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Could I request how Glorfindel, Celebrimbor, and Elrond would react to a reader who had magical healing powers kind of like Rapunzel on Tangled? Sorry if this one sounds too weird. Thank you!

How would Glorfindel, Celebrimbor, and Elrond react to a reader who possesses magical healing powers similar to Rapunzel in Tangled?

The you the reader’s long as (your own hair colour) but turns golden and glows when you sing a special song, releasing healing magic that can heal wounds, cure sickness, and even restore life. Their magic, known as “Healing Magic” or “Sun Magic,” is connected to the power of the sun and can even reverse aging.

☀️𝓖𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓵

The battle had raged for hours under a darkened sky, the sun hidden behind clouds thick with smoke and ash. Glorfindel had been at the forefront, leading his warriors with a brilliance that seemed to defy the shadow encroaching upon the land. His golden hair, shining even amidst the chaos, was a beacon of hope to those who fought beside him and a target for the foul creatures of darkness. The enemy had come in waves—hordes of orcs, snarling wargs, and even a towering beast that seemed to echo the malice of the ancient balrogs. Glorfindel faced them with unmatched courage, his sword flashing like a streak of sunlight cutting through the gloom. He moved with a grace and precision that belied the sheer brutality of the battle, each swing of his blade felling multiple foes.

He had drawn the attention of the monstrous beast early on—a hulking creature of shadow and flame, its body riddled with jagged spikes and its eyes burning like molten coals. The creature had been relentless, its roars shaking the battlefield as it charged toward Glorfindel. He had stood his ground, the fire in his heart matching the fire in the beast’s eyes. “Hold the line!” Glorfindel had called to his warriors, his voice carrying above the din of clashing steel and dying cries. “Do not falter! Do not fear!” His words had steeled their resolve, but the monster was a foe unlike any other. As it bore down on him, Glorfindel met it head-on, his sword cutting into its hide with precision. Yet for every wound he dealt, the beast retaliated with savage ferocity. Its claws raked the ground, sending up sprays of dirt and rock. Its tail lashed out like a whip, and Glorfindel barely managed to evade the blow, his reflexes saving him from a potentially fatal strike.

The battle between the two was a dance of light and shadow, strength against strength. Glorfindel drove his blade into the creature’s flank, and it howled in pain, but not before its massive arm swung down with devastating force. The blow sent Glorfindel hurtling backward, his armor denting as he crashed into the ground. He rose quickly, ignoring the sharp pain that radiated through his ribs, and charged again, his blade singing as it cleaved through the air. Finally, with one well-placed strike, Glorfindel severed one of the creature’s arms, its blackened blood spilling onto the scorched earth. The beast screamed in fury, thrashing wildly, but Glorfindel pressed his advantage. He leapt onto its back, driving his sword deep into the base of its neck. The creature convulsed, its death throes shaking the ground, but not before it retaliated with a final, desperate strike. Its clawed hand came down, raking across Glorfindel’s side. The jagged talons tore through his armor and flesh, leaving a gaping wound just above his ribs. The force of the blow flung him off the beast, and he landed hard against a jagged boulder.

Dazed and bleeding, Glorfindel barely registered the monstrous creature collapsing in its death throes, its fiery light flickering out. Around him, his warriors rallied, inspired by his victory over the beast, but Glorfindel himself could no longer rise. He slumped against the boulder, his strength ebbing away with each passing moment. The pain in his side was sharp and unrelenting, blood pouring from the wound in a steady stream. His vision blurred, the edges of the world fading to shadow. He had given everything to ensure his people’s victory, but now he felt the cold grip of death closing in. As his breathing grew shallow, his thoughts turned to you. He did not know why—perhaps it was the comfort of your voice, your light, or the way you had always reminded him of hope. He clung to that thought as darkness began to claim him, the sounds of the battlefield growing distant. Unbeknownst to him, you were already searching for him, your heart aching with a desperate urgency as you moved through the wreckage of the battlefield. And though Glorfindel’s strength waned, a flicker of hope remained, faint as a dying ember, but enough to hold on just a little longer.

The battlefield was a grim expanse of ruin. The ground, scorched and blackened, bore the remains of the fierce battle: shattered swords, broken shields, and the lifeless forms of orcs sprawled in grotesque piles. Smoke curled into the dusky sky, carrying with it the acrid stench of death. You staggered through the devastation, heart pounding, eyes scanning desperately for the one you sought. Glorfindel. Where was he? Your breath caught when you finally saw him—a golden light dimmed amidst the carnage. He was slumped against a jagged boulder, his once-radiant hair now matted with blood and dirt. His golden armor, dented and smeared with ash, bore the marks of a fierce battle. But it was the wound above his ribs, a jagged, gaping tear, that seized your heart in terror. Blood poured from it in rhythmic waves, pooling at his side. “Glorfindel!” you cried, your voice cracking with desperation as you rushed toward him. Your heart thundered in your chest, each step heavier than the last, the battlefield stretching before you like an unforgiving sea of carnage. You stumbled, tripping over the debris scattered across the ground, but nothing could stop you from reaching him. When your eyes found his bloodied form, crumpled against the jagged boulder, a wave of terror hit you like a physical blow. He stirred faintly at your voice, his golden hair matted with blood, and his face—once filled with a strength that could command armies—was now pale and drawn, a shadow of its usual brilliance. The vibrant blue of his gaze, so often like the clearest sky, was now clouded and dull, a reflection of the anguish he bore.

