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Celebrimbor had not left Eregion in centuries. Before — well, before there was always time. Time to visit Mithlond, to ride under golden trees, to watch the sparrows build their nests, to hunt down wayward cousins for tea. How terribly he realized the waste of seasons when the first plumes of black smoke roiled over the harbor. Suddenly there was not time enough, and yet his people needed him here, to guard and to guide, to redirect the tunnels and stop up old entrances which the Dwarves had scouted and tend the stream of refugees and turn his craft towards weapons, blindly cast from the forge without a thought towards their purpose for he would surely go mad from Fëanor’s taint which he had striven so long to disassociate from his work. They were the closest city to Khazad-Dûm, the very kingdom which had supplied stone and built their walls, and if King Durin had not delayed committing his people to the war then Eregion would have been overrun long before Númenórean flags burned in a bloody sunrise.

Time was suddenly fleeting and precious and there was not enough of it as old friends stopped corresponding and the black flags of corsair ships choked the harbor. Tea and song became memory and sometimes Celebrimbor wondered if he imagined it — if an entire Age had passed since he heard Gil-Galad sing a blessing over the trees, or tugged a wayward herald into his sanctuary to show him his latest masterpiece.

Ah, but Elrond was a commander by now, and he had no time for tea or friendly chats or books and scrolls that Celebrimbor had set aside in a fit of pure vanity because they were his own writing but they carried his innermost inspirations and he wanted his cousin to read into the art of anvil and hammer that which he often struggled to convey openly.

The jewels which cannot be crushed are often pried from the deepest darkness.

It is not enough to be all of gold or silver, for together they accommodate strength as well as beauty.

Even the most common crystal will make the wisest among Elves tremble for its beauty when it captures the sunrise.

There was so much Celebrimbor always wished to say, and all of the time in the world to say it, until there was not.

When the Halbrand gripped his arm and compelled him that they must collapse the last tunnel, that he could wait no longer without losing his people as well as the city, Celebrimbor realized he would not even be granted the kindness to say goodbye.

He pulled the lever with his own two hands, crushing the pathway from the mountain passageway to the last safe haven, and then he lost time as he pressed his hands against the rubble, wondering if Elrond and his company was just within reach before their last hope collapsed, and dreading that perhaps there was no need for a escape route after all, and fearing ever more that death had not found them, and it would have been kinder if the rocks had crushed them instead.

Time was suddenly Celebrimbor’s in plenty, as he was caged in darkness while iron boots trampled his once beautiful realm. For years they lit few fires and merely survived, clearing new pathways and reinforcing the caverns to accommodate an underground city.

In time he learned what had befallen Elrond’s company, and collected his last remaining charges with tears and reassurances that soothed their wounded hearts while his own crumbled like a scroll held over the flames. 

All at once there was time without purpose. Treasures had new meaning and he despised them all: a scroll he’d missed while clearing the upper levels, now purged of Dwarven insurgents but crowded with Men; a flattened teacup, for which he’d forged an entire set in a fanciful whim after his cousin complimented the design; a perfect star-point alexandrite that one day Celebrimbor would have put into a brooch or a ring. The stone itself had no flaws, shifting in the light towards blue or amethyst like the mountains catching those first rays of a new morning, but he was never satisfied setting it in mere gold or silver. Something about the metal felt cheap and common and this was a gift for someone far above such associations.

But the days had passed into years and the time for gifts was gone and Celebrimbor was left sitting on an abandoned bench with a jewel in one hand and nothing in the other and he had never seen a finer parallel to his days spent in Middle Earth.

Halbrand was the one who pulled him back from that dark place. He was the one who placed time back into Celebrimbor’s hands — not for himself, for those days were long since forgotten — but for those who had endured the bleakest of winters. For the survivors like Camnir and Vorohil; for the deniers like Lorel and Rían; for the shattered like Mirdania and Médhor; for those who continued to fight like Arondir and Revion, gathering their kin from forsaken shores. It was Halbrand who proposed using mithril to channel a healing light to the Elves, and brought the stragglers into their fortress where they might be restored. And so for a time Celebrimbor had purpose, however tainted with sorrow as it might be, and he allowed himself to believe that for such a days as these he was intended to guard Middle Earth.

Then the time came — that terrible, crushing day when hope and despair clawed his chest in equal measures and he thought he would surely be split in two — when the Dwarves brought an Elven prince from below the mountains and suddenly time was cruel for Celebrimbor was forced to wait in silence as Revion made the long trek to find Arondir and arrange for careful diplomacy to retrieve their kin without bringing the swords of Númenor upon their small fleet. With knowledge came despair, for the queen would not negotiate with corsairs, and thus the days were spent plotting and conspiring and cursing the evil which had spread across Middle Earth.

The alexandrite mocked Celebrimbor, unharnessed and irrelevant without a name to wrap around its sheen, and not even Halbrand could coax him to find comfort in the Elves which he had saved. There was still one heartbeat he would hear again, one smile he would treasure, and even now his good sense berated that he yearned for that which Mandos would not return.

At last Revion returned from the distant coast, and his eyes were set with both relief and sorrow. “We have a name.”

