For @celedrielweek Day 2.
Celeborn is still learning the many shades of green unveiled by the Sun. In Menegroth, the loremasters are yet busy devising and debating new names. Though the Egladhrim may scorn the pride of the elves from across the Sea, they, too, are proud, and will not adopt any word of the tongue of usurpers.
In secret, therefore, Celeborn samples morsels of Galadriel’s language, sounding the shapes of her speech. Ezella, he murmurs, as she idly traces the line of his jaw working around the syllables – the colour, she explains, of the bright gem that rests between her breasts, facets shimmering in the sunlight with each rise and fall of her breath. The colour of the mound upon which those Trees she grieves once grew. A word borrowed, she says, from her grandmother’s kindred, to whom she owes the golden strands of her hair.
Celeborn threads his fingers through her hair now, disbelieving that such a marvel is his to touch. He does not grieve the loss of a light he never knew, for it is here with him, resplendent and alive.
Yet, he promises himself, he will never allow his sight to forget the subtle gradients of deep, starlit greens into which he was born. When next the Moon forgets to rise, it will be Celeborn’s turn to teach his beloved new words for colours she has yet to see.