“Glorfindel…” you whispered again, your voice barely a breath, as you knelt beside him. He blinked, as though struggling to focus on you, the pain written clearly across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, a ragged whisper, “You… shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous.” You felt your heart break at his words, the finality in his tone. But there was no hesitation in you, no thought of leaving him to the cold embrace of death. “I’m not leaving you,” you replied fiercely, your voice stronger than you felt, a stubborn defiance that surged within you like a lifeline. You dropped to your knees beside him, hands trembling as you reached for him, desperate to touch him, to feel his warmth. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling in irregular intervals. Every shallow intake of air seemed to cost him more than the last. Blood, dark and thick, soaked his side where the wound had torn through his armor. His once-mighty sword lay shattered at his side, a grim reminder of the battle that had almost claimed him. You saw the faint twitch of his hand, weak and uncoordinated, reaching out as though he still wished to protect himself, to rise against whatever enemy threatened him. But the motion was feeble, his strength draining away with every passing second. Your fingers trembled as you reached for his bloodied cheek, brushing away a streak of crimson, your heart breaking as you felt the coldness of his skin beneath your touch. “Hold on, Glorfindel,” you whispered urgently, a desperate plea buried in the words, though it was more of a promise. “I’ll fix this. I’ll save you.”

His lips parted, perhaps to protest, to tell you again that it was hopeless, but no words came. His chest heaved with effort, the blood pooling at his side staining the ground beneath him. His body seemed to sag further against the boulder, his strength crumbling like the very battlefield that surrounded him. A deep, suffocating fear gripped your chest. The thought of losing him here, in this moment, was unbearable. You couldn’t lose him—not like this. Not after everything he had fought for, not after all the sacrifices made. You could feel the weight of the battle pressing down on you, the cries of fallen warriors, the distant rumble of the still-unfolding war, but in that moment, there was only him—his pain, his breath, the stillness between you both. You leaned closer, your heart thundering as you pressed your forehead gently against his. His breath was shallow, but it was steady—barely. And you held onto that, onto him, with everything you had.

A fierce resolve overtook you. The battle raged on around you, the cries of the wounded and the clash of weapons filling the air, but none of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was him. You glanced around the battlefield in desperation, searching for anything that might help him, but the wreckage was overwhelming. Nothing was within reach. Medical supplies were too far away, and time—time was slipping through your fingers like grains of sand, each second slipping further away, each breath of his weaker than the last. There was only one choice left. It was the only thing you could do now—the only thing you had ever heard whispered in the stories. Your gift. The light you carried within you, the power that was both a blessing and a burden. You had never dared to use it like this, not in such dire circumstances, but you could feel its stirring deep within your chest, as though it knew what was at stake.

Taking a deep breath, you reached for a strand of your own hair. Your hair, a deep shade of midnight black with glints of silver that seemed to shimmer faintly even in the dull light of the battlefield. It felt as though it remembered the light of a time long past, a time before darkness had settled across the lands. As you pulled a section free, the strands seemed to catch the light, glistening like threads of the stars themselves. Without hesitation, you pressed it to his wound. The blood soaked into your hair immediately, dark crimson staining the silvery strands, but you didn’t flinch. You didn’t care. Nothing mattered except saving him, pulling him back from the brink of death. Your fingers trembled, but you held steady, gathering your strength as you closed your eyes. The song came to you unbidden, a melody you had known since childhood, a song of old magic, of healing, of the light that flowed from you.

“Flower, gleam and glow, Let your power shine. Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt, Change the Fates’ design. Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine. What once was mine.”

The words spilled from your lips, soft at first, trembling with uncertainty, but as you sang, something inside you shifted. The more you poured your heart into it, the clearer the melody became. It rose in strength and clarity, echoing across the battlefield, cutting through the heavy silence that hung over the scene like a fog. The song was a lifeline. A cry for him, for life, for hope. The air seemed to shimmer with the power of your voice, wrapping itself around Glorfindel, pulling him back from the abyss. His head lolled weakly to the side, his breath shallow and faint. His eyes fluttered closed once more, the exhaustion and pain too much for him to bear. Yet, as your song reached him, the warmth of it washed over him, pulling him back from the edge of darkness. His breath steadied, his pulse slowing, and for a fleeting moment, there was peace in the chaotic world around him.

The light from your hair, soft at first, began to grow brighter, blooming with a life of its own. It pulsed with a rhythm, an ancient pulse, as though the light was drawing from deep within you, from the heart of the very stars themselves. The golden glow wrapped around his wound, weaving itself into the jagged tear in his side. It was as though the very fibers of his flesh were being gently coaxed back into place. Slowly, the wound began to knit itself together. The ragged edges smoothed, and the deep crimson of the blood was replaced with the warmth of the light. The death that had clung to him—dark, cold, and relentless—was slowly driven away, as if it could not stand in the face of your song. With every note that left your lips, every surge of light that pulsed through him, the wound healed, the life returning to his body, stitch by stitch. The terror that had consumed you ebbed away, replaced by the fragile hope that perhaps you could save him—perhaps you could pull him back from the brink of the grave.

