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It didn't understand. It had been so long. All it could remember was pain, the one fair face twisting in anger as it screamed its questions at him - where are they, where are the three?
It didn't know. It didn't know what the question meant. Barely understood the words. It cowed beneath the fingers, against the nails digging into his neck. Its back was agony. Had been torn apart by a... What was the word?
What... Its tormenter had said something else. With its confused look, just tossed it aside, snarling. Said that'd he be back soon to continue, whatever those sounds meant.
It didn't remember sleep, didn't remember having ever eaten, only gnawing pain in its stomach, its only drink what had been forced down its throat. Didn't remember anything but this room. Not really. Gentle hands and beloved faces seemed like a thing it had once known. But it couldn't recall their faces. Or their voices. Or their names.
It couldn't remember how to move its body. Or use its voice. Or what was its name.
It, just barely, comprehended that it was dieing. Not what that meant, not what death was. Just that it was losing control, the ability to move. It did remember that once it could remember, could move and work and laugh. But not what it could remember, not what movement felt like, not what its work had been, not what laughter was. Not what these things meant.
Still, it took time to die. There was no way to count its passing here, as it slowly, slowly lost ability. Lost feeling. First its fingers - losing them was sad - and toes - it didn't mind that so much - then slowly clawing along its tormented body.
The tormentor came back, eventually. He was angry, had others with him. He yelled something, then the others raised their bows and let their arrows fly into its chest. He spoke again, and they released creatures on it. To rip it bodily apart. It was already too far gone to even notice.
All it really understood was that it was in pain, then it was not.
It couldn't comprehend what that meant.
They watch Celebrimbor - Mandos had called it one of the punishments for their crimes, the orb which shows them. He'd given it to them a few years of the sun ago, just in time to see Celebrimbor invite the Sauron into his city. Maedhros had immediately recognised the corrupted ainur, but there was nothing they could do; they were dead, unable to communicate. Unable to do anything, yet forced to watch for their crimes. Or, no, they were not forced to watch. But they, for all that had been said and all that had been done, were unwilling to turn away. For some time they took the vigil in turns, watching Celebrimbor's every movement and Sauron's every deception.
When the torture began, each member of the House of Fëanor in Mandos had reacted differently; Maedhros would simply sit and watch, his right hand flickering in and out of existence; Celegorm would rip apart whatever he could find, growling, tearing even his arms with his teeth and nails; Caranthir would scream, punching walls and cursing the Valar themselves; Amrod would hug the orb and weep; Amras would talk to it, pretend he was offering comfort to his nephew; Fëanor would curse and kick and promise vengeance; and Curufin, whose son it was they watched over, would stare transfixed, tears pouring silently from his face and hands clasped tight in his lap.
When Celebrimbor went limp, stopped screaming, stopped fighting back, Curufin had begun to refuse to leave. Had taken it as his duty to scream on his son's behalf. Nobody dared try make him leave, nor to leave him alone.
Then, a few days ago, something had changed. Sauron had tormented him in a more hurried fashion than usual, before disappearing and not returning for some time. That was not entirely unheard of. What was most terrifying was that Celebrimbor did not even try to move, to reposition or to comfort his injuries or any such thing. Amras had been watching with Curufin at the time, and called his father and remaining brothers to their side; Celebrimbor had been fading for months, and it would not take much longer. Unless he died or was rescued first.
And nobody believes he could be rescued.
Then the end comes; Maedhros sees it first, tensing. Sauron enters. With him are a handful of his more intelligent orcs. And a handful of elves - prisoners too. The elves carry orcish bows. He orders them to fire.
Some of Fëanor's sons look away then.
Then the orcs are set upon him, with orders to finish him off. At that point, to his own horror, Fëanor closes his ears and looks away. Maedhros turns a second later.
Curufin, grim faced, is the only one to still be watching when he finally, thankfully dies.
They all know the moment, though, for Curufin collapses in on himself. Fëanor looks back to see Sauron attempting to call Celebrimbor's soul back, to bind it into a more cooperative way. He feels sick; this is so obviously an awful, gut-destroying attempt to stop Celebrimbor fading before the information is gained. If he had a physical form, he would throw up. Even without one, he nearly manages to gag. Caranthir alone does not cry, but he instead is screaming.
And, for a long time, they have no way of telling if Sauron succeeds or not - they just see Sauron laughing and casting his magic, killing the elves with the bows as the blood cost for it. The orb shatters, and they receive no resolution.
