A drunken Celebrimbor is an unreasonable Celebrimbor, especially on the anniversary of the sacking of Doriath. Elrond learns this the hard way.

He finds Celebrimbor in the midst of soot and ash, wild speckles of red and dark sprinkled into his eyes. His gaze is mad, and the flames from the makeshift fire he’s haphazardly created dance around him. 

If Elrond squints he can see seven shadows behind the mad elf.

“Lord Celebrimbor—Lord Celebrimbor, I must insists that you stop this madness.” 

“It was madness to safekeep such relics in the first place.” 

Elrond blanches as Celebrimbor tosses a scroll into the pit, taking a swig of the amber liquid in his glass. There is an eight pointed star at the exterior, catching fire as it joins the other scrolls, clothing, swords, and pieces of history that share the same insignia. 

Behind him lay a pile of untouched, yet-soon-be-burned objects. Elrond picks out a pristine, silver lute from the bunch, the very object that Gil-Galad warned of it’s impending destruction. 

Elrond is beside the older elf within moments, wrestling a portrait of what must by the Ambrussa from his fingers, “Please my Lord, these are pieces of history, no matter the pain and devastation the Sons of Fea–”

Celebrimbor jerks from him, crazed, drunken eyes locking with Elrond’s, “I do not need to be lectured about the blessing and the curse that my family has wrought on elven society by the likes of you, Elrond, son of Earendil.” 

The portrait, a Valinorian original, is engulfed in flames.

“I do not need you or your ilk to tell me what my family has done and what parts of them should be remembered,” Celebrimbor snaps, the fire behind him painting a rather horrific portrait of what Elrond believes Feanor must have looked like in his prime. The alcohol no doubt exaggerates his anger, and with it being the anniversary of the Fall of Doriath, Lindon most certainly does too. 

Elrond understands that. To an extent. He will always be the victim taken by the monstrous kinslayers. Celebrimbor will be their blood relative. The latter is considerably worse. Elrond himself learned early on to keep his opinions of Maglor and Maedhros to himself, unless it is explicitly to disparage on them.  And perhaps he did it too well, for Celebrimbor never once opened up to him about his relationship with his uncles. He  wonders just how desperate Celebrimbor must have been to drink himself into despair and drag his family’s heirlooms into the wilderness to burn. 

“I meant no offense, Celebrimbor. I simply think it would be unwise to rid the world of such…art.” 

The drunken elf’s hand finds the lute. Elrond nearly chokes. It is Maglor’s, given to Celebrimbor at the end of the War of Wrath. Elrond had searched endlessly for it, and had believed it lost to sea just like it’s master.

“Art can be remade. And kin of the House of Finwe still remain, their halls and realms filled to the brim with art.” Celebrimbor looks at the lute, “the world will be better without my family’s influence.”

“My Lord, please! That is my father’s lute. It is all I have left of him!”

The lute flies helplessly into the air. And with it, perhaps the last physical remembrance of his father he has left.

(this is a rushed wip I’m working on. Unhinged, drunk Celebrimbor is my favorite)

friendly reminder to kiss your war crminal husband nose.

ultra super duper fast doodle that i will probs delete soon

A bunch of old Silmarillion frames👍

1- Ambarussa

2- Maglor

3- Caranthir

4- Celegorm

5- Curufin

6- Maedhros

7- Fingon and Mae