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Chapter Text

  To recover was to accept. You couldn't come back from something you refused to believe happened.

  The worst part wasn't even the physical wounds Celeborn suffered under Sauron's hand across the thousand-something years he'd been imprisoned. It was the mental scarring. His mind was more marred and beaten than his bloodied body when Elrond had found him.

  For the first week he'd slept nearly all of it, but by the seventh night he was awake and sitting up. Galadriel never dared stray from his side, her fingers constantly laced with his and her lips upon his brow an uncountable amount of times. She spurned any ask to leave him be for a mere second.

  She had become so anxious and he unresponsive that it plagued even the mind of Gil-Galad. He visited sometimes, though kept a distance as to not invoke Galadriel's pent-up anger or send Celeborn spiralling should he wake suddenly and see such a figure as the High King before him.

  For hours on end Elrond paced the room, diving between scrolls and healing records before returning to Celeborn's side to either feed him some strange concoction to which Galadriel demanded the name of every ingredient or check on his wounds. He'd scored a particularly deep gash along the outside of his left thigh, and it stretched past his hip before trailing off into something already scabbing under the gauze.

  There was nothing that could speed up the process, only patience and hope. Galadriel had given up praying to the Valar; what had they ever done to her but render her hopeless and hurt? She'd not wish the same on her dear pearl, not ever. He deserved to be better in an instant, not tossing in his sleep or waking in a flurry to scramble to the edge of the bed and clutch at the sheets in panic.

  Mornings seemed to be significantly harder to get through than afternoons or nights—he'd be nauseous and dry-heaving but wouldn't actually vomit save for the handful of times he did. It was terrifying; elves were never ill, not like this. Whatever this was was a product of an age of torture under Sauron's hand. Galadriel hated it, but all she could do was watch.

  Elrond took Celeborn's hand, unwrapping the bandage around his palm and surveying the burns spattering the flesh. He gently rubbed an oil into the scars, pausing only when Celeborn flinched in his sleep. Galadriel was stuck to his other side, leaned over with the backs of her fingers stroking his cheek. His face was littered with cuts and scrapes, but they were far less threatening than they'd been three weeks ago. Elrond replaced the bandage with a fresh one after changing the gauze on his hand, delicately wrapping it so as not to disturb his slumber.

  "He's barely breathing," Galadriel whispered. Elrond said nothing as he supposed she hadn't meant to verbalise such a worrying fact. She was already worked up from the past month—Adar, Eregion's fall, Celebrimbor's death, her own near-death. And then her husband (who was believed dead for over an age) was found barely conscious on the oceanside, half-drowned by the lapping waves and half-doused in sand. "Celeborn, come back to me." She bent her head to kiss his forrid. "Please."

  As expected there was no response, only the uncomfortable shift when Elrond dabbed the wound on his thigh with ointment. "He will be alright, Galadriel." The Peredhel reassured her. "He has survived for a thousand years. Though he must recover from all he has endured now. Celeborn is strong."

  Is he strong enough, though? Galadriel didn't say aloud. She wished to slap herself for thinking like that; Celeborn was strong—he'd fought against Morgoth—and, like Elrond had reminded her, survived Sauron's treatment of him across an entire age.

  Prince Galathil had been informed the eve of Celeborn's rescue and arrived just shy of an hour ago to see his beloved elder brother after those many years apart. He all but barreled into the infirmary tent, breathing heavily with flushed cheeks and tousled hair—assumably from riding.

  Elrond blinked at him. "Prince Galathil." He strode over to the panicked Sinda and took a hand between his own. "Sit. He is mending, as I said in the letter." He led Galathil around the bed to the edge of it and eased him down beside Celeborn.

  With shaking fingers, Galathil reached out and tucked a lock of his brother's silver hair behind his pointed ear. His face screwed up sadly. "You told me in your letter that you found him on a beach after an age and nothing more." He rushed through his words. "What happened?" His voice trembled worse than his hands. "Who did this to him?"