Something tugs at it. It does not resist, just goes with the flow. It would need to comprehend resistance to be able to try. It does not.
As it is pulled along, it feels something else tug at it. It doesn't resist that either; the first tug ends up being stronger. It is pulled away.
It doesn't see anything, but it feels... It has no word to know what it feels. Just that something else is here. Some other soul, which holds it close. It remains limp.
"Telperinquar Curufinwë-" a voice echoes into its center, but not as words, as concepts. Concepts that confused it, so it stops listening. Catching only the confusing start which yet seems to resonate with something within.
For a long time Fëanor and his sons just sit sobbing, clutching one another. Or, more, clutching Curufin who seems to be dissolving before them, too tormented to remember how to hold a more elven form. Melting black into the black mist he had been when he first came to them. They manage to keep him mostly together - melting, yes, but still corporeal, still with the mouth with which he screams. Looking around, Fëanor sees all of his sons have lost some of their progress towards looking believably elven, though Curufin's is most evident; Maedhros' skin is flaking away, Celegorm's flesh is squirming once more, Caranthir bleeding from everywhere, the twins merging into one... Fëanor's own form flickers slightly, trying to alight itself. He pushes it down; he must be strong, must protect his children from their grief.
They sit huddled and screaming and crying for time immemborable, and for barely any time at all.
Then, a maiar appears in the doorway, quiet, indistinguishable sounds coming from them. They are formless beneath their black robe. At first Fëanor's heart drops, thinking this maiar is here to tell them that Mandos failed, that Sauron has his grandson. Then he realises that the maiar isn't speaking, but rather the noise coming from it is some sort of cooing. Like one would do for a distressed baby. Before his sons explode - Caranthir certainly hasn't noticed that and has assumed the worst, if his clenched fists are anything to go by - Fëanor puts out an arm to warn them back.
The maiar does not speak to them but its form shifts, arms appearing in front of its robes. And within those arms they cradle Celebrimbor's heartbreakingly damaged soul. He looks like someone had taken a beloved rag doll, dipped it in blood, and thrown it to a pit of starving lions. Even as the maiar tries to keep them in place, shards fall from the rips, as stuffing from a torn toy. That which falls dissolves before it hits the ground, unwritten and impossible to retain.
Fëanor does not blame Caranthir for gagging, or the Ambarussa for both turning away. Celegorm is holding the screaming Curufin back, stopping him from charging the maiar and risking further damage to reclaim his son. Fëanor himself is stuck watching in morbid fascination; the damage to Maedhros' soul had been of comparable severity, but had been internal. Contained. This... Is very much not.
It is to everyone's surprise that Maedhros steps forth and takes Celebrimbor from the maiar, wrapping him safely in arms still misshapen - careful not to let any more pieces fall away. He succeeds in this attempt better than the maiar; elves are elves and maiar are maiar and sometimes familiarity helps. Maedhros' form is barely holding together itself, flecks of ash drift behind him as he moves, his skin starting to peel away. However, he keeps Celebrimbor in his arms, taking him over to one of the beds in their room. Once Celebrimbor is safely placed, he sets about rearranging the furniture; pulling all the beds together.
Curufin is only a few steps behind, face desperate and horrified as he takes a kneeling position next to his son. He takes what should be his hand - held in place by a single wispy thread - and rubs it gently. Murmuring quiet words. The twins take the sheet Celebrimbor is laid upon and swaddle him in it, a physical barrier against any more damage. The rest of the House of Fëanor in Mandos gather around, but for Caranthir who claws his hands down the door and growls curious spirits away.
Fëanor takes a bit of time to examine to grandson, to try and work out how - if - he can help. The wounds on his form are a little like knife-wounds, and a little like teeth marks. The form is humanoid at least - it remembers it is an elf, even if it does not quite remember what an elf is. Inspecting further, none of it appears to be made of flesh; what should be skin is dyed cotton, what should be innards wool, features little bits of embroidery. And the Oath, which taints all the rest, is missing. That is a relief, but also expected. Even after their deaths, he had not given in and followed them in their folly.
But the Oath he had dealt with before, not this strange doll-like manifestation. The most concerning matter is the fact that there has been no response to anything. Not to his father or his grandfather or his uncles or being moved or even when Celegorm accidentally elbows him in the gut. Celebrimbor just lays there, with nothing to suggest he was ever sentient; it may well be caused by how faded he was when he died, Fëanor reasons, though he does not know if that is curable even here. If it's not, someone will die. And Fëanor will kill them.
