Chapter Text
Newly reborn elves tended to be.... confused.
There was no other word for it, really. Because, despite the best attempts of Namo and his Maiar, it was no easy task putting a damaged elf’s mind back together. And no elf had ever died peacefully.
It didn’t help that Namo’s preferred method of releasing the elves from his halls was simply to dump them in the middle of Valinor. Perhaps he was being rude or didn’t know it was distressing to the Elves, perhaps he just thought it was amusing.
Either way, the elves of Valinor were more than used to finding wayward souls wandering about. Elrond, in particular, had a knack for finding them (or perhaps Namo just put more of them near his house). In the years he’d been in Valinor countless elves, both strangers and those he had once known, appeared near his home outside Tirion.
So he wasn’t overly surprised when he walked out of his home to find a disheveled man sitting in Celebrian’s garden, staring into the well, as if studying his reflection in the water. Perhaps he could have put a wall around his house, that would keep out the Reborn, but it would also keep out the wildlife. And, to be truthful, Elrond didn’t mind the Reborn at all.
There was little need for a healer in a place like Valinor, so it was nice to be useful.
He was clearly one of the oldest elves Elrond had ever seen, his skin still glowing with the Light of the Trees, even after his death. Dark hair framed his face, falling into his eyes as he looked down and trailed his fingers through the water.
As Elrond approached, he looked up.
Although his face was somewhat vacant, his eyes were sharp and determined. His cheeks had a reddish tinge, although Elrond saw no sign of fever, and could only presume it was just how he looked. A permanent blush.
Red-faced.
Carnistir.
Elrond recognized his face at once, not just because he bore a strong resemblance to Maglor, but also because of how many times he’d walked past the statues in Nerdanel’s gardens.
A son of Feanor, returned from Namo’s halls at long last. It seemed almost impossible, and Elrond resisted the urge to pinch himself. Is this a blessing or a sign of some Doom? But it did not do to dwell on such sad thoughts, not in the Blessed Realm.
Vaguely, he found himself wondering if Caranthir’s statue was going to meet the same fate that Maglor’s once had.
Caranthir blinked at him, then, in heavily accented Quenya, reminiscent of Maglor when he wasn’t careful and slipped into old habits, asked, “I am in Valinor, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I am- I am no longer dead then?”
“No, my Lord.” Because he truly did not wish to offend the quickest to anger of Feanor’s sons.
Caranthir nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “You know who I am?”
“I believe so,” Elrond said carefully. “You share a... certain resemblance to a dear friend of mine.”
The visitor scoffed. “Dear friend?”
“Kanafinwe.”
Caranthir’s eyes grew more narrow. “A friend of a Son of Feanor has mortal blood?”
It was a statement, not an accusation, but Elrond still bristled. “I do.”
Caranthir nodded, looking away, and for the first time Elrond noticed that he had one leg stretched in front of him, with the other - his left - crossed over it, his hand resting on the ankle. “You’ve hurt your leg.”
Dark eyes narrowed, as if, even in a peaceful realm, he couldn’t stomach the thought of admitting a weakness.
“I am a healer.”
“Are you?” It was a challenge, as if Caranthir was taunting Elrond to prove it. Too proud to accept help otherwise it seemed.
Elrond didn’t move closer. Caranthir was, to listen to Nerdanel tell it ‘a stupid and rash boy, who won’t use the brains Eru gifted him.’
Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately - Nerdanel was away visiting her father and woudln’t be back in Tirion for some time. Maglor, Elrond believed, was still at his family home in Tirion.
As soon as he got Caranthir inside, he would send Celebrian for his brother. Elrond held no grudge against Caranthir over the Kinslayings - how could he, when he adored Maglor so? - but it still seemed safest to have someone who understood his moods. He’d heard enough stories about Caranthir’s moods to leave him very uneasy.
“Might I treat it?”
Caranthir nodded. “I suppose you would prefer me inside?” Before Elrond could stop him, he pushed himself to his feet, barely wincing as he placed weight on the wounded foot, and marched toward Elrond with single minded determination.
Nerdandel’s insistence that he was an idiot suddenly made a great deal of sense.
Elrond led him inside, to a small sitting room with a chaise lounge he could sit on and stretch out his leg.
“How did you injure it?” he asked as Caranthir slowly removed his boot. His clothes were torn and muddied and Celebrian would no doubt insist on finding him something else (they had enough of Maglor’s clothes that could be made to fit him, at least for the time being, but the Feanorian was much too tall to fit Elrond’s clothing).
“Fell.”
Helpful, thought Elrond dryly.
A quick glance and a bit of poking - Caranthir didn’t even wince, which was as terrifying as it was impressive - revealed that the bones weren’t broken. “A sprain,” Elrond said, stepping back and rifling through a drawer.
Nerdanel found it ridiculous that he always had supplies on hand, but then again, they always seemed to come in handy (usually for her relatives).
Elrond turned back to see his patient, but the Feanorian was no longer looking at him. Caranthir had stilled, his eyes locking onto something behind Elrond. Someone, judging by the quiet footsteps.
No doubt he, like the rest of his relatives, could quickly recognize Celebrian’s resemblance to her mother.
“You must be Morifinwe!” She glided into the room, a tray of tea in her hands, a smile on her face. Elrond didn’t bother to ask how she’d known who he was or even that they had a visitor. It was always safest not to question her.
The redness drained from Caranthir’s cheeks, and Elrond wondered if he had seen Galadriel and Celeborn in Doriath. He had never asked them about the Kinslaying. It wasn’t something people discussed.
“Your mother’s statues are uncanny,” she continued, sitting the tray beside him. “Truly, absolutely, unnecessary how accurate they are.”
“You know my mother?” His voice cracked, his eyes welled with longing, but then he blinked and his face was once again emotionless.
“Yes, though I believe she’s on a trip to see Lord Aule. I’m certainly not going to call her back early, I prefer to stay solidly on her good side.”
“I don’t think she has a bad side for you, Bri,” Elrond muttered, unable to hide a bit of jealously in his voice. Caranthir looked impressed.
Celebrian tapped a finger to her lips thoughtfully, then turned her attention to her husband. “I suppose you wish for me to fetch your father? He’ll want to see his brother sooner rather than later.”
Her intuition was truly terrifying at times and Elrond nodded.
“Oh very well,” she said, although it didn’t seem to upset her at all. As much as Elrond loved the solitude of their home, built just outside the city, Celebrian adored spending days visiting their relatives or merely wandering the crowded streets.
“Oh you’ll need new clothes,” she said, once again turning to Caranthir, who jumped slightly. “You won’t fit anything of Elrond’s, but for the time being, I’m certain we have something Kanafinwe has left that could make due.” And with that she was gone, vanishing back out the door she had come through.
“My wife,” Elrond said. “Lady Celebrian. Artanis’ daughter.”
“I had surmised.”