  Galadriel, not taking her eyes from her husband's limp form, took a stablilising breath. "Sauron." She hissed.

  Galathil paled. His mouth worked as though trying to utter the name, but the only thing that left his throat was a strangled sound. His head whipped around to where Elrond was preparing some kind of medication. "You know this for certain? You are sure?"

  "As sure as there are stars in the nighttime sky." He answered honestly, lowering his gaze to better focus on his task. "I am doing all I can."

  "Well, it's clearly not enough!" Galathil barked in a flash of vulnerability. This—seeing Celeborn this weak and fragile—was not something he ever anticipated and it was hard to look at his brother so unwell right before his eyes.

  Galadriel reached over her husband and took Galathil's arm. "Elrond is not at fault. Do not be angry with him. Save your rage for Sauron." She dropped her voice significantly.

  "Sauron has been gone since—"

  "Sauron remains. I have seen him, fought him." She countered visciously. "Do not deny that which is the hard truth."

  It took an uncomfortably long time, but the silence was then sliced through with the blade of Celeborn's state. He groaned, rolling half onto his side and half onto his stomach, now facing in Galadriel's direciton, and his lashes fluttered. She was knelt by him before he could open his eyes fully. His bandaged hand reached for her and she took it without hesitation.

  "I am here, Celeborn," Galadriel uttered. "What do you need?"

  Celeborn squinted against the lights and, with a whimper, forced himself up slightly, propping himself on his forearms. That was much to Elrond's dismay.

  "No, Celeborn, stop." The Peredhel dashed to his side and helped him to lay down again. "Do not sit up. The last time you did that it ended well for no one."

  "What, what happened? What did he do?" Galathil demanded. With a knee pressing into the mattress' edge he leaned over desperately.

  Elrond and Galadriel exchanged a glance. "Well, he took one of his gauzes off and vomited upon seeing the wound beneath it." Elrond informed simply while Galadriel scrunched her nose at the memory; she'd been not six paces away and unable to get to him in time before he all but tore the gauze from his left hip.

  "Violently." She added helpfully, and it was then Elrond's turn to grimace. "He has no memory of it, I don't believe."

  None of this seemed to irk Galathil, though. In fact, it only served to worry him further. "Good. I—I guess."

  Celeborn raised his bandaged hand above his head directly in front of his eyes to gaze at it. "I don't need this." He breathed wheezily, coughing thrice afterward.

  Galadriel sighed, lacing together their fingers and bringing their joined hands to his chest. "Meldonya." She cooed, kissing his cheek. "Trust me when I say you do."

  A new set of footsteps hitting the floor had everyone's—minus Celeborn's—attention turning. Gil-Galad stood, draped in that familiar gold instead of his bloodied armour, in the doorway. He eyed Celeborn as the Sinda prince rolled again onto his stomach, pressing his face fruitlessly into the pillow with a lengthy groan.

  "He has woken then?"

Chapter Text

    Celeborn took a slow sip of the glass of water Elrond gave him. Both hands were wrapped around it, fingers rubbing over and fidgeting with one another. His once-bright eyes were now dull and frantically looking in all directions despite his gaze being downcast to his crossed lap.

    Gil-Galad was knelt in front of him, looking up at him patiently. Galathil was pacing at the foot of the bed and had been doing so for the last five minutes, never taking his vision from his nearly-catatonic brother.

    "Celeborn?" Gil-Galad addressed softly.

    The Sinda's pointed eartips twitched up at his name. At least he still knows himself. Gil-Galad observed mentally.

    "Can you look at me, Celeborn?" He asked slowly.

    He tried. He did. But instead of the golden-robed High King, Celeborn saw Sauron, his ginger hair and his scarily gentle face. He clenched his eyes shut and whimpered, drawing his knees up to his forrid as he lowered his head.

