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He could send servants in his stead, but of course, none of them wish to order about the last descendant of Fëanor. Even without the name of his line, Celebrimbor is fierce enough. Elrond himself must be the one to make these visits, and he wastes what little time he has to sleep in strolling down to the forge.
In silken night robes and a shawl around his shoulders, Elrond slips through the gleaming columns. The younger night owls that can always be found here each give him small bows before returning to their work. Elrond politely acknowledges them all, but he stops for none, instead winding to the very back. The loud clamour of hammers drowns out the lilting minstrels’ voices from the garden. The air is stifling, hot with fire, and sometimes Elrond finds it difficult to understand how any would choose to spend all their time in such darkness.
There are few other places Celebrimbor can be found. Tonight, he stands over a table by the end, a small, golden ring in his palm, his fingers gracefully tracing the edges. His tools are scattered about him, doubtless at the ready—Celebrimbor spends countless hours perfecting his treasures. They’re all beautiful. They’re all immaculate. But they’re never ending, and Elrond drifts to Celebrimbor’s side, then ghosts a hand over his wrist. Celebrimbor startles. Sometimes, he seems so engrossed in his work that all else must fade away.
He glances to Elrond with the frown he almost always wears, and Elrond tells him, “You must rest, now. It has been two days without. This will all still be here when you return.”
Celebrimbor’s frown deepens. His hand seems to tremble in Elrond’s, though very slightly—he’s likely trying to restrain it, though he always fails. He answers tightly, “I do not need sleep. I am close, I am sure, and if I only—”
“Enough,” Elrond interrupts. He rarely does. Only Celebrimbor drives him to it. His fingers run down the sloping curves of Celebrimbor’s palm to pluck the ring from him, placing it aside on the desk next to a pair of iron tongs. It looks only a tiny trinket, albeit an attractive one, but Elrond knows the thoughts Celebrimbor never dares to speak. For the hundredth time, he murmurs, “You have done no evil, and it is not your duty to right what has gone wrong with the world.”
Celebrimbor’s dark brows knit together. Sometimes it seems as though he truly believes he’s one more ring away from fixing it all, and it makes Elrond worry just how much he blames himself for. How much he thinks he must fix. His wounds, long healed at the skin, sink far deeper than Elrond could ever truly touch. But he shakes his head and mutters, “I simply... like working.”
“Do not pretend you are well, Tyelpe,” and Elrond whispers the words quietly, intimately, for none else to hear, “for I know you are not. You cannot throw yourself back into the forge and the nightmares of the past and expect that I will miss the tremours in your very being. If you wished to entertain that falsehood, you should never have come to me, for now I care for you too deeply, and I see you. And I will not allow you to whittle away what little life you still hold in overwork. You must come to bed.”
Celebrimbor, whose handsome features have been steadily sinking into a tired sulk, laughs bitterly and feebly, “So that is it—you are only trying to get me into bed.”
Elrond would step closer if he could, but there’s already no space between them. He lifts the hand that isn’t holding the shawl about his shoulders to Celebrimbor’s face. Celebrimbor’s cheek is smooth and soft, save for a tiny, white scar cut just below his eye. “I have seen the horrors of the world too,” Elrond murmurs, “and I am glad I have learned to heal from them. Let me heal you. Rest.”
For a long moment, Celebrimbor is silent, though Elrond can see the war behind his eyes. He leans his face into Elrond’s touch but does nothing more, until finally, he sighs and admits, “I am weary.” Elrond nods, having known it all along. If he’d been through Celebrimbor’s trials, he doesn’t imagine he would last an hour down here, let alone days at a time. Celebrimbor’s strength is a constant awe to him. But Elrond also knows the strength in gentleness and thought, and he’s pleased when Celebrimbor turns away from the table. There’s no need to hide his work in Imladris, as it took him more than a century to learn—none here will touch his creations until he returns. He’s still careful around them.
He takes Elrond’s hand from his face and unobtrusively intertwines their fingers, letting the grip fall between them. Then he allows Elrond to tug him away, off to fairer dreams.