Glorfindel stirred at the sound of your voice, a soft, pained groan escaping his lips. His chest heaved with each shallow breath, and for a moment, his face twisted in agony. But then, as your song continued, the warmth of the light you had summoned wrapped around him, a gentle but persistent force that seemed to slow the chaos inside his body. The erratic rise and fall of his chest steadied, his breathing less labored, as though the very air around him had begun to ease his suffering. His eyes, clouded and distant moments before, fluttered open once again. The piercing blue of his gaze, which had once been full of life and fire, was now dimmed by pain, but still they sought you out. There was something in the way he looked at you—something both desperate and filled with awe—that made your heart tighten.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, he saw you. Your hair, still glowing with the light of your magic, shimmered like liquid gold in the darkness of the battlefield. The light seemed to emanate from you, pulsing gently like the heartbeat of the world itself. It reminded him of the stars, of the Trees, of a time long past, a time when the world had been whole, when the light had been pure and undivided. “This light…” His voice, though hoarse and weakened, was filled with reverence. “It is the light of the Trees… the same as the stars. It feels… like home.” His words barely reached you at first, but the weight of them settled over you like a mantle, heavy with meaning. He was not simply speaking of what you had done, but of something much larger—something ancient and eternal, a connection between the two of you that stretched beyond this moment, beyond this battle. You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. Your tears, which had been threatening to spill from the moment you’d seen him lying there broken and bloodied, finally fell freely down your cheeks. You didn’t wipe them away. Instead, you allowed them to fall, as if they could wash away the fear and pain that had consumed you.

What you saw when you looked at him made your heart race. Color had returned to his cheeks. His breathing was steady now, the horrible wound that had once bled so freely was no longer spilling blood, its jagged edges sealed by the light that still radiated from you. The warmth of his skin had returned, and his pulse was strong under your hand. He was alive, and he was whole again, thanks to you. His trembling hand, weak but determined, lifted from the ground. It hovered for a moment, and then he reached toward you. His fingers brushed against your hair, still glowing as though the sun had found its way into the night. His touch was light, reverent, as if he feared disturbing the miracle that was unfolding between you. “You are a miracle,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a tremor in his voice that betrayed the depth of his gratitude. “A gift to this world… and to me.” The words hung between you, and in them, you could feel the weight of his admiration, his awe. His gaze locked onto yours, unshakable in its depth. There was no fear in his eyes now, no uncertainty. Only gratitude, and something else—something far more vulnerable.

“I owe you my life.” You shook your head, a smile spreading across your tear-streaked face, but there was no joy in it. Only the release of tension, the knowing that you had saved him, and the overwhelming relief that washed over you. “You owe me nothing, Glorfindel,” you murmured softly, your voice barely more than a whisper in the stillness of the moment. “Just… stay with me. That’s all I ask.” His chest rose and fell, and his breathing, still labored but much more controlled, slowed further as his hand found yours. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the coldness that had once lingered in his skin. He covered your hand with his, the tremble in his fingers a reminder of the battle he had fought, the battle he had almost lost. But now, as he looked at you, he seemed resolute, as though this bond between you, forged in the fire of near-death, was unbreakable. “I will,” he promised, his voice soft but steady, despite the lingering exhaustion in his voice. “I will stay, for as long as I can, beside you.”

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a vow. You felt the truth in them, deep within your soul. He would stay, not just because of what you had done for him, but because of the connection between you, the bond that had formed in this moment. And as you looked around, the battlefield—the carnage, the horror, the screams that still echoed in the distance—faded into the background. It didn’t matter anymore. It was just the two of you now, amidst the wreckage of the world, and the light that still pulsed gently from you, wrapping around you both like a shield. In that moment, time seemed to stretch. There was no past, no future—only the present. The light between you both, and the feeling that, somehow, something far greater than a battle had been won here. It was a bond that transcended the world of the living, a connection forged in the light of the stars, in the shared breath of survival. And no matter what came next, that bond would remain, as enduring as the light of the stars themselves.

💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻

The forge was a living entity, its heat and rhythm pulsing in the very air, the crackling fire and the sound of ringing metal filling the stone chambers of Eregion’s smithy. Celebrimbor, ever the perfectionist, stood at his anvil, sweat beading on his brow, his brow furrowed in concentration. The mithril before him glowed a fierce white as he hammered it with steady force, shaping it into the intricate design he had envisioned for days. His movements were fluid, practiced—each strike of the hammer precise, each moment more focused than the last. The world around him seemed to fade as the forge consumed his attention entirely. His thoughts, too, were consumed by the work before him; every detail needed to be just right, every line, every curve of the metal as flawless as the vision he held in his mind. The flames swirled around the smithy, lighting the air with a fierce heat, but it did not bother him. His long years of crafting had trained him to ignore the burn of the forge. His hands, though slightly trembling from the intensity of his work, never faltered. There was no room for weakness. Yet, in his single-minded dedication, he failed to notice the dangerous proximity of the sharp edge of the mithril. It had been a fleeting moment—a miscalculation too small for anyone but the sharpest eye to catch—but it was enough.

As he brought the hammer down one more time, the edge of the glowing metal slipped beneath his forearm, cutting through the skin with a clean slice. For a heartbeat, there was no reaction. No pain, just the realization that the strike had missed its mark. He continued on, moving to adjust the metal, only when the sting began to spread did he finally look down. Blood, bright and stark against the white of the mithril, seeped from the wound, dripping onto the stone floor in slow, steady drops. The sharp pain was almost secondary to the shock that washed over him. It was not the injury that had him concerned, but the feeling of weakness that it brought with it. He grimaced as he lifted his arm, glancing at the cut. It was deep—perhaps too deep to ignore—and yet, he had no time for such things. His mind immediately returned to the work before him, that insatiable desire to finish what he had started, to craft something of worth.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered to himself, the words coming out like a practiced mantra. “Truly, nothing.” His voice, steady but tinged with a faint annoyance, seemed more to reassure himself than anyone else. He wiped the blood from his arm with a slow, deliberate motion, as though he were removing an insignificant speck from his sleeve. But the flow did not stop. The blood continued to pour from the wound, soaking his sleeve, dripping onto the floor in a pool of red. The work needed to be finished, that was all he could think. Yet, with every passing moment, his strength seemed to drain away, the world around him becoming distant and faint. His fingers began to shake slightly, his grip on the hammer faltering. There was no denying it—he was weakening. But it didn’t matter. Not now. The sound of the hammer striking the metal slowed, the clangs growing more muted in his ears. His eyes clouded for a moment, the sharp sting of dizziness creeping in at the edges of his vision. He glanced at his arm once more. Blood still seeped, darkening the stone beneath him. It was then that he heard the door open behind him. Footsteps approached rapidly, the sound of your voice breaking through the fog in his mind.