How despair and inspiration could mingle, only an artist could understand. Celebrimbor did not weep, for tears were a waste of time and he had none to spare. He lost hours to the forge — perhaps days — not to be swayed by sweetmeats or rum or polite company. When at last it was finished he collapsed, spent and yet satisfied that he had tethered that glimmer of starlit alexandrite with mithril and Valinor gold. Unfettered, unmatched, ever a part and somehow a whole. He gave it to Vorohil, tucking up his bowed chin and reminding him that there was no betrayal save to oneself and that one who had sacrificed himself to save his friends would surely rejoice in his heart to see them once more.

And then he waited and fretted and prayed, wondering if he would find such forgiveness himself, for he had not searched long enough nor sacrificed enough to win his cousin back from the darkness. If Elrond could not bear to look at him it would be no less than deserved for his negligence. If only he could turn back to those last days before… well.

When there was tea and good company and all the time in the world.

The darkness threatened to swamp Celebrimbor once more, and it was the combined efforts of his assistants and the Iron Lord which shoved him back into the monotony of his work. There was no diversion to be found in forging armor plating and spearheads for the army which defended them, necessary as such tools might be, but survivors were few and often discovered years in between and sometimes the rings were no longer required after all.

Such thoughts drove Celebrimbor deeper into despondency and he had quite lost track of time when Lorel made an unseemly appearance and he had half the mind to throw him into the bog when Mirdania spoke two words that eclipsed all other thoughts.

“He’s home.”

Home? Of course Loreláthon was home, he was always turning up after being shoved to Mithlond, as if the Valar would even have him when Celebrimbor had washed his hands of such nonsense. There really was no reason for Mirdania to get excited, it wasn’t like they were expecting anyone important —

The tongs slipped — nay, Celebrimbor must have thrown them aside, it hardly mattered, not when his feet could not carry him fast enough and the missing years crashed into him all at once and he saw that earnest youth duck away like he didn’t belong when they had been waiting decades for this moment…. 

He grasped the downcast face between his hands, rubbing his thumbs over protruding cheekbones and brushing aside whispers of starlight that spilled from haunted eyes, and time ceased to have any meaning at all.

You’re safe, you’re here, you’re home.

Yes, he must have said something of the kind, something which made Elrond weep and his own heart break as he realized he had always expected him to return the last way they saw him — poised and proud, with kindness as his banner and determination shoring up seas of grey — and he had never imagined scars like the ones Camnir carried on his wrists, or the flinch similar to when someone pressed too sharply against Vorohil’s back. He knew that Elrond would never be the same, and yet to see it made him feel twice the failure. Gone was the commander of armies who cried out for the death of their foes. Revion had brought home a child, broken and timid and so very lost, forty-nine years cast to unspeakable torments.

How could he ever find that summer chime that was buried so deep.

How could he ever ask for forgiveness, for leaving him there for so long.

Thus when the inspiration struck and Celebrimbor fished out a matching set of teacups that he had not dared to remember in decades, he was almost afraid to approach. Like a wounded bird curled in the sunlight, Elrond had claimed the bench in the earliest hours before Men resumed their tasks, and he would surely take flight at the slightest shuffle. Celebrimbor kept his feet light, wary of loose stones, and still his cousin sensed his approach. He stiffened as he had not since he was young and unsure of his place, as if Celebrimbor could ever find a reason to turn him away, and suddenly he realized that time had come full circle.

Once more he was the lord of the city, reaching out to his little cousin with gentle hands lest he fly away and be lost for another century. 

So he offered Elrond tea, and let him choose his words with faltering hitches and clumsy gestures the likes of which had never belonged to the silver-tongued herald, and then he held him as he wept. Silently Celebrimbor entreated for another chance, for the time to set things right, for a few precious days to build happier memories in halls which evil had destroyed.

A few days became weeks somehow, and the weeks became nearly a season, until the Shadow almost stole Elrond away and once more Celebrimbor was forced to be grateful to Men for intervening in his blind, foolish path. He thanked Ulmo for sending a Sea Captain to rebuild Elrond’s shattered fëa, and yearned for that same trust that time alone would restore.

Time which he no longer had, and which he would steal from Elrond no longer. For the tortured youth had lingered here long enough thanks to Celebrimbor’s misconstrued hope, and he deserved more kindness than could be found in Middle Earth.

Celebrimbor sent him on his way, and he grieved once youthful ears could no longer hear him and be swayed to stay, losing track of time as one weary day dragged into the next. This time there was no Halbrand to pull him from his despondency, and though he would sooner drive an iron spike through that corrupted heart than return that companionable smile, a part of him craved the memory of a friendly hand and reassuring praise and he felt bereft for the loss. The greatest evil was misplaced friendship, and there was no lie in brandy eyes when Halbrand told him that he was glad to find refuge in Eregion.

If only the illusion had shown kindness to Elrond, he would have stayed lost in it forever.

Winter surrendered to spring and spring always drove Celebrimbor to consternation, for Middle Earth came to life in the most inspiring ways and yet it was lonelier for the season which followed. He would always associate Elrond’s kindness with that first taste of sunlight and the whiff of fragrant meadows carried on a warm breeze. Summer in Valinor must be dazzling to behold, so he comforted himself. One day he would join his kin and the taint of Sauron’s hold would be a distant memory.