With nothing else he can do, or at least needing time to think of something, Fëanor finds a pile of discarded blankets and joins his sons on the beds, throwing the blankets over them for some privacy - his clever, astounding sons who have already taken steps to stop things getting worse, as much they could. The damage is serious, but it has stopped getting worse. They have time. They have all the time in the universe, he expects.
Caranthir, calmer now, shuffles over and joins them sometime later. Both twins latch onto him, and he latches to them back. The three press into Celegorm, letting him feel the presence of more of their family. Curufin and Celegorm are flanking Celebrimbor, shielding him from anything which might come. Maedhros is stroking Curufin's hair, the attempt at comforting his inconsolable younger brother seeming to be the one thing tieing Maedhros to a manifest form. So Fëanor spoons around him, hoping to ground him. Its awkward - most of his sons are taller than him and Maedhros the tallest - but slowly he feels his eldest relax.
Celebrimbor's injuries will have lasting consequences, if he even recovers - Fëanor knows this. Is coming to terms with it. But, for now, with he and his dead sons grasping at one another and his grandson, he cannot help but be glad they have been allowed to remain together. Allowed to meet once more in death.
Curufin pressed a soft kiss into Celebrimbor's hair and, one by one, the House of Fëanor falls asleep.
It feels safer than it has for a very long time, and warm. It is hurting, but it is warm. There is something gentle but callosed on its back. The something shifts, and now it is cold. It tries to mewl, to express displeasure, but it cannot move. Cannot utter or move or see.
So it simply lies there, cold and colder. Then a something wraps around it again - this something is also gentle, but soft. Longer but thinner. Still warm, though. It is happy.
"Hello, Telperinquar," a voice says - Telperinquar, that's its name! That's what the first voice meant! It is a Telperinquar Curufinwë, whatever one of those is - "your atar is busy right now, so I'm going to stay with you until he returns, alright?"
He? What is a he? Oh! It was a he too, not an it. Not it was a Telperinquar Curufinwë; he was a Telperinquar Curufinwë. His distraction from the revelation leaves him unable to listen to hear the other words, but there are more of them. The more there are, the more he realises that the voice is familiar, and comforting. He doesn't remember why it is comforting, or what the voice is, but he knows the voice as safety. He lets it lull him back to uncomprehending sleep.
It felt almost like an age had passed, or at least something important. A short while ago Aredhel had come to their rooms, begging Maedhros come to Fingon. The maiar she bought said it would be permitted, for now. Celegorm had gone too, keeping an eye on them both, ensuring this wasn't some strange trap to split the family apart again. Since then the twins had been laying with Celebrimbor, one on each side and protecting him, whilst Fëanor had engaged Curufin in some strange mortal board game Mandos had thought it funny to provide; the stress of trying to care for his unresponsive and dead son left him even more snappish than usual. Caranthir had taken up a place by the door, watching for Maedhros and Celegorm's return. They were still in their places now, Curufin consulting the rules for the game in an attempt to prove Fëanor's move illegal.
"I have an idea," Caranthir starts the words slowly, hesitantly. In a manner so very unlike him Fëanor is concerned.
"What?" Curufin looks up.
Caranthir glances at Celebrimbor for a moment, then nervously at Curufin, "he seems to think he's a fabric doll?"
"He is not-" Curufin lunges up, throwing the dice in Caranthir's direction.
Caranthir dodges, "of course he's not, but he seems to think he is!" there's a pause as he checks Curufin is actually listening to him. "Dolls can't heal themselves, you have to stitch or glue them."
"He is not a doll."
"You stitch elves too, if the injuries are serious enough," Fëanor is just musing on the idea. It had potential; as much as any in this place.
There is a moment of Curufin and Caranthir staring at one another, Curufin trying to find a threat which is not there, before he relents, "You do it. You're the best at sewing."
"Of course," Caranthir nods.
Fëanor watches with mild fascination as Caranthir gets his threads and sits himself on the bed. The twins move to give him space, and Curufin perches nearby. Fëanor has always been fascinated by watching people sew; a little bit of his mother he sees in every thread. To watch one of his sons sew - well, that is family, too.
Caranthir is careful with his colour selections, picking the closest he can find to whatever body part he is trying to repair; from the selection in the bag of supplies he had found himself with, Fëanor wonders if this hadn't been Mandos' suggestion all along. Damn Valar being subtle; why couldn't he just say 'here's a sewing kit so you can sew Celebrimbor back together' instead of 'I thought this may be of use to you'.