But there was a strange buzzing in his ears now, a sudden discomfort creeping in. The sight of the blood, the steady trickle pooling on the ground beneath him, sent an odd shiver down his spine. Still, he did nothing. His focus remained on the mithril, on the task that needed finishing. The fire raged on, the hammer fell, and the world outside his forge seemed to fade away. It wasn’t until he heard the familiar sound of your voice—sharp, commanding—that the haze of his concentration was broken. Celebrimbor barely registered your voice as it cut through the haze surrounding him, but the urgency in it jolted him out of his single-minded reverie. His focus had been so consumed by the forge, by the hammer in his hand, that everything else had seemed insignificant. But now, as you rushed to his side, the reality of his injury set in, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. His arm, still dripping with blood, had become the center of his awareness. It was a burning, sharp pain now, and he could feel the weakness creeping through his body like a creeping tide. The forge no longer seemed as important as it had moments ago. His grip on the hammer faltered once again.

You stood in the doorway for just a heartbeat, taking in the scene—the pools of blood collecting on the stone floor, the pale color of his face, the shaking hand he was trying to steady. Your heart clenched in your chest. It was only then that you noticed the dimming of his usual light, the way his posture slumped just slightly, his strength ebbing away. “Celebrimbor! Sit down—now!” you commanded, rushing forward without a second thought. His stubbornness would not win this time. His amber eyes flickered toward you, but he made no move to comply, instead waving you off with a half-hearted gesture, his voice weak and dismissive. “It’s nothing, truly. There is still much to be done—”

“No,” you snapped, firm in your resolve. You moved swiftly to his side, your hands finding his uninjured arm, guiding him to a nearby bench. His muscles resisted the pull for a moment, his pride making him hesitate, but you were too quick. You helped him sit, your voice gentle yet commanding. “You are not doing anything more until I’ve seen to this.” His eyes met yours with that familiar mix of pride and reluctance, yet the deep furrow in his brow betrayed the discomfort he could no longer ignore. As you knelt before him, your heart pounded in your chest, but there was no hesitation in your hands. With a quiet, steady motion, you placed Celebrimbor’s bloodied arm carefully in your lap, your fingers lightly brushing against his skin. The sensation was immediate: his skin, pale from blood loss, felt heavy in your grasp, the warmth of his body seeping into you. The blood that stained his forearm was a stark contrast to the paleness, and your breath caught as you took in the severity of the injury. The gash was deep—too deep to be ignored, and the blood kept flowing despite the distraction of the forge’s heat and the constant hum of the fire.

His expression, always so controlled, now wavered between pride and silent discomfort, but he remained steadfast, refusing to acknowledge the toll the injury had taken on him. He had borne it so stoically, even as his strength drained. But now, with his arm cradled in your lap, he could no longer avoid the truth: the wound was too serious to ignore any longer. You could feel the weakness seeping from him, and it made your resolve harden. Swallowing the rising tide of concern that threatened to overwhelm you, you pushed the fear aside, focusing on the task ahead. This had gone on long enough. His life was more important than his pride, more important than the work that still lay unfinished at his anvil. You would not allow him to lose any more of his strength, not when you could help. With gentle hands, you began to lift your hair, your fingers instinctively twining it around his wound. Your hair, which had always been of a deep, earthy shade, began to shift in hue, responding to the energy that pulsed within you. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to glow with a soft golden light, the strands shimmering with warmth. The golden glow seemed to pulse with each breath you took, each note of the healing song you began to hum. The moment the light appeared, it spread outward like sunlight filtering through the canopy of trees. The glow intensified, slowly creeping up his arm as your hair flowed around the gash. The sensation was like a soft breeze, gentle but insistent, and the heat of the forge seemed to retreat before it. You closed your eyes for a brief moment, gathering the energy within you, feeling the pull of the magic rise and coil in your chest. You began to sing, your voice soft, but every word of the melody carrying a power that resonated deep in the chamber.

“Flower, gleam and glow. Let your power shine. Make the clock reverse. Bring back what once was mine. Heal what has been hurt. Change the Fates’ design. Save what has been lost. Bring back what once was mine. What once was mine…”

Your voice was steady, carrying each note like a delicate thread of power, winding through the air, threading through the forge’s heat and noise. The golden light of your hair flared brighter with each line of the song, as if your very soul was calling upon the magic that coursed through you, unraveling the injury. The air around you seemed to hum, and as you sang, you felt the light seep into the gash. Celebrimbor’s breath caught at the sensation—the warmth of it, the gentle pull as the wound began to knit itself back together. His muscles relaxed, his posture straightening slightly as the pain, the weakness, the overwhelming dizziness that had been consuming him faded in the face of the power you wielded. It was a soothing energy, as though the very fabric of time and fate were unraveling, returning things to their proper place. The blood, which had been spilling out in slow, steady drips, began to retreat, as though the wound itself had forgotten its purpose. The skin, raw and torn, began to smooth out, the edges drawing together with delicate precision, the fibers weaving themselves back into place. The deep cut closed slowly, as if under the pull of an invisible thread, each layer of tissue, each torn vein gently weaving itself back to its original form. With every note you sang, the wound became smaller, the gap between flesh closing with a soft sigh, as if the body itself was yielding to your magic. The golden light seemed to cascade around his arm, weaving into the skin and leaving no trace of the injury behind. The warmth of your power radiated outward, filling the room, and in the air around you, the faint smell of blooming flowers seemed to mix with the crisp scent of the forge. As the last notes of the song fell from your lips, the wound was gone entirely. No trace of it remained. His skin was smooth and unblemished, as though it had never been marred by the sharp edge of mithril. You let out a quiet breath, the golden light beginning to fade from your hair as the magic settled, a soft and satisfied hum of energy still humming through your fingertips.

