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The door to the workroom burst open. Celebrimbor didn’t look up, grumbling, “Don’t you know how to knock?”
“Cousin!”
That got his attention. He turned and immediately froze.
Celebrian rushed forward, not even seeming to notice that the person she knocked over in her haste was the High King of the Noldor. Her hair was askew, face scratched, lip split.
“Cousin!”
Celebrimbor caught her. “Celebrían!”
She clutched at his tunic like a lifeline, breath coming in shallow gasps. He steadied her, one hand at her back, the other gently brushing her hair from her face, then he stilled at the sight of her bruises.
Behind them, Gil-Galad righting himself with a grunt. “I was standing there.”
“Not now,” Celebrimbor snapped. “Look at her.”
Gil-Galad’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer. “Who did this?” he demanded.
“I—I didn’t know where else to go,” Celebrían said, her voice high and tight. “I— oh gods. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.”
“Celebrían,” said Celebrimbor again, catching her face, tilting it up. He frowned as he surveyed the scratches on her face that appeared to have come from fingernails.
“They’ll arrest him!” she gasped. “I couldn’t find the High King—“
“I’m right—”
“He’s there,” said Celebrimbor.
She turned, still hanging off the smith’s arm. A breath shuddered out of her.
“Celebrían,” Gil-Galad said gently. “What happened?”
“He didn’t recognize me, he was—he was gone, like he didn’t even know himself—”
“Erenion, get water,” said Celebrimbor sharply, pointing to a pitcher on a nearby table.
Gil-Galad hurried to it, pouring a cup.
Celebrimbor adjusted his grip on the woman, lifting her up and sitting her on the workbench.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she was saying. “Oh gods.”
”Sit down,” he said, holding out his hand for the water glass. “Are you bleeding anywhere else?”
She shook her head, too fast. “No. No, it’s just—he was— and then he started screaming. I tried to get close but he—“ She rocked herself, leaning forward and back, pushing away the water Celebrimbor was trying to put in her hands. “He had a knife!”
Celebrimbor’s whole body stilled.
Gil-Galad set the pitcher down harder than he meant to. “A knife? Who—”
“He wasn’t holding it at first,” she interrupted, breath ragged. “It was in his boot—I think he— He kept saying they were coming.”
“Who?” Gil-Galad demanded.
“I don’t know!” she said, almost shouting. “I don’t know, he—he looked right at me and—”
Gil-Galad turned sharply to Celebrimbor. “Some wandering soldier, maybe? Someone from the lower ranks?”
“Could’ve been one of the new apprentices,” Celebrimbor muttered, face darkening. “Too many of them here lately. We don’t know where half of them come from.”
Gil-Galad’s jaw tightened. “You said he had a knife?”
She nodded, wiping her sleeve across her face. Her lip was still bleeding. When Celebrimbor held the glass to her lips she took a small sip, still rocking herself. “I couldn’t— I couldn’t shout for help— I— I— They would have arrested him.”
Gil-Galad’s expression darkened. “As they should,” he said.
“No!” she gasped, the word so sharp and raw it silenced both of them. She curled in on herself, shaking her head violently. “No, no, you don’t understand, he didn’t know—it wasn’t him, it wasn’t him.”
“If someone in this city injured you—“ Gil-Galad continued.
Celebrimbor held up his hand to silence the enraged king. Then, slower than before, he crouched before her. His hand was steady as he reached again, thumb brushing just beneath her injured lip. “Then tell us.”
“I—” She bit down hard, tears slipping free now, panic and guilt crashing into each other like waves. “I locked him in the closet,” she whispered.
Gil-Galad blinked. “You what?”
“In the guest room. I— I shut the door and I turned the latch and I ran.”
Celebrimbor looked at her, suddenly very still. “…In my home?”
She nodded. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Celebrían,” Celebrimbor said again, more carefully now. “Who did you lock in the closet?”
She didn’t answer right away. And then, in a voice barely above a breath: “Elrond.”
The world went silence.
Celebrimbor’s hands dropped away from her.
Gil-Galad didn’t move.
“He didn’t know who I was,” she said again. “He thought I was someone else. He was gone, Erenion, like— like he wasn’t even in the room. Like he couldn’t even hear me. And then he found the knife, and he— he was going to use it, I swear he was—”
Celebrimbor stood and very, very slowly turned to face the king.