He starts with the hands, teasing the fabrics back together with careful stitches. Soon they are attached once more, no longer at risk of falling away with a single wrong movement. Some of the larger tears - those on the torso especially - need patches. Caranthir carefully does so, Curufin holding things in place for him. Both are so incredibly gentle, in ways Fëanor wasn't certain were possible from his sons.
But it's not just the sewing which is fascinating; its not noticable at first, but it soon becomes apparent that where Caranthir's thread has gone, a small trail of something more flesh-like is left in its wake. Fëanor doesn't point it out at first; when Curufin notices, he begins to thank Caranthir profusely. Caranthir ignores him, busy with his work.
By the time Maedhros and Celegorm return, the repairs are as complete as is possible. Maedhros looks troubled, but more human than he has for a while; they promise an explanation later. Over the next few days they realise that the more fleshy bits are spreading out from the neat rows of stitches into the other parts of the fabric, slowly converting Celebrimbor into something less toy, and more elf.
When they realise, the family are so pleased they scare the maiar into thinking they have found a way to escape. But why escape? To find Maglor, to apologise to Nerdanel - those would both be good reasons - but Fëanor has to admit that none of his family are yet whole enough to survive outside the Halls. He could work on escape plans once they were.
He hurts now. He is in pain, and he understands what that means. The little pin-pricks that tingle his form are nothing, not compared to the slicing, burning agony elsewhere.
He can also remember things - that is new - though not a lot. He remembers his Atar, and he remembers his Atar teaching him to make things. His Atar is one of the voices. He does not remember who the others are, but he does remember hearing them all together
That, and that something bad happened to him.
But he can't remember the bad. He doesn't want to remember the bad. But then he does. And he is scared.
He wants to scream, but he can't. His body won't respond, lips won't move. Nothing works properly, as he remembers his friend - friend, friend, friend, traitor, torturer, FRIEND - hurting him. Making him forget. Forcing him to start fading. Killing him.
He wants to forget again, wants to not be here. To be away. Back in the nice darkness where there is no pain and no remembering.
Then there is a voice, gently singing. It breaks through the mist of pain and fear, and Celebrimbor latches onto it. Clings to it desperately in his mind, prays it will chase away the fear.
"Beyond all towers strong and high, beyond all mountains steep, above all shadows rides the Sun and Stars for ever dwell," the voice sings, and then carries on. He doesn't really listen, just clings to it. Tries to remember the familiarity.
Atar. It is Atar singing. He needs to get to Atar; Atar will look after him. Atar will keep him safe. Atar will keep away his not-a-friend-friend.
But how does he get to Atar?
It feels like another age passes before Celebrimbor stirs. It is now recognisable as an elf, flesh and all, though still pieces forget and try to escape from time to time. It starts with terrified whimpering; Curufin moves closer, wraps his arms tighter around and sings to him. Curufin is not a good singer, but it seems to calm them both. Not a lot, but a little. A moment later, his eyes finally open - Celebrimbor's are nearly identical to Curufinwë, but where his father's are stern and harsh, his are open and almost intolerably kind. His eyes flick around a little, before making contact with Curufin's - when they do, it's almost as though the world is still. Waiting to find out what will happen. Celebrimbor, however, is not inclined to wait.
"Atar?" is the word he offers first, begging and desperate.
"I'm here, yonya. I'm here," Curufin coos softly, scooping Celebrimbor into his arms.
Fëanor gestures for his other sons to back off slightly, to give Celebrimbor some space. As much as they wish to promise safety, the family had a tendency towards suffocating one another. Celembrimbor is still too weak to consider movement beyond flickering of eyes, but those flickerings are still terrified - Fëanor could see his sons trying to think of some comfort.
"Did anyone ever tell you about the time your father tried to make a device to rescue cats from trees, and ended up causing a drought in Tirion?" Fëanor's tone is forcibly light. Curufin shoots him a look of both completely gracious thanks, and utterly horrified embarrassment.
When Celebrimbor does not reply, not that that was unexpected, Fëanor launches into the tale anyway. Slowly his sons curl up on the bed, giggling and listening to Curufin's embarrassment. Slowly, slowly, Celebrimbor manages a hesitant smile. Its more progress than he could have hoped for.
Later there will be time for blaming and apologies and facing the shadow, but for now, the family simply laugh and love as one.
And from his throne of death, Mandos looks down upon their room and wonders if, maybe, there could be hope after all.