AN:

Cross-posted from my tumblr, originally written for a fem!Mairon rp partner. Basically just pain and introspection.

Celebrimbor exhaled through his nose in a weak, almost certainly futile, attempt to resist the urge to vomit. It wasn't like anything would come up even if he did-the days of dry-heaving over the floor had proved it-but the sensation would only make the pain worse. He didn't want it worse. Not again. He didn't think he'd be able to take it again.

Why did he even take it in the first place? So long after-years? decades? it felt endless-he could barely remember what he'd started fighting for. What was the point? He was…he was…defending someone by keeping the Three away? But…how would that defend them? How would-he was so tired, these pains wouldn't go away, the strength and defiance he once relied on were not there anymore. What he would give to have this end…

Were those tears dripping down his cheeks? Or just more blood, from the scrapes and cuts and pain that marked his face? She had not been gentle with him when the refusals grew to be too much. But maybe he deserved it. Annatari had taught him how to make the Rings. Maybe she was right, maybe he should tell her, maybe she had a claim on them as strong as his own. And who was he to defy a Maia, even one his family had fought against?

Head bowed to his chest to hide his face, Celebrimbor cried. What was the point? He spent so much trying to keep the Three away, and for what? To protect the people he cared about? But they were mostly dead, and those that weren't would surely be soon enough. And continued defiance-continued resistance-it made her more angry every time he refused. She'd take that out on them, wouldn't she? Maybe-maybe if he stopped, they'd be safe. If he gave himself and his creations, his abilities, his everything now, up to whatever she wanted, they wouldn't be hurt for his choices.

And surely a lack of resistance would lead to a better end? Annatari had been reasonable, though he knew little about Mairon. And her words had an element of truth in them-perhaps it would be better for someone else to have the power. The once-smith knew firsthand the cost of trusting another of the Eldar to lead, how much of a mess his family had made of the world. Perhaps-perhaps they weren't capable of it. Perhaps nothing would keep everyone safer than fighting would.

Annatari-he missed Annatari. She was so much to him. Even though she lied, even though She hurt him and betrayed him and tortured him, she was still there. He hated her more than he had ever hated anyone else, but at the same time he remembered the years of trust and companionship and her. She had loved him once and he gave her everything. Which was the lie, which the truth? There was no energy left to care anymore.

Footsteps and the creak of the door cut into his desperate, wandering justifications. Tensing, Celebrimbor refused to look up despite the urge to know what was coming, his tears a shamefully visible flaw. So tired.

The touch on his chin burned no matter how careful She was, face streaked and red as words failed to come out in the face of Her. Looking up as She wanted, words fled. Where was the steel that always supported him, that kept him from cowering? He wanted-he had to-the words didn't want to work. There was finality here, he could tell, even as he hardly heard Her through the warring thoughts in his mind and the overarching sense of shame and self-loathing and fear and being lost. The control behind which he kept his emotions had ended in a way nothing else ever had. For once his feelings matched his exterior, and he felt…

He felt broken.

Her footsteps receded with the touch, replaced by harsh words he failed to understand followed. Clunky were the next that came to him, with thuds that shook the ground he knelt on. Two pairs of them, orqui, he assumed, though perhaps not. Even in this state, how dangerous of a prisoner was he considered? Bitter amusement slipped through the cracks left to mingle with the mess of emotions, even if he tried he doubted he could move far.

They stopped on either side of him, fiddling with chains above his head. Tyelpe moaned openly at the release of his wrists, collapsing with the removal of support. It felt so nice, to not have the constant pain of that awkward position. But collapsing only caused more wounds to rub against each other, jolts of pain shooting all over his body.

The orqui yanked roughly on his released arms, pulling him up to his feet for Tyelpe to fall again with a whimper of pain. His legs-his legs-they hurt too much. There was no way-no way he could walk out of there. At least one was broken, the other dislocated somewhere. Vomit rose in his throat, the next jostle from an urko kicking his side overwhelming the last dregs of control. Blood splattered.

But they did not care about his shaking beyond a set of disgruntled mutters. Rough grips pulled on his arms, uncaring of the pain he felt as they dragged him out. It-there was nothing left to think about but the pain. Even his torture dimmed in comparison. Here, now, this was the worst. Chin knocked against chest with every tug, eyes unsteady and only the rough ground a sign of the distance they moved. Where…where were they taking him?

Even if he had the thought to ask, the former lord-how he'd hated that title before, how much it had hurt when it had been thrown at him-would not. There was a feeling he had, from which it came he knew not, that this was a final movement. The chance to save them, to voice his change of mind, was gone now. He had failed, in every way possible. Nothing was positive anymore.

Nelyo…was this how he had felt? Like there was nothing left? But now Nelyo would hate him as much as the rest, for his failures. He could not even make the stand they all had. Atya most of all, Atya and Haru for giving in to this. But he was forever the failure of the House, the weakling who would yield rather than fight. It was not as if this would make it any worse.

Temporary relief from active burning pain cut off his thoughts as much as any could be. Conversations went on above his head, the tone demanding as if in relaying orders. He used to give those, didn't he. Once.

Sudden movement ripped another whimper from his throat. This time the hands were more places, arms and legs and painful as they pulled him over wood roughly. Celebrimbor didn't try to resist; what was the point? He was too tired to fight. Rope rubbed and burned his wrists, no care from those using it to tie him down. Not that he expected any.

The sound of footsteps receding puzzled him, but there was no time to contemplate it before the wood shifted, and he was in the air as pain lead to more tears. Movement continued the pain, bones grinding against each other in utter pain, blood leading a trail down the poles. Only after some undeterminable span, when sunlight hit his eyelids, did dull curiosity arise.

Horror hit him alongside the first arrow, punching equally as deep into his gut.

This was a battlefield, even in his state he could recognise the sights and now smells. And those…those were the people he was trying to protect dying, he himself a grisly sign meant to demoralize. More arrows from the orqui made him scream involuntarily, attracting attention and causing exactly the kind of reaction Gorthaur no doubt wished. Blood splattered with each shot, the patterns strangely transfixing for one in such pain. It looked pretty, almost, in a gruesome way. Better than anything else.

Then the last arrow hit, and everything went black as the pain spiked and ended.