Gil-Galad was already halfway to the door.
Celebrimbor was faster.
“Wait,” the smith snapped, grabbing his arm. “If he’s still in that state and you barge in—he might really use it.”
Gil-Galad stopped, though he clearly didn't want to.
Behind him Celebrían said, “He doesn’t have the knife.”
“He dropped it?”
She shook her head. “I- I took it.” Slowly, painfully slowly, she held up her hand. On her sleeve, spreading slowly, was a maroon stain. “I think that’s when he cut me.”
“I asked if you were bleeding!” shouted Celebrimbor.
“I forgot,” she admitted quietly.
Celebrimbor moved before Gil-Galad could, grabbing her wrist. “Let me see it,” he said, voice low.
“It’s not—” Celebrían tried, but her voice broke.
Celebrimbor was already pushing back the fabric. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was long. It had soaked through the inner lining of her sleeve and was still bleeding sluggishly.
Gil-Galad swore.
Celebrimbor’s mouth flattened into a thin line. He fumbled in a drawer of his work bench, finding bandages on the first try. “You’re lucky. Another inch and he’d have caught the vein.”
“I don’t know what happened,” she sobbed, leaning into Celebrimbor. He paused, midway through wrapping her arm, and awkwardly patted her shoulder.
“We’re going,” said the king. “Now.”
“He’ll fight you,” she said, not quite looking at either of them. “He thinks he’s in danger. He thinks I was the threat.”
“He’ll recognize me,” said Gil-Galad.
“You don’t know that,” she said, quiet but insistent. “He didn’t even know himself.”
Celebrimbor gently released his grip on Celebrian. “It should be over,” he said. “If she’s had enough time to find us—“
“It shouldn’t be happening,” said Gil-Galad.
“I’m coming too,” said Celebrían.
Gil-Galad turned on her. “Absolutely not.”
“If we leave her,” said Celebrimbor, “she follows us.”
“I will order—“
“She still follows us. But anxious.”
Gil-Galad exhaled sharply through his nose, visibly restraining himself. “Fine." To Celebrian he ordered, "Stay close.”
Celebrían nodded, already standing. She was pale, her face still streaked in blood, but there was no hesitation in her posture now, only grim resolve.
Celebrimbor pulled a cloak from a wall hook and draped it over her shoulders. “You’ll scare fewer people like that.”
“She’ll scare them either way,” Gil-Galad muttered, already halfway out the door.
They moved quickly. Thankfully the streets of Ost-in-Edhil were quiet, nearly empty in the early hours of the morning.
They reached the guest wing of the smith’s house within minutes.
Gil-Galad didn’t wait, he pushed the door open with enough force to rattle the hinges and strode into the room.
It was quiet inside. Too quiet.
Celebrimbor stepped in next, slower, scanning every surface. The struggle was evident; a chair knocked over, blood on the wing of the chaise, a cushion forgotten on the floor, a broken vase.
Celebrían moved last, hovering just inside the door, eyes fixed on the narrow closet along the back wall.
Gil-Galad followed her gaze.
There was a chair shoved under the latch. Coming from behind it was a low pitched thudding.
“Wait in the hall,” the king said quietly.
Celebrían looked like she was going to argue.
Celebrimbor did. “Erenion.”
“Take Celebrían,” said the king.
The thudding continued, dull and rhythmic.
Finally, Celebrimbor caught Celebrían’s shoulder and backed them both from the room. Only when he was alone did Gil-Galad step forward, pulling the chair aside, and gently lift the latch.
Nothing happened.
The thudding continued.
“Elrond,” Gil-Galad said, “Stop hitting your head on the wall.” Then he eased the door open.
The half-elf was curled in the corner, knees drawn to his chest, breath shallow and uneven. His eyes were wide and unfocused, fixed on something far beyond the room. His hands were empty, fingers twitching slightly as though still holding a blade.
And he was still, like a ritual, bashing the back of his head on the wall.
“Elrond,” said Gil-Galad, softer now. He knelt, easing his way into the closet. “I’m going to touch your head.”
Elrond froze.
Gil-Galad didn’t move for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he shifted closer, lowering himself onto one knee. He set his hand, palm open, against the wall beside Elrond’s head. Not touching. Just there.
“I’m here,” he said, voice low and even. “It’s me. It’s Erenion.”
No response.