Celebrimbor’s breath hitched as the warmth of your healing magic settled over him. At first, it was faint—a gentle pull, like a distant breeze against his skin. Then the sensation grew stronger, spreading through him with a comfort he hadn’t realized he needed. He felt it more than saw it, the shift in his body, the deep gash on his forearm starting to pull together as though time itself had taken pity on him. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the wound, watching in stunned silence as the blood ceased to flow, as the skin he had torn in his own ignorance began to close. It was slow at first—an almost imperceptible change—but then, with a subtle yet undeniable force, the wound began to heal in front of his very eyes. He felt it, too—the tension in his arm releasing, the strength returning as the flesh knitted itself back together. The sensation was surreal, unlike any healing he had ever known. It was as if the very fabric of reality bent to your will, undoing the injury with such ease it seemed like a dream.

But it wasn’t just the healing that struck him. It was the power behind it, the power that you wielded with such grace. There was no violence in it, no struggle. It was delicate and precise, a mastery that far surpassed even the most intricate designs he had crafted in his own smithy. It was the kind of power that was as quiet as it was awe-inspiring, like a force of nature woven into being with every note you sang. As the last tendrils of light faded from your hair, Celebrimbor tested his arm, flexing it slowly, almost cautiously at first. His fingers twitched, his hand extending fully as if he were reacquainting himself with the sensation of strength. He expected some lingering ache, some remnant of the injury to persist—but there was nothing. The wound had vanished completely, leaving no scar, no trace of what had once been there. It was as though the injury had never existed at all. He inhaled sharply, a quiet gasp of awe escaping him as he flexed his arm again, feeling the full range of motion return to him. There was nothing—no mark, no weakness. It was as if his body had forgotten the pain entirely, as if it had never been hurt.

“This…” His voice was soft, reverent, as he spoke to you for the first time in this way—without the usual stoic calm or the sharp edge of arrogance. “This is no ordinary healing.” He looked down at his arm once more, running his fingers over the smooth, unblemished skin, still unable to fully believe it. His voice dropped a little lower, tinged with awe. “It’s as though you’ve turned back time itself, undoing what should have left its mark.” His amber eyes shifted to meet yours, and the intensity of his gaze made something inside you flutter. There was something more than gratitude there—something deeper, more profound. He was humbled by what you had done, and for the first time, it wasn’t just the perfection of the work that stood before him, but something more vulnerable. “Your power… It’s a gift unlike anything I have ever seen,” he murmured. “A creation far beyond anything I could forge.”

Celebrimbor’s voice faltered slightly, the usual confidence of the lord of Eregion giving way to a rare humility. He swallowed, his throat tight, but the words came out with sincere weight. “Thank you,” he said, quieter than before, the words heavy with a reverence that went beyond the mere healing of his body. “I… I didn’t know such power existed.” There was a pause, a stillness between the two of you, as his gaze softened, almost as if he were seeing you for the first time. The walls of pride and stoicism that had always separated him from others seemed to crumble in the face of your care and the magic you had shared. You felt it—the silent gratitude that filled the space between you. Your heart stirred with something that went beyond duty, something deeper and more connected than just the role you had played in this moment. You reached out then, your fingers brushing gently over his uninjured arm, a quiet, reassuring touch that said more than words ever could. It was a gesture of comfort, of solidarity, and as you did, you felt his own quiet relief settle into the air around you. “Rest, Celebrimbor,” you said, your voice a calm counterpoint to the storm of emotions swirling between the two of you. “The forge will still be there when you’re well. You can finish your work later.”

Celebrimbor nodded slowly, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. The stubborn, determined smith who had so often placed his craft above all else seemed to pause in this moment, allowing himself to yield to something softer, more human. His usual defiance had softened into something more gentle, more understanding. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he was not the master smith, nor the lord of Eregion. He was simply Celebrimbor—grateful, humbled, and moved by the quiet strength you had offered him when he had nothing left to give. He met your gaze once more, the intensity of his amber eyes now laced with something new—a silent acknowledgment of your bond, forged not in metal but in something more enduring, more ethereal. “Thank you,” he repeated, this time with more finality, as though the words themselves were a weight he had carried too long, and finally, he could lay them down. His voice softened further. “I will not forget this.” And in that moment, with the forge still burning bright behind him, you knew the connection between the two of you had shifted. It was no longer just the craftsman and the healer. It was something deeper, something beyond the realms of creation and restoration, something that would remain long after the last sparks of the forge had faded.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The sun was beginning its descent over the hills, casting long golden beams across the forest floor. Elrond moved quietly among the trees, his senses alert to the subtle rustling of the leaves and the faint calls of birds in the distance. He had come to the border of Rivendell in search of rare herbs—specifically a plant known for its healing properties, something that would be vital to his work as both a healer and protector of his people. The forest was peaceful, as it usually was, with the scent of pine and earth mingling in the air. The soft crunch of his boots on the path was the only sound to break the stillness. His mind was focused on the task, hands deftly pulling herbs from the soil and tucking them carefully into his satchel. His robes, though elegant, were suited for the task—woven with the practicality that came from years of experience. Despite the peaceful surroundings, Elrond’s instincts remained sharp. He knew that even in the quietest of places, danger could lurk. It was in the midst of his careful work, kneeling beside a patch of delicate, silver-leafed plants, that he first sensed it. A sudden shift in the air, the faintest disturbance that tugged at his heightened senses. His gaze darted upwards, narrowing as his keen ears caught the faintest sound—a rustle, too heavy to be wind.

