been telling ammë you two should get married for years!"
Her look of betrayal was so absolute that Narvi handed her one of the experimental earrings Celebrimbor had made earlier. She took them, delighted, but still said, "You have to do it again, so I can come."
At that moment, Celebrimbor slipped around Celebrían and walked into the forge. "What are you doing here, Telpë?"
"Tyelpë," Celebrían cried, furious all over again, "You—"
Narvi interrupted her. "Celebrimbor, ghivashel, would you like to get married? Again?"
Celebrimbor stared at her. "I— what?"
She just winked at him, and he slowly smiled.
"Why not?"
This time, they got married on a cold winter morning. It was a very Elvish ceremony, which Celebrimbor apologized profusely for, but Narvi didn't care. Most days, she dressed more Elvishly than he did anyways, and she loved any excuse to see him all dressed up. Almost all of Eregion was in attendance, and many of Narvi's close friends and relatives made the trip.
It was a loud, boisterous affair, and wine and food and laughter flowed aplenty.
After greeting everybody and carrying out more of the important traditions and rituals, Narvi grabbed Celebrimbor's hand and dragged him into the nearest alley. She kissed him, and he laughed as her beard scuffed his skin.
"We should get back to the party," he said breathlessly.
She tilted her head, considering. "Nah."
He laughed again, and she grinned brightly. She loved his laugh, its shameless happiness, and she loved being able to make him laugh.
"We should climb up somewhere high," she declared, kissing him between words, "and wait for the stars to rise."
And they did.
When Celebrimbor was at his lowest point in his life, he was certain that he was destined to die a horrible death alone in the darkness and perhaps also in flames.
His family had set a precedent, after all.
Narvi never learned about that, but she seemed to read it in his eyes anyways. Whenever he grew solemn and still and sad, she would take his hands in hers and kiss his knuckles, each touch reminding him that he was alive and here and loved.
"Well who do I ask for your hand?" Narvi asked, lips quirked into that half-smile he so loved.
Celebrimbor made a face. "I don't know. My uncle, I suppose, but only Elrond knows where he is and he's not telling."
Narvi's tongue flicked out between her lips as she thought. "Hmm."
"Galadriel," Celebrimbor said slowly, just to see the way Narvi's nose scrunched up.
"No, I'm not asking her if I can marry you." She pushed her chair away from the desk, and he made a sound of protest as she dragged her leg from his grasp.
He grinned shamelessly at her. "I suppose I'll just have to ask your father, then."
They got married again in Khazad-dûm, and Narvi draped heavy gold jewelry about his thin form and set a deep crimson ceremonial robe tailored for his height over his shoulders.
He charmed her family with his earnestness, and Narvi didn't know how she'd been so lucky as to fall in love with somebody so wonderful.
"Narvi, Narvi," Celebrimbor said, absolutely plastered on Dwarvish wine. He tried to climb into her lap, but the heaviness of his Dwarvish wedding robes—so different from the airy cloths he normally wore—seemed to confuse him.
Narvi laughed and dragged him up into her lap, uncaring of the wine that sloshed over his cup and onto her sleeve. He tried to kiss her, but she ducked out from under him and said, "What are you doing, ghivashel?"
His brow furrowed, clearly thinking very hard. "You're just so— You're so pretty, you know that?"
"You're not too bad yourself," she murmured, raising her eyebrows. Behind him, on the dance floor, the music swelled and the various dwarves stamped along with the beat.
"You're so pretty, meldanya," Celebrimbor said again, trying to kiss her. She kissed him, quick and chaste, before pulling away.
"How much have you had to drink?"
He waved his cup proudly. "Lots. So much. Your sister—who is lovely, Narvi, lovely—kept giving me more." Narvi made a face, but he wasn't done yet. "Narvi, Narvi, Narvi, I love you. Did you know that?"
"Yes," she said drily, "I did marry you, after all. Three times."
His eyes widened. "Oh. Narvi! We should get married."
A startled laugh escaped her lips. "We're at our wedding, Celebrimbor!"
He leaned forwards to kiss her messily on the lips, and when he pulled away, his smile was brilliant.
"You're incorrigible," she said matter-of-factly.
In response, he kissed her again.
They never exchanged marriage rings or hair beads or necklaces, only their promises to each other and the knowledge that their love would last until neither of them had hearts to give. It was a quiet sort of thing, but they never minded.
The weddings never mattered to them, not really. They were fun, and they loved spending time with each other, but a wedding would never be the pinnacle of their lives.
They simply loved each other and trusted in that love.
And that was all there was.
It was all they needed, really.
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I didn't use many unusual words but:
meldanya — "my dear" (q)
ammë — "mommy" (q)
ghivashel — "treasure of treasure" (k)
Additionally: Celebrimbor's Quenyan nickname is "Tyelpë" because that's the "proper" (or original) word for "silver" in Quenya, and the Fëanorians are nothing if not sticklers for proper language. Similarly, Celebrían's nickname is "Telpë" because that's the more Telerin way of pronouncing it.
(It's also a little in-joke between the two, and a way for their loved ones to differentiate between the two of them)
Anyways, happy holidays and I hope you enjoyed this fic!