The thudding had stopped, but Elrond still hadn’t blinked. His breathing came in short, uneven gasps, every inhale catching like it hurt.
Gil-Galad waited, not speaking, just breathing with him. One inhale. One exhale.
He let his other hand hover for a second, then gently placed it over Elrond’s fingers.
The half-elf flinched, but he didn’t pull away.
“That’s it,” Gil-Galad murmured. “You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. The door’s open. You’re not locked in.”
Slowly - far, far too slowly - Elrond lifted his head. “I attacked someone,” he whispered. He lifted his hand. “This is not my blood.”
Gil-Galad’s throat tightened. He looked at the upturned hand, streaked and dried now, smudged with dark red across the creases of Elrond’s palm. It had soaked into his sleeve, dried around his cuticles. Not his blood, indeed.
“I know,” Gil-Galadsaid softly. “We know.”
Elrond’s gaze darted to his face, panicked. “Who was it? Did I hurt them?” He tried to sit straighter, but the motion made him sway. “Did I—Erenion, did I—”
“No,” Gil-Galad said firmly, both hands now steadying him. “You didn’t kill anyone. She’s safe.”
“She?” Elrond’s voice cracked.
Gil-Galad hesitated. “Yes.”
“Who?”
“Elrond—“
“Tell me.”
“Celebrían.”
Elrond screamed. He did not attempt to bash the back of his head on the wall. He lurched forward instead, forehead striking the edge of the door before Gil-Galad could catch him.
Gil-Galad caught him on the second impact.
“Elrond!” someone shouted from outside.
“Stay out!” roared the king.
Elrond lurched sideways, hitting the side wall.
“Elrond!” he hissed, voice sharp and echoing in the narrow space. “Stop—stop—look at me.”
But Elrond was folding in on himself again, gasping like the air had been ripped out of the room. His hands clawed at his own sleeves, at the dried blood, at anything he could reach. “I hurt her—I hurt her—I knew her, I knew her—!”
Gil-Galad couldn’t restrain him. Not in such a cramped space. Not without hurting him. Not alone.
He had one hand holding Elrond’s head to his chest, and another gripping one wrist, but Elrond’s free hand was still clawing at his own leg, as if trying to tear off his flesh.
“Celebrimbor!” The king shouted. “I need you!”
There were hurried footsteps in the hall. A slammed door.
Celebrimbor didn’t speak as he dropped to his knees beside them. His grip locked around Elrond’s free arm, catching it mid-swipe before it could break skin. He leaned in, bracing his body across Elrond’s without crushing him, steadying the half-collapse.
“I’ve got him,” Celebrimbor said, breath tight. “Move your leg.”
Gil-Galad shifted just enough to let him in. They fell into place into a pattern they hadn’t rehearsed in decades but hadn’t forgotten either.
Elrond writhed once, twice, then buckled. His head knocked hard against Gil-Galad's collarbone, but he didn’t react to the pain. He was somewhere else entirely.
“Shh,” Celebrimbor murmured, voice low and even, pitched not for soothing but for presence. “You’re not alone. You’re not in danger. You’re in your own room. Look at me.”
He was pressed between them, one on each side, folded together into the ridiculously small closet. Elrond was nearly sitting in Gil-Galad’s lap, and it still wasn’t enough to stop the shaking.
His eyes were wild and glassy, breath rasping. “I knew her—I knew her—I knew—”
“You didn’t kill her,” Gil-Galadsaid firmly, voice cracking at the edges. “She’s alive. She’s safe. You didn’t kill her, Elrond.”
“You think that matters?” Elrond rasped, and his voice was so frantic, so shattered, that Celebrimbor closed his eyes for just a heartbeat.
“Elrond,” Celebrimbor said again, sharper now. “You need to breathe.”
“I don’t want to—”
“I don’t care.” He pressed a hand flat against Elrond’s chest, feeling every stuttered gasp. “You will. In. Out.”
It was not gentle, and it was not kind, but slowly, trembling, Elrond obeyed.
Then he started shaking again, not the tremors of a vision, but fear. Or perhaps terror.
Celebrimbor tightened his grip.
“Don’t hold him too tight,” Gil-Galad warned, shifting to block Elrond’s head from hitting the wall again. “He’ll bruise.”
“He’s already bruised,” Celebrimbor snapped. His hand moved to Elrond's cheek, fingers brushing Gil-Galad's. “Gods, he’s burning up.”