A crackling sound broke the quiet—branches snapping under heavy boots—and before he could turn, the ambush came. A dozen orcs emerged from the underbrush, weapons drawn and eyes gleaming with malice. Elrond’s instincts kicked in immediately, his body moving before his mind could even fully process the danger. He drew his sword, the hilt cool in his hand as he met the charge with the precision and speed that came from centuries of battle experience. The first orc that lunged at him was met with a swift slash of his blade, cutting through armor and flesh with ease. He spun, parrying another blow and then ducked to avoid a crude axe swinging toward his head. His mind was a whirlwind of strategy and quick decisions, but despite his skill, the odds were against him. Another orc came at him with a heavy club raised high, but Elrond was faster. He sidestepped the attack, sweeping his blade through the air with precision, and the orc crumpled to the ground, its life extinguished in an instant. Another rushed at him from the side, a jagged axe raised above its head, but Elrond parried the strike with ease, spinning to deliver a quick thrust to the orc’s throat. The force of the blow sent the creature sprawling to the ground. His movements were fluid, controlled—his sword a blur as he fought back the onslaught of attackers. The orcs were relentless. Elrond could feel the weight of their numbers pressing in, could hear the angry yells and the crashing of their weapons against his own. He was skilled, faster than they were, and for every orc he felled, two more seemed to appear. His thoughts were sharp, calculating—he knew he had to make this quick before they overwhelmed him. But he hadn’t anticipated how fiercely they would fight. Their numbers were overwhelming, and soon he found himself surrounded.

Orcs swarmed from every angle, and for every one he felled, two more took their place. His sharp elven senses could detect the shift in the air, the smell of their rancid breath, but they were closing in fast. It wasn’t long before a sharp pain struck him—an orc had managed to slip through his defenses and had driven a jagged blade into his side. The world tilted for a moment, and Elrond staggered back, his breath catching. The wound was deep, a gash that tore through his ribs, and blood flowed freely from the injury, soaking his robes. He gritted his teeth against the pain, his mind whirling even as his body screamed at him to stop. But stopping was not an option. He was Elrond, the Lord of Rivendell, and no matter the wound, he would not fall to these creatures. With a forceful grunt, he shifted his weight, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. The orc who had struck him fell with a quick, decisive strike to its neck. He barely had time to process it before another orc lunged, and this time he was ready. Elrond spun, his blade slashing across the creature’s chest, and then he turned, cutting down another. His movements were swift, lethal, but the pain in his side grew worse with each swing. The blood loss was beginning to cloud his thoughts, and his vision swam in and out of focus.

His body was already starting to betray him. The wound was far worse than he had initially realized, and with each passing moment, he grew weaker. Despite the pain, he fought on, cutting down orc after orc, his sword flashing in the dim light of the forest, his movements a testament to the centuries of training and experience he had amassed. But there were too many of them. An orc with a spiked mace swung at him from behind, and though Elrond tried to dodge, the weapon caught him across the back, sending a shockwave of pain through his spine. He let out a sharp cry of pain, staggering forward, and that was all it took for one of the creatures to take advantage of the moment. A sword pierced through the side of his abdomen, the blade sinking deep, its hilt pressing against his ribs. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, Elrond couldn’t move. His body froze, pain wracking through him in waves, and the world around him seemed to blur. He heard the orcs laughing, their victory just within reach, but he couldn’t allow that to happen.

With a primal growl, he forced himself to move again, his sword sweeping through the air in a deadly arc. He struck down the orc that had wounded him, but his legs were growing weaker, the blood loss too much to ignore. The forest was full of bodies now—his and theirs. He had slain many, but not enough. Elrond staggered back, his vision blurring even more. His breaths came shallow and ragged, and he could feel the life draining from him. He fought to stay conscious, but the pain in his side was overwhelming, and the sight before him became a haze of shadowed figures. He felt his knees buckle, the weight of his injuries too much for him to bear. Desperation clawed at his mind as he fought to stay upright, but the ground beneath him seemed to shift and sway as most orcs fleed after the bloodshed of their kins. Finally, he could no longer stand. The sheer exhaustion of the fight, the blood loss, and the overwhelming pain brought him to his knees. He leaned against a boulder for support, gasping for air, the weight of the world pressing down on him. His hand still clutched the hilt of his sword, but his fingers were growing numb, slipping from the handle as the darkness crept in.

The forest was eerily quiet, the air thick with the scent of blood and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Elrond had fought fiercely, but the ambush had been more than he expected. The sharp pain in his abdomen was a constant reminder of how outnumbered he had been. His robe, once pristine, was now soaked in his own blood, the crimson staining his once-elegant attire. Despite the agony gnawing at him, his grip on his sword remained firm, his resolve unshaken. He had slain many of the orcs, their bodies now lying in the scattered chaos of the battlefield, but the damage to his own body was far worse than he had anticipated. He had managed to drag himself to the cover of a boulder, leaning against it for support. The ground beneath him was stained with blood, both his own and that of his fallen enemies. His mind swirled with the haze of pain, but his sharp Elven senses remained alert—just enough to hear the faint crunch of footsteps approaching. His heart gave a slight flutter when he recognized the familiar presence before he even saw them. “Elrond!” Your voice broke through the fog of his pain, the sound of it pulling him back to the present. He turned his head toward you, struggling to focus on your face through the mist of exhaustion. His chest heaved with every breath, and though his vision was blurred, there was no mistaking the concern in your eyes.

