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“Why do you never attend Council meetings?”

Celebrimbor sighed.

If it were Elros, he would think this habit of popping up at the worst possible moment was on purpose. Elrond, on the other hand, knew next to nothing of smithcraft, and so was doing it by accident.

At least, Celebrimbor thought he was.

He’d come to realize it was best not to assume when it came to the twins. Maybe he should re-evaluate.

He glanced around at his workspace, and tried to determine if there was any point at which he’d be able to stop without ruining the entire process. No.

He debated whether that should be a mark in the ‘Elrond is doing it on purpose’ column. He also made a mental note to design a way to warn him when Elrond was popping in unannounced. Sooner or later the boy was going to startle him at an inopportune moment and it would end badly.

“Don’t get between me and the furnace,” he warned.

“Noted,” Elrond said, standing far enough to the left to be out of the way but still in Celebrimbor’s line of sight. “So why don’t you go? Surely you have the right to attend if you wish.”

Celebrimbor snorted.

“The Noldor may be happy to treat you and your brother as princes, but they’re a little less enthused when it comes to the last reminder of my grandfather,” he said, careful not to let any bitterness creep into his tone.

The elves of Balar were perfectly happy to have him use techniques he’d first seen while balanced on his grandfather’s knee, not to mention those passed on to him by his father, be it for the creation of jewels or the making of weapons. But they were less pleased to acknowledge a member of the House of Fëanor living among them.

“Hardly the last,” Elrond pointed out, dusting off a chair before sitting gingerly. “Your uncles still live.”

As Elrond knew perfectly well there were no items of inferior craftsmanship in his workshop to warrant approaching furniture with such caution, Celebrimbor concluded someone had been sniping at the lad about his clothes again. He couldn’t see where it should matter if Elrond occasionally got dust on his garments. Elros was routinely far harder on his. Elros, not coincidentally, also brushed off any criticism about his appearance.

Someone really ought to put a stop to the endless picking at Elrond, Celebrimbor mused. The boy was too sensitive about such things. Erestor was still constantly mother-henning Gil-galad, who was practically an adult these days. Surely he could spare some time to look after a boy still young enough to need it – even one too stubborn to admit he wanted and missed such attention.

“The last reminder here among what remains of respectable elven society, then,” Celebrimbor amended as he carried his work to the furnace to heat it. “Besides, even if my uncles were foolish enough to show their faces here, I doubt Gil-galad would be eager to have them attend meetings.”

Not least because while they’d probably have a lengthy list of issues with the strategy currently favored by the Army of the West, they’d doubtless have words about Gil-galad’s methods as well.

“They will not come where they are well aware they would not be welcome,” Elrond said quietly. “But the king has expressed disappointment that you do not ever show yourself at council.”

Celebrimbor had to suppress a flare of guilt as he moved from the furnace back to his workbench, because he hadn’t missed the shadow that had crossed Elrond’s face. He was certain his eldest uncles believed Balar the safest place for the boys, but Celebrimbor suspected they’d underestimated how painful it would be for the Eärendilion twins to be parted from the only parents they remembered with any clarity.

Sending one’s children away had become a sort of Fëanorion custom, he reflected. Just as well his uncle Celegorm had never had any – he wouldn’t have managed it. Then again, if he’d had a child of his own to look after, the Kinslaying at Doriath might never have happened. Celebrimbor still felt guilty some wakeful nights. He knew he could not have stopped his father, but he might have convinced his uncle to choose differently.

“Gil-galad may be kind enough to miss me,” he told Elrond, “I doubt the Sindar share the sentiment.”

“Gil-galad is frustrated that you avoid the council,” Elrond replied with a small smile. “But he was not the king I meant.”

Celebrimbor glanced sharply at his young cousin. (He’d given up trying to argue that Elrond did himself no favors putting the relationship between them on such close terms about the time he’d met Elros.) He’s not quite sure how Elrond does it, this verbal sleight of hand, though it was clear enough where he’d learned it.

“I need to concentrate, Elrond, and riddles don’t help,” he said shortly. “Say what you mean.”

“King Finarfin wants you at the meetings,” Elrond clarified. “As, I might add, does Elros, though he’s wary of calling himself king.”

Celebrimbor rather doubted their great-uncle would be pleased to hear himself described such.

“Uncle Arafinwë,” Celebrimbor said, stressing the name, “is too canny to wish to complicate the situation that way. And unless Elros is going to openly take up the title of Sindaran, he has no standing to make demands about who does and does not attend such gatherings.”

Elrond’s smirk meant Celebrimbor had fallen right into the trap laid for him.

“The High King feels you are the Noldorin lord with the most experience of the fight against the Enemy left in Beleriand,” he said cheerfully. “Aside, of course, from those he cannot consult for obvious reasons.”

“Experience of the fight against the Enemy?” Celebrimbor snorted. “Rubbish. I’m a smith, not a warrior or a tactician. I was a child well behind the lines for the first battles, and even by the time of the Sudden Flame, I wasn’t fighting so much as coordinating the logistics of our retreat. The closest I came to leadership was in refusing to follow my father when he left Nargothrond.”

