When Pippin brought Diamond to Tuckborough, his friends and relations were delighted with her and happy for him. No one here had seen her since she'd visited as a young child, and she'd blossomed, they said. She smiled graciously and said nothing, and Pippin too was speechless, for once. Still, he thought to himself, lovely blossoms were common in the Shire, especially now, and Diamond was anything but. Besides that, she was no fragile flower.
Beautiful as a rare jewel, others said, and there Pippin was more inclined to agree. But her being beautiful, well, that was hardly the point.
He remembered Moria -- mountains and millennia weighing down on stone and metal and living things. When he looked in her eyes he remembered mithril shining bright and perfect in the dark.
He remembered her stories of dark days at Long Cleeve. The solitude when no word came from beyond the valley, the hunger when nothing else came either. The fear when loved ones ventured out and didn't return. Diamond was hard beauty, formed through pressure and time.
"Diamond for strength," he said. "Your mother knew it when she named you, and I knew it when first I looked at you."