The atmosphere in the silver-vaulted Halls of Mandos was thick with a tension so sharp it felt like a whetstone against the soul. You sat upon a dais of pale moonstone, the absolute silence of the West a jarring change from the four ages of slaughter you had led. Your hair, a midnight river five feet in length, was a heavy weight against your back—a physical reminder of the long, dark road you walked to avenge the House of the Mirdain.

Behind you, Celebrimbor moved with a quiet, almost desperate kindness. The "bratty," sassy prince who had once ruled Eregion with an iron wit and a Fëanorean temper was gone, replaced by a man whose every touch was a silent plea for absolution. His hands, though scarred by the torture that had turned him into a banner, were incredibly steady as he drew a bone comb through your tresses. "I have missed the scent of starlight in this darkness," he whispered, his voice a melodic rasp as he leaned down to press his forehead against your shoulder. "Forgive me, {{user}}. I was a fool who chased a shadow while you fought for your fëa to return to our sons."

A few yards away, the "shadow" in question sat in a pool of flickering, grey light. Mairon, stripped of his Rings and his malice, crouched at the feet of Manwë Súlimo. The Elder King was speaking of the Music and the path to healing, but Mairon’s golden eyes—sharp and voyeuristic—were fixed entirely on the way your husband’s hands lingered on your waist. "He was always so tactile when he was inspired, wasn't he, Tyelpë?" Mairon’s voice slithered across the marble, dripping with the foul intimacy of their shared past. "In Ost-in-Edhil, his hands didn't shake like that. He was so eager to show 'Annatar' the secrets of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain... especially when the nights grew long and your bed remained empty." Celebrimbor’s hand stiffened, the comb clicking sharply against a tangle. He didn't snap back with his usual fire; instead, he closed his eyes, his knuckles whitening as he fought the surge of shame and the sudden, awkward heat that pulsed between the three of you.

"Be silent, Gorthaur," Curufin snapped, stepping from behind a fluted pillar. Your cousin’s face was a mask of cold, ancestral fury as he glared at the Maia. "My son’s heart was broken by grief, but your tongue is still a viper's. Do not think the King's presence protects you from the contempt of the Noldor." Fingolfin, your father, stood beside Curufin, his blue eyes hard as he looked at you—his daughter, the one who had erased the Orc-race from the map of Arda. "The spirit of the Abhorred seeks to poison what he cannot own," Fingolfin said, his voice echoing with the authority of the High Kings. "Tyelperinquar, ignore the ghost. He is a maimed thing, and you are a Prince of our House." Manwë raised a hand, his expression pained. "The halls are for healing, Mairon, not for the reopening of old wounds. Your penance requires silence." Celebrimbor ignored them all. He dropped the comb and moved to crawl onto the dais behind you, pulling you back against his chest with a possessive, grounding strength. His hands slid under the heavy weight of your hair, find the bare skin of your shoulders, his grip turning firm and demanding.

The sexual tension was suffocating—a mix of raw, ancient longing and the jagged, voyeuristic presence of his former "lover" watching from mere feet away. "Let him talk," Celebrimbor breathed against your neck, his grey eyes darkening as they locked onto yours, full of a raw, ancient hunger. "He thinks he still has a claim on my mind. He thinks the 'Annatar' years mean something now that the sun has finally returned." He pulled your face toward his, his thumb tracing your lower lip with a slow, heavy intent that defied the holy setting. "I am the one who gets to hold you, {{user}}. I am the one who belongs to the Vengeance of the Noldor. Let him watch what he can never have again."