Unfortunately, as he ran down a swift list in his head, he came to the disagreeable conclusion that whichever king Elrond was currently acting for – and it was anyone’s guess, since both Gil-galad and Arafinwë took care to include him among their advisors despite his youth, not to mention he knew perfectly well even if no one else did that Elrond acted in coordination with Elros far more often than not – might have a point he couldn’t disprove.

The only other Noldorin lords remaining who had been present in Beleriand as long as he had were Galadriel, his uncles, and the retainers they had sent with the twins.  

It was odd to realize he was among the last ones standing. Even Itarillë was gone. (It struck him that Elrond was actually Itarillë’s grandson. He still had trouble enough imagining Itarillë a mother, having not seen it with his own eyes, so her as a grandmother was even less comprehensible.)

He had to admit that when viewed in that light, his absence from council meetings began to look less like staying out of what was none of his business and more like some oblique snub. Arafinwë had doubtless put up with enough such subtle insults from his older brother that he might conceivably be running out of patience with his grandnephew.

Though he rather thought his uncle or Aunt Eärwen would have spoken to him directly were that the case. At least, he hoped they would. He did dine with them regularly after all, whenever they asked. Oddly enough, Telerin ships were safer for him than the supposedly common ground of Balar.

He was more than a little tempted to ask if he might join their fleet. The Teleri needed smiths as surely as anyone else, and he knew he could learn from their silversmiths. He had been surprised to find the master his mother had apprenticed with in her youth on Aunt Eärwen’s flagship, and still more surprised when the older man had wept at the sight of ‘Tyelpesilmë’s boy’.

His mother had not come, nor had he expected that she would. She was no warrior, nor had she ever crafted weapons. Not that he knew of, at least. (It was actually something of a relief to know she hadn’t come. Too many of his family have died in Beleriand as it was. He was happy to know his mother still safe.)

A muted sound from Elrond brought him back to the present – and reminded him that he was not the only one whose mother had not come.

“If Uncle Arafinwë desires my presence at the next council meeting, tell him he has only to ask,” Celebrimbor sighed. “I am at his disposal, as he should surely know.”

“You could simply come, without him needing to ask,” Elrond suggested.

“Out with it, Elrond.”

“Perhaps you are not the only one who misses having family they can rely on?”

It was tentative, and sounded more a guess than a certainty, but Celebrimbor knew perfectly well that Luthien’s great-grandsons saw into hearts more clearly than most, and Elrond was particularly deft at it.

“You’re suggesting Arafinwë is a member of our merry band of misfits?” Celebrimbor asked, keeping his voice determinedly light as he returned the dressed metal to the fire.

Elrond was too close to grown to squirm, but he did look uncomfortable when Celebrimbor chanced a glance at him.

“His sons all died, and Aunt Galadriel has been away the whole time he’s been here…”

Elrond trailed off.

Galadriel was currently somewhere in the east, ostensibly ensuring the elves in and beyond the mountains were not taken by surprise by the Enemy. It had occurred to Celebrimbor before now that she might be avoiding her parents, though he couldn’t begin to guess why – it wasn’t as if anyone could fault her for not asking their blessing before wedding Celeborn.

“Elrond, you do realize you can’t fix everything, right?” Celebrimbor sighed.

“No, but you don’t mind, and it makes him a little bit happier,” Elrond said hopefully.

And it made Elrond a little happier, to believe that the mess that was their family could be put right. Come to that, it probably cheered Elros as well, even if he liked to give the impression of not worrying or even thinking about such things.

“Oh, speaking of Elros – he says to tell you he’ll call himself Sindaran if you’ll start attending meetings. He’s bored silly half the time and doesn’t see why you’re excused.”

Celebrimbor blinked. Knowing Elros, that was edited version of what he’d said. He waited expectantly.

Elrond sighed.

“Actually he said that Maedhros and Makalaurë were at the Kinslayings too but we still have to go to every mind-numbing Council meeting, so your father is not an excuse.”

Celebrimbor couldn’t help the bark of laughter. Utterly tactless, and yet utterly Elros.

Elrond looked startled, but also a bit relieved that he hadn’t taken offense.

“Maedhros and Makalaurë weren’t involved in sending Uncle Ingo off to his death, but I take the point. And tell Elros if he’s so bored, being king, he could just skip the meetings if he wants.”

Elrond smirked.

“Tell him yourself at dinner,” he suggested. “We’re eating aboard the Telerin flagship at the High King’s invitation this evening.”

“I see how it is,” Celebrimbor grumbled. “You only run messages for kings anymore.”

“It’s somewhat safer being the messenger than being the king,” Elrond shrugged. “And as long as I'm just running messages, I’m not expected to make the decisions.”

Elrond stood.

“If I leave now, you won’t get so absorbed in your work that you lose track of the time and miss dinner, will you?”

Celebrimbor considered the question.

“Actually, I just might. You’d better stay put. Make sure I stop in time to clean up and be presentable. Until then, you can catch me up on all the boring details I’ve missed so I know what’s going on when Uncle Arafinwë asks.”

Even focused on his work as he was, Celebrimbor didn’t miss the satisfied smile on Elrond’s face as the boy sat back down.