“He’s fevered?”
“He’s not lucid. Did you not see—?” He broke off, breathing hard. “He needs medicine.”
“We need to get him out of the damn closet first,” Gil-Galad snapped.
Celebrimbor adjusted his grip, eyes softening just slightly. “Elrond,” he said, low and steady, “You’re not in danger. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re not trapped.”
Elrond whimpered.
“We need to move him,” Gil-Galad said.
“I’ll get his legs.”
They moved together, awkwardly, carefully, each of them braced for a struggle that didn’t come. Elrond sagged between them, boneless with exhaustion.
When they emerged into the room, Celebrían was on her feet.
Her breath caught the moment she saw him. “Oh—”
“Don’t,” said Celebrimbor, not unkindly. “Not yet.”
Gil-Galad glanced over his shoulder. “Clear the chaise.”
She obeyed without protest, hands shaking as she swept aside the pillow, throwing a discarded blanket over the bloodstained arm.
Together, they laid Elrond down.
He was staring at Celebrían.
Celebrimbor pulled back first. He kept a hand on Elrond’s shoulder, just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone, but shifted aside so Gil-Galadcould check his pulse.
“Elrond,” the king murmured, fingers brushing his neck. “Still with me?”
Elrond didn’t answer. His eyes were open, fluttering with every ragged breath.
He was still staring at Celebrían.
“Elrond,” she said, barely audible. Then she said, “I don’t know what the hell just happened, but I’m glad you’re back.”
Elrond blinked.
Then the tears started.
Silent, unblinking, trailing sideways across his face toward the temple pressed against the chaise cushion. Weeping quietly as though the floodgates had broken and even now he was too hollow to notice.
Celebrían’s lips parted like she might speak again, but she didn’t. Instead, she sat down on the floor by the chaise.
Gil-Galad drew back his hand. His face was unreadable.
“He’s exhausted,” Celebrimbor murmured. “And fevered. He’ll sleep soon, if the body gets a chance.”
“He should not be left alone,” Gil-Galad said.
“I wasn’t going to,” Celebrimbor snapped. Then, quieter, “Neither of us were.”
A pause.
Then from the chaise, hoarse and barely a whisper: “You should’ve let me hit my head.”
Gil-Galad leaned forward. “I will hit it for you if you keep talking like that.”
That earned the tiniest hitch of breath from Elrond. A faint, disbelieving sound.
Maybe even a laugh.
Celebrimbor sunk into a chair. “We need a healer,” he said wearily. “For both of you.”
“I dragged him out of the closet,” said Gil-Galad.
“I helped.”
“I went in first.”
“And you were hopeless without me.”
Elrond stirred again, just a twitch, but it made all three of them freeze. His hands spasmed. His lips parted.
“…door,” he whispered.
Gil-galad leaned in. “What was that?”
Elrond blinked slowly, eyes clouded. “It was… locked.”
“I know,” Gil-Galad said gently. “It’s not locked anymore.”
“I couldn’t get out.”
“You’re out now.”
Elrond blinked again. A single tear slid sideways down his temple. “I thought I’d die in there.” He swallowed. "The closet was on fire. The city was on fire."
Celebrimbor swore under his breath and stood so fast the chaise creaked. "Was it this city?"
"I don't know," said Elrond. "But it was burning."
Gil-Galad said nothing, just brushed the tear away with a thumb. “You didn’t,” he said. “It didn't. You’re here. You’re safe.”
Elrond’s mouth opened, then closed. His eyes finally slid shut.
Gil-Galad reached for his pulse again, his own breath hitching when he felt it steady.
“He’s asleep,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“No,” said Celebrimbor. “He’s unconscious.”
Celebrían looked between them. “Is that… is that better?”
“Right now?” Celebrimbor’s jaw tightened. “It’s not worse.”
“What… What was that?” Celebrían asked slowly.
“Vision,” said Celebrimbor dully.
“Vision,” Celebrían repeated slowly, staring at Elrond.
“We didn’t think to warn you,” said Gil-Galad quietly. “It’s been… A long time.”
“One hundred and three years,” provided Celebrimbor. “Since it was this violent.”
Gil-Galad’s hand was still resting against Elrond’s cheek, cupping it like something fragile. “We need a healer. Now.”
“I’ll go,” Celebrían said.
Only once it had clicked shut behind her did Gil-galad let his shoulders sag.