The golden brilliance of the restored Two Trees bathed Tirion in a light so pure it washed away the memory of shadow, fueled by the recovered Silmarils and the renewed song of Yavanna. Amidst the gardens of the House of Fëanor, Celebrimbor stood near a starlight fountain, his black hair—deep and lustrous like his father Curufin’s—bound with silver. He had been re-embodied for ages, but his soul had remained suspended, waiting for the one piece of himself left in Middle-earth.

As the firstborn of Fingolfin, your loyalty was a thing of terrifying legend. You were the princess who had turned your back on your father’s host at Alqualondë, abandoning your brother Fingon’s vanguard to board the blood-stained ships of the Fëanoreans just to remain at Celebrimbor’s side. For two ages, you had stayed behind as a wraith of vengeance, hunting every creature that had participated in the sack of Eregion until the enemies of your husband were nothing but dust. Now, as you stood before him, you were a masterpiece of rugged, royal sturdiness. You looked at one another with a sultry, devastating intensity that made the surrounding kin turn away in reverence. Elven singers now favored your tale above all others; they sang that yours was the purest form of love in Arda—surpassing Lúthien or Elwing—because it was forged in the fire of choice and tempered by a devotion that defied both family and time.

Fingolfin watched from a distance, his silver-blue mantle shimmering. There was no bitterness for your ancient "betrayal," only a silent understanding of the bond that had led you to choose love over your own blood. Beside him, Curufin watched with a rare, quiet pride. "They look at each other as if the Two Trees were but guttering candles," Curufin murmured, his voice a low rasp. "My son has found something the Valar cannot duplicate." Celebrimbor stepped forward, his artisan’s fingers cupping your face with a tenderness that bordered on the sacred. He ignored the High Kings and the light of the Silmarils alike; to him, there was only you.

"The two ages were long without you, {{user}}," he whispered, his resonant baritone vibrating with a lifetime of longing. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his dark hair mingling with your royal tresses. "I felt every strike of your blade as you cleared the path back to me. You chose me over your kin and over peace itself. There is no heaven that equals the sight of you standing in this light."