Recognition flared in his greyish blue gaze, but he was too weak to hold his usual noble composure. He offered you the faintest of smiles, though it was laced with pain. His mouth was dry, his voice barely a rasp. “They ambushed me,” he said, each word drawing a strained breath from his chest. “I managed to drive them off… most of them, anyway. A few fled…” He winced, his hands pressing harder against the gaping wound on his side. The blood soaked his fingers, slipping through them like water, yet he didn’t release his hold. He had always been stubborn, never willing to show weakness, even now. But you could see through it all. His breathing was shallow, his face pale, his strength waning with each passing second. The sight of him in such a state ignited a fierce need to protect him, even though you knew he would fight against it. You rushed to his side without hesitation, fear pooling in your stomach. You knew he would try to resist, and sure enough, as you knelt beside him, his eyes flickered with the sharpness that usually accompanied his wisdom and strength. “You shouldn’t speak,” you said, your voice shaking but firm. “You’ve lost too much blood.” Elrond grimaced at your words, but there was no way to hide the growing pain from his features. His body, though still so strong, was betraying him. “I’ll be fine,” he protested, his voice barely more than a whisper. His stubbornness flared even in the face of imminent danger. “I’ve had far worse,” he insisted, though the strain in his tone told a different story. “You shouldn’t—”

“Stop arguing,” you cut him off, your voice trembling but resolute. “Let me help you.” He hissed in pain as you gently moved his hands away from the wound. Despite his weakened state, Elrond’s natural instinct was to resist. He attempted to sit up straighter, his muscles tense and his face contorting with the effort. “No,” he managed, but the protest was weak, forced. His resistance made your heart ache, but you weren’t deterred. You placed your hands over his injury, feeling the warmth of his blood against your palms as you carefully applied pressure to stem the flow. The force of the blood was appalling—his injury was severe, and the pressure was more than you could have imagined. Elrond’s breath caught in his throat as he flinched at the touch, his body shuddering with pain. “Mellon nín,” he whispered, the word slipping from his lips without thought, laced with a faint trace of vulnerability he so rarely allowed himself. Despite his obvious suffering, you refused to relent. His stubbornness might have caused him to resist your help, but your resolve was far stronger. You could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to overpower the pain that was steadily draining him. You continued your work, applying more pressure, your hands steady and soothing as best as you could manage.

“Please, Elrond,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper now, your heart aching at the sight of him in such a vulnerable state. “You’re going to be alright.” For a moment, his fierce will faltered. His eyes softened, his breath a little less ragged as he allowed you to help him, though the weight of his pride still lingered in the air. He no longer argued, but the quiet, lingering pain was evident in every sharp breath he took. You could feel his body slowly sinking against you, the last of his strength draining away as you worked to heal him. As you held him, you could feel the weight of his trust—fragile and fleeting in this moment of weakness. Though Elrond was many things, the most powerful and indomitable being in all of Middle-earth, there was no escaping the vulnerability that now clung to him. You would not allow him to face this alone, no matter how much he tried to push you away. You had no idea how long you sat there together, the minutes stretching into what felt like eternity, but you wouldn’t leave him. Not now. Not when he needed you most.

You could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but there was no hesitation. Elrond’s life hung in the balance, and you were determined not to lose him. Carefully, you wrapped strands of your hair—normally (your hair colour), silky, and unassuming—around the jagged wound on his side. The blood seeped through the strands, staining them red, but it was the only way to stop the bleeding long enough for what needed to come next. It was a sacrifice, but the pain was nothing compared to what he had endured. Elrond winced, a sharp breath escaping him as you secured your hair against his injury, but he didn’t resist. His Greyish blue eyes watched you with a mix of admiration and quiet acceptance, his body sagging against the boulder. The pain had taken its toll on him, yet he still carried that glimmer of pride in the way he met your gaze—stubborn, unyielding, even in his moment of weakness. His breath came in shallow gasps, but there was a quiet strength in the way he endured it, even as his life force threatened to ebb away. He had fought so fiercely to protect Rivendell, to protect all of you, and now it was your turn to save him.

Once the hair was securely wrapped, you took a moment to center yourself. You inhaled deeply, steadying your breath, willing your heart to calm. The air around you seemed to pulse with anticipation as the power within you began to stir, the magic that ran through your veins, ancient and full of purpose. You couldn’t help but feel the weight of it—the responsibility of wielding such power, the knowledge that it could be the difference between life and death. But you were ready. You began to sing, the first notes soft and barely audible, yet they carried the weight of centuries of knowledge and power. “Flower, gleam and glow…” Your voice was low, but clear, and as the words left your lips, something changed. A soft golden light began to pulse in your hair, at first faint, then growing brighter with every word. The strands of your hair, once dark, shimmered and gleamed, becoming a brilliant gold that seemed to draw the very essence of light into the forest. Elrond’s eyes widened as he watched the glow, his breath catching for a moment. The warmth in the air was palpable now, radiating outward from you like the very sun itself. It wrapped around both of you, filling the air with an almost tangible sense of peace. The dark, shadowed forest was bathed in golden light, the magic swirling around you, washing over Elrond’s injury, soothing it, and slowing the blood that had soaked your hair.