Then came the raven.

Special delivery from King Durin IV, who seemed to have some novel idea that the new Lord of the Iron Fortress was really an Elf and that he had a perfectly reasonable excuse to start up an uncensored, age-old communications system. 

‘Seeing as the feather-brained dolphin herder wouldn’t sleep proper until he wasted a full two watches spilling ink, I thought you might appreciate receiving this in person. The bird’ll bite anyone not wearing a garnet ring, if my sources are reliable — and I know who to axe if they’re wrong.’

Well, that might explain why Lorel was nursing a bloodied hand, but the true wonder and vexation was the padded scroll tightly wound so as to be the smallest parcel imaginable, crammed with so many words that it took Celebrimbor an hour to read with blurred eyes and then another hour to savor it.

“Tyelpë, I hope that you will come to forgive me in time, but I believe that I now understand Elros’s choice. Please do not be afraid for me, or think ill of my family dwelling, for Elendil has the kindness of my brother and he would never hurt me…..”

Time was lost in the heaving of shoulders and whispered thanks, for Elrond was safe and he was not lost and there were still many summers ahead for Celebrimbor to relay how very sorry he was for the cruelty of a tainted winter and the spring which he had almost buried.

This time he would not waste a single day. 

He stole onto the Star Chaser without notifying his cousin, both for the necessity of secrecy and the inner doubt that he might yet be turned away. He hemmed and plotted imaginary conversations and learned how to keep his footing in a duel on rolling decks. He had time in plenty to gather his ever rambling thoughts, and finally penned his theory that the hottest fires could surely synchronize the most mismatched gems into such harmony that the Valar would have reason to weep.

When he knocked on a Sea Captain’s door at dawn, with his ears concealed under a sailor’s sash and ruffled sleeves brushing over his rings, he almost imagined that Elendil would weep.

“Come in!” the Man exclaimed in a whisper, clapping Celebrimbor’s arm and ushering him into a humble dwelling with creamy stone walls and a hearth in every room. “Elrond will be here shortly. Is everything all right?”

“Fine, fine,” Celebrimbor said airily. And then because there was no longer time for pleasant lies he added, “Lonely. Now that I know what waits just beyond the great sea.”

Blue-grey eyes understood how it felt to embrace the most precious gift of the Valar and then surrender it freely. Elendil set out mead — the seafarer’s version of hospitality — and chuckled when Celebrimbor asked for a kettle.

“Now I know it’s an Elvish thing.”

Fresh herbs were acquired from the gardener and unfamiliar vapors tickled Celebrimbor’s nose. He knew chamomile and lavender and rosemary, but there was something soothing and just a bit daring that made him want to scramble up the nearest tree for the sheer joy of greeting the sunrise.

“It’s catnip,” Elendil said with the cheekiest hint, hiding a smile behind his cup. “Always settles him in the morning.”

There was an unspoken routine, a new thing that was both sad and tender for it meant that change was inevitable and yet it was not wholly unpleasant, and Celebrimbor fancied that he might ask for a list of these new things should Elrond ever visit Eregion for an extended holiday. And he might beg for a small keg of this catnip tea to take home with him.

The door turned in shortly thereafter, one burdened set of footsteps shuffling into two light pairs of feet, and Elendil gestured for Celebrimbor to remain seated.

“Boys, head out to the garden,” he said, wrangling them out with grousing protests. “There’s never enough sunlight, I don’t care how much of it you’ll see today.”

He came back in hauling a curly-haired youth who looked more perturbed with the morning’s upheaval than Galadriel when she heard Gil-Galad singing in the bath. 

“Celebrimbor, Valandil. Valandil, sit.”

One look at pointed ears and the youth complied with a polite nod, waiting to assemble his plate until the arrangement was settled. Elendil plonked two raisin sticky buns onto a plate (stuffing a third one into his cheeks like he was afraid breakfast would be devoured before he returned, while Celebrimbor fetched new cups and the tea kettle. Like picnicking entrepreneurs they absconded to the garden, where Elendil slid the sweets onto the bench where Elrond hunched listening to the robin’s warble, and then promptly abandoned him.

Hooded grey eyes were slow to pick up on the lack of proper company and Elrond swung around only when the garden door snicked. His baffled gaze found the newcomer instantly and suddenly Celebrimbor could read him as if the war had never happened and he was a young refugee struggling to understand his place in a strange and yet welcoming realm.

“T-Tyelpë?” Elrond whispered, his voice trembling like a nightingale’s song.

Slowly Celebrimbor raised the kettle in invitation, and when Elrond buried his face in his arms he knew the response was relief and not regret. For so many seasons he had swamped himself in pain, anticipating rejection on the other side when his little cousin reminded him of his failure, only to learn that Elrond had dreaded the same fate. Their first steps in Eregion had been those of reconciliation, and now….

Now healing could finally begin. It would take years, centuries perhaps, as scars closed over and insecurities were laid bare, but Celebrimbor was content to linger through every bittersweet moment.

He had time.