( iii. ) ( a. ) [ celebrimbor's seen very little of skyhold since his arrival, and that's due to the state in which he'd arrived. he'd been whisked off to the surgery immediately, and he's been recovering since, kept in a private, quiet space, where his trauma can't disrupt anyone else's rest. when he'd been well enough--and even in his state, he'd physically recovered quickly--he'd been brought books and tales, teaching him of this new world. he'd begun to learn to use his hands again, to walk with his new limitations. his determination is impressive, he's been told, but the truth of it is that he's angry. his rage is so great that at times he wonders that his body can contain it. he will live, in spite of sauron and all he'd done, all his lies. he will live, and he will work every moment to repair the damage he'd done by trusting-- by trusting that creature.
his first day given the run of skyhold has been an exercise in patience-- for his changed body, for the limits of his current endurance, for his healer that seeks him out through the day to be certain he isn't straining himself--
he'd promised no further than the gardens--for now--and so there he sits on a stone bench, aching from head to foot and yet grateful for the open air and the relative peace. his clothing masks the worst of the damage (long, laced sleeves, robes that hide the brace on his knee, a high collar), but there's no masking his hair, shorn to his chin, or his maimed hands and ears, or the patch over his missing eye.
it's hard not to notice him, between the injuries and his foreign look. and once one sees him, it becomes quite apparent that he's paying surprising attention to the conversations going on in the gardens, single silver eye intent as he watches. --new, certainly, but is that his only reason for such close attention..? ]
( b. ) [ the library had taken a few days for him to attempt. stairs are his bane, and there are many staircases in skyhold. even so, it had been worth the effort, and now he sits at one of the tables, cane hooked over his chair and books spread around him. he has a great deal still to learn, and one of the junior archivists has been kind enough to retrieve books and paper and writing supplies for him. he suspects pity, which he hates, but she's very young and very kind, so he can't bring himself to feel bitter.
at some point, he'd found himself sketching instead, in part to give his eye a rest from words, and in part to exercise his hands. the lines begin shakily, but grow with confidence over the course of several sheets, until he has to set the pen aside and, too, give his hands a rest. they're beginning to cramp badly, and he sits back in his chair to dig his thumb into one of the worst of the pains, trying to convince the muscle to loosen.
somewhere, someone cracks a window, and the following breeze sweeps through the aisles, catching a few of his papers and sending them sweeping off the table and practically into someone else's face before celebrimbor has the time to so much as utter a warning. --he reaches for his cane as he struggles to push himself to his feet, eye wide and apologetic in his face. ]
Forgive me, I should have weighed them down.
( wildcard. ) [ prompt me or lmk if you want a different prompt! ]
celebrimbor ( tolkien ) rifter
( a. )
[ celebrimbor's seen very little of skyhold since his arrival, and that's due to the state in which he'd arrived. he'd been whisked off to the surgery immediately, and he's been recovering since, kept in a private, quiet space, where his trauma can't disrupt anyone else's rest. when he'd been well enough--and even in his state, he'd physically recovered quickly--he'd been brought books and tales, teaching him of this new world. he'd begun to learn to use his hands again, to walk with his new limitations. his determination is impressive, he's been told, but the truth of it is that he's angry. his rage is so great that at times he wonders that his body can contain it. he will live, in spite of sauron and all he'd done, all his lies. he will live, and he will work every moment to repair the damage he'd done by trusting-- by trusting that creature.
his first day given the run of skyhold has been an exercise in patience-- for his changed body, for the limits of his current endurance, for his healer that seeks him out through the day to be certain he isn't straining himself--
he'd promised no further than the gardens--for now--and so there he sits on a stone bench, aching from head to foot and yet grateful for the open air and the relative peace. his clothing masks the worst of the damage (long, laced sleeves, robes that hide the brace on his knee, a high collar), but there's no masking his hair, shorn to his chin, or his maimed hands and ears, or the patch over his missing eye.
it's hard not to notice him, between the injuries and his foreign look. and once one sees him, it becomes quite apparent that he's paying surprising attention to the conversations going on in the gardens, single silver eye intent as he watches. --new, certainly, but is that his only reason for such close attention..? ]
( b. )
[ the library had taken a few days for him to attempt. stairs are his bane, and there are many staircases in skyhold. even so, it had been worth the effort, and now he sits at one of the tables, cane hooked over his chair and books spread around him. he has a great deal still to learn, and one of the junior archivists has been kind enough to retrieve books and paper and writing supplies for him. he suspects pity, which he hates, but she's very young and very kind, so he can't bring himself to feel bitter.
at some point, he'd found himself sketching instead, in part to give his eye a rest from words, and in part to exercise his hands. the lines begin shakily, but grow with confidence over the course of several sheets, until he has to set the pen aside and, too, give his hands a rest. they're beginning to cramp badly, and he sits back in his chair to dig his thumb into one of the worst of the pains, trying to convince the muscle to loosen.
somewhere, someone cracks a window, and the following breeze sweeps through the aisles, catching a few of his papers and sending them sweeping off the table and practically into someone else's face before celebrimbor has the time to so much as utter a warning. --he reaches for his cane as he struggles to push himself to his feet, eye wide and apologetic in his face. ]
Forgive me, I should have weighed them down.
( wildcard. )
[ prompt me or lmk if you want a different prompt! ]