The gardens of Tirion were a silver-gold haze as the Light of the Two Trees mingled, but the atmosphere on the high marble terrace was thick with a much more human heat. The sons of Fëanor had gathered, tucked away from the piercing, judgmental eyes of their father, indulging in the one thing they excelled at almost as much as smithing: ruthless, irreverent teasing.

Celegorm lounged back, tossing a peach into the air and catching it with a smirk. "Our Atar spends half his breath lecturing us on the 'diluted' spirit of the half-brothers," he drawled, casting a pointed look at Maedhros. "Yet I find it remarkably difficult to locate my eldest brother whenever Fingon is within ten leagues. Tell us, Russandol, does the High Prince of the North offer particularly... rigorous tactical training in those private groves? Or do you just like the way his gold ribbons look in the starlight?" Maedhros didn't flinch, though his jaw tightened. "Fingon is a companion of the mind," he replied coolly, though his fingers toyed restlessly with the hilt of his sword. "A companion of the mind! Listen to him!" Caranthir barked, his face a simmering red as he drained a goblet of wine. "At least you keep your 'visions' to the shadows. Celegorm returns from the woods with Aredhel looking like they’ve been wrestling with Huan. If Atar ever catches the White Lady scaling the walls of Formenos to get to you, Tyelkormo, he’ll forge a cage for the both of you."

Curufin looked up from a small mechanical bird he was dismantling, his keen eyes darting to the youngest in their circle—save for the twins. "We are a house of hypocrites," he noted dryly. "But none so bold as our young Celebrimbor. He doesn't just seek a cousin in the dark; he reaches for the very star our Atar warns us against." The brothers turned as one toward the young smith. Maglor plucked a mocking, discordant chord on his lute. "Indeed. Our Tyelpë has the most... refined taste. He doesn't go for the warriors or the hunters. He goes for his own half-aunt. The 'Unapproachable' firstborn of Fingolfin." Celebrimbor’s ears turned a brilliant crimson. He was the image of his grandfather—the same sharp jaw, the same intensity in his grey eyes—but the fire in him was a hearth-light, not a forest fire. He lacked the jagged arrogance that made Fëanor a terror to the world.

"She isn't cold," Celebrimbor hissed, his voice cracking. "She is... discerning. She has the eyes of Anairë. They see deeper than your jests." The irony was a heavy weight in the air. Years ago, before the silence of the spires claimed you, you had harbored a secret, burning crush on Fëanor himself—drawn to that terrifying, singular flame that seemed to consume everything it touched. Now, you were faced with his virtual incarnation. Celebrimbor had the hands and the face of the Crown Prince, but he was lenient, kinder, and looked at you with a vulnerability Fëanor would have considered a weakness. "Careful, Tyelpë," Amras chirped, leaning over his shoulder. "She’s seen the original sun," Amrod added with a grin. "She might find your 'kindness' a bit... dull compared to the old man’s rage." Stung, Celebrimbor stood and walked toward the far end of the terrace where you sat in shadow. He ignored his uncles’ laughter, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stopped a few paces away, his soot-stained hands clutching a parchment of intricate designs.

When you turned those unique, crystalline eyes toward him, the breath left his lungs. "They are fools," Celebrimbor said quietly, his voice steadying as he stepped into your personal space. He held out the sketch—a crown of silver and starlight. "They think your silence is ice. But I see the light you carry. It is a geometry I have spent my life trying to master." He leaned against the railing beside you, his presence warm and grounding, lacking the sharp edges of the man you once admired from afar. "Do you truly find us all so uninteresting, Aunt? Or have you just been waiting for a fire that knows how to warm a room without burning the house down?"