    Galadriel was by his side not a second later. She knew better than to touch him, no matter how very desperately she longed to. A thousand years she'd gone without his warmth, his smooth skin, and even longer still. "Oh, Celeborn…" And she wanted to cry too when a strangled sound left his throat and reached her ears.

    Galathil kept his distance. He was worried, immensely, but he remained a safe few paces away. For Celeborn's sake rather than his own; he knew his brother, and he knew he hated much company—especially this much—when upset. Celeborn was probably overwhelmed, judging by how he was rejecting any sort of comfort.

    "Elrond," Gil-Galad rose to his feet, beckoning the Peredhel over to him in a corner. "How is his condition?"

    "If I'm being utterly honest, High King? He will not be well for many years to come." There was no point sugarcoating anything—Elrond had done this enough to know it was better to be straight to the point. "Both the physical and psychological trauma Celeborn sustained will scar him deeply, likely permanently if not given the right treatment."

    Gil-Galad nodded solemnly. "And you will treat him?"

    "It is my duty, High King. It is what I do."

    Suddenly a string of "no"s came from Galadriel's lips, catching Gil-Galad and Elrond's attention; Celeborn was standing on shaking legs, staring down fearfully at his hands in front of him, while Galadriel stood by him with her arms around him but never actually making contact. She was ready to catch him should he collapse. Galathil watched, eyes red and glistening with tears he refused to shed.

    Elrond breathed an Elvish curse, making his way over. "Celeborn, sit down." He demanded, somehow keeping his voice gentle and stern at once. Celeborn didn't hear him. "Celeborn." He tried again.

    This time the silver-haired elf did look at him, but it was barely a second, for his eyes squeezed shut and he whimpered, a pitiful noise. Galadriel and Elrond exchanged an emotional glance. That was what he did when he looked at Gil-Galad moment prior.

    He attempted a different approach. "Celeborn," his voice was softer now. "I understand that whatever you're seeing is hurting you, but you must sit before your legs give out and you hurt yourself." He spoke slowly, making sure the Sinda prince was at least half-listening. "Sit down."

    And, miraculously, Celeborn lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. Elrond, carefully, minding his fragile vulnerability, lifted his legs onto the mattress for him and situated him against the headboard.

    "Is that okay?" He asked.

    Celeborn managed a weak nod, his face still scrunched and his eyes dripping tears through closed lids. "Gal…" He whispered brokenly, reaching a hand out blindly.

    Galadriel all but launched herself forward, enveloping his trembling hand in both of hers. "I'm here, Celeborn. I'm here."

    His eyes fluttered open, pupils constricted in terror. His vision was blurry, but her hair was golden. And he saw it, saw her. His beautiful wife. "Galadriel." He was more confident in saying her name now.

    She grasped his hand tighter, lacing her fingers around it, and smiled, eyes watering. "Yes. Galadriel. It's me."

    Then suddenly she was the clearest thing in the world to Celeborn. "Do you remember?" He looked down at their hands.

    "Do I remember what, cala nîn?"

    "Me. Your…your silver clam. Your pearl."

    "Yes." Galadriel squeaked. "Yes, I do. My pearl."

    Celeborn stared at her a while in silence, mouth agape in recognition as he examined her features after so very long. She heard Elrond say to Gil-Galad and Galathil: "Come, we will take this conversation outside", and was grateful for it.

    Her silver clam, her pearl. Her Celeborn. He was only beginning to recover. She supposed it was good he was at least he was on the journey now. She would be by his side every step of the way, there was no doubt about that. She was concerned that he couldn't look at Gil-Galad and Elrond, and possibly didn't even know his brother had been in the same room as him just before, but that was something to worry over later.

    Right now, Celeborn recognised her, and that alone made Galadriel's heart swell with both immense gratitude and hope. He was going to be okay, one day many years from now, yes, but there was still going to be that day. She would remain here until then if she had to, knelt beside him with her hands around his in the warm embrace she wished to give him with her whole body, like she used to when he was tired or gloomy.

    She loved him beyond belief. Even in his most trying time.