Left you so mournful by yletylyf

One

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He drifted, aware of sensations only. A breeze. A presence radiating from above. Light, dark, it made no difference. Thoughts were formless things, devoid of meaning.

He let himself drift, unable to do anything else.

He started to hear voices, but they didn't mean anything to him.

"Don't worry about it," he heard. "I don't mind."

The voice that came next was angry; he didn't like it. He drifted away again.

He couldn't pinpoint when things started to change; when he started to notice light or warmth or ascribe meaning to them. When he realized there was one place—a feeling? A time?—he preferred over all else.

A place where he started to understand and remember.

A forge, blazing with fire. The ringing of a hammer. The smell of sweat rolling down skin.

This was mine, he thought, but it was a while before that thought made sense.

At some point, he realized he had something that might have been limbs; he perceived the difference between touching objects or floating through air.

He liked very much when he touched something warm and soft. It felt like comfort.

The thought was jarring; he instinctively rejected the idea of comfort. But he kept the contact anyway.

Then he slowly started to remember why he shouldn't.

"I wonder if you're enjoying watching me struggle to regain my skills," the voice said at one point, lightly amused. "These things used to come to me so easily! Everyone would tell me that's all you're hanging around here for."

The voice was close. Warm air with a hint of moisture seemed to ghost over the edges of his sensation. Someone was speaking close to him and he could feel their breath.

"I don't agree, of course," the voice continued. "You were once more than that. You still are."

And then, he knew, he knew who he was and who the voice belonged to. He knew what he'd done.

No.

He jerked back, and found himself leaping through the air. Or flying. He didn't quite understand what he was doing. He did know that he was very small and the world was very large.

"Oh," the voice said in surprise and wonder. "You projected that 'no' quite loudly. Are you back with me then?"

He didn't know, he didn't know what was going on, and his panic and confusion was very loud.

"Shh," the voice said, getting closer again as he found something solid and could go no further. "I won't hurt you. You're a butterfly, do you know what that is?"

He made an effort, and conjured up memories of small creatures, delicate, easily destroyed. He found the concept distasteful.

The voice laughed. "No, angel, you look very nice. You look just like yourself, in fact. Black spots on orange wings—just like a pupil in a lidless eye, wreathed in flames."

He had never looked like a butterfly, thank you very much.

"Ah, see, I told them you didn't choose this form. You're lost and confused. Come here, I won't hurt you."

He detached himself from the solid object, which he thought was probably a wall, and drew closer to the voice. There was a glorious warm sense of rightness to the presence, which was simultaneously very wrong.

Celebrimbor, he thought, acknowledging the name for the first time in thousands of years.

"Yes," the voice acknowledged. "I'm here."

He came to rest on warm skin, and felt better.

But if that's who you are, and I am—

He broke off the thought, confused and disoriented. If he was Sauron, and this was the elf he'd betrayed and broken, he should not be here.

"No," the voice said, very softly. "I missed you. I always loved you."

Impossible. He'd done things that were impossible to forgive; and the concept of forgiveness was a trick anyway, a trap, a manipulator's tool.

"Not so," the voice said calmly. "I forgave you a long time ago and never expected anything in return. When I came back, they said you were gone. It made me sad."

Sad. Yes, that was the word for this overwhelming feeling threatening to suffocate him. He was sad. If Celebrimbor missed him, and loved him, and was capable of forgiving him—

He might have wept, if this body could do it.

"I'm not sure you mean to share all these thoughts with me, but they are being shared," Celebrimbor said softly. "And yes, it does mean you were wrong. If you'd told me the truth before burning my city and killing my kin, I would have accepted it. I would have worked with you."

It was too much. It was not possible. He could not bear it. He lost control of himself, his thoughts, his consciousness and his being, and dissolved in a whirl of fragments.

It was dark. He drifted.

There was no sense of time. There was no sense of place. He just knew one moment, he was formless, and the next, he could feel the currents of air and their direction and temperature again.

He was still small, still had wings instead of limbs. And he was still in a forge. Celebrimbor's forge. The irony was suffocating.

"Welcome back," the voice said. It sounded sleepy. "I knew you'd be back."

He landed on warm skin that smelled of sweat and smoke. It was home. It was impossible.

"Don't worry," the voice said. "I'll take care of you for as long as you need. You're safe here."

He didn't deserve it.

"You definitely don't," the voice agreed, thick with amusement. "Luckily, I've never worried overmuch about who deserves what. The world just—is. And we are part of it. And I feel what I feel, and you feel what you feel."

Feelings? Forgiveness? Love? He'd never believed in these concepts.

"I will show you," Celebrimbor murmured, his voice a caress on the air. "For the rest of our time, until the ending of the world, I will be here to show you."