“Let your power shine,” you continued, the melody lilted with power. Each word became a prayer, a plea, not just for him, but for all that you held dear. The golden glow spread across Elrond’s wound, the warmth wrapping around him like a blanket, easing the tension in his body. He inhaled deeply, the sharp pain in his side receding, the frantic pulse of his heart slowing to a steadier rhythm. The gash, so raw and ragged just moments before, seemed to soften under your touch, the flesh beginning to pull itself together, knitting and mending as if the magic were pulling time itself backward, erasing the damage done. His hand, which had been pressed tightly against his injury in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, relaxed slightly. His fingers twitched with the faintest of tremors, but there was a glimmer of relief in his eyes as the glow bathed him. The pain that had been overwhelming him moments before began to fade, replaced by a soothing warmth that spread from the wound out through his entire body. His breath deepened, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting away.

“Make the clock reverse. Bring back what once was mine…” Your voice was stronger now, your heart pouring into each note, the golden light that surrounded you pulsing in time with the rhythm of your song. Elrond’s breath became steadier, the color returning to his face as the injury slowly but surely began to close. You could feel the magic working, could see the visible relief in his posture as the torn flesh mended itself under the influence of your power. His eyes, which had been clouded with pain, were now focused, sharp, and full of something else—something like wonder. His lips parted, as if he were about to speak, but no words came. The glow from your hair brightened, filling the air with warmth, and the last of the blood began to congeal, sealing the wound completely. What had once been torn and open was now smooth, the skin unbroken. The gold in your hair dimmed slightly, the intensity of the glow tapering as the magic settled, its work done. “Save what has been lost… Bring back what once was mine…” The final note lingered in the air, a soft sigh of energy that hummed through the stillness of the forest. Your body felt lighter now, the strain of the magic beginning to subside, but the relief that filled you was overwhelming. You had done it. You had saved him. The golden light slowly faded, leaving you both in the quiet aftermath, the only evidence of the healing a slight shimmer around you.

When the golden light finally faded, leaving only a soft, lingering warmth in the air, you opened your eyes. Elrond was still there, sitting before you, his expression unreadable for a moment as his gaze fell to his now-healed abdomen. His fingers hovered hesitantly over the smooth, unbroken skin, as though he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. The jagged wound that had threatened his life only moments before was completely gone, leaving no trace of the violence it had endured. His hand moved over the area with slow reverence, as if testing the reality of it. You watched him in silence, your heart still racing from the exertion of the healing. The soft glow that still clung to your hair, though faint now, seemed to intensify under his gaze. Your cheeks flushed beneath the weight of his scrutiny. It was a feeling you weren’t entirely used to—being the subject of such intense attention, especially from someone like him. Someone whose presence alone was always powerful, commanding. You had saved him, but now it felt as though he were seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. His voice broke the stillness, low and filled with awe.

Elrond’s eyes met yours, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the faintest smile touched his lips. It was weak, but it held gratitude, something far rarer for him than you ever expected. Slowly, he sat up straighter, the last remnants of pain melting away with each breath he took. His skin still glistened with the healing warmth, the tension in his body ebbing as his strength returned bit by bit. The once fierce exhaustion that had weighed on him now seemed to lift, leaving behind only a quiet, steady relief. “You… you saved me.” His words were soft, almost a whisper, as though speaking them aloud might somehow shatter the moment. His fingers brushed over his abdomen once more, the disbelief in his touch evident. He looked at you, really looked at you now, as if seeing you for the first time, his grey eyes wide with quiet wonder.

There was a weight in the air, thick with the magic that had passed between you, but it wasn’t the kind of weight that pressed down. Instead, it seemed to pull the world into sharper focus—the rustling leaves, the cool breeze, the distant sound of the stream, all of it faded into the background as Elrond’s gaze locked onto you. It was as though, in that moment, nothing else existed but the two of you. Your heart stuttered in your chest as you tried to look away, uncomfortable with the intimacy of his attention, but you couldn’t. You found yourself rooted in place, caught under the gentle force of his unwavering focus. He looked down again at your hair, glowing faintly in the dim light of the forest, its soft golden hue almost ethereal against the dark backdrop of the woods. The way he looked at you, so intently, made you feel exposed, vulnerable. It was as if the very essence of who you were was laid bare under his gaze.

Before you could say anything, Elrond reached out. His movements were slow, measured, as though he wanted to ensure that nothing he did would break the fragile moment between you. His fingers brushed lightly against a stray strand of your glowing hair, pushing it gently behind your ear. The touch was so soft, so delicate, that it made your breath hitch in your throat. It was the first time you had ever felt his touch, and it lingered in the air long after his fingers had left your skin. The weight of it was profound, a silent acknowledgment of something deeper than the healing you had just performed. “Your light…” His voice was reverent, like a prayer whispered in the presence of something sacred. His eyes never left yours, and his hand, after a moment, dropped back to his side, but there was something different about him now. The tension that had once pulled his features tight in pain was gone, replaced by a softness you hadn’t seen before.

“It is unlike anything I have ever seen.” His words seemed to carry a weight, a recognition that whatever you had done for him transcended the simple act of healing. You had done more than save him from death; you had given him something beyond that. “You bring life where there is death, hope where there is despair.” The quiet sincerity in his tone wrapped itself around you, and you couldn’t help but feel the full impact of what he said. It wasn’t just praise—it was an understanding. He had witnessed the miracle of what you had done, not just with his body, but with the way you wielded your power. He understood the cost of it. He understood what you had given. You swallowed, finding your voice at last, but his words hung in the air like a fragile thread connecting you to him. As much as you wanted to respond, to deflect or downplay his praise, you couldn’t. There was too much truth in what he said, and you felt an overwhelming rush of emotion at his words.

His expression softened even further as he straightened, meeting your eyes with a quiet intensity. His gaze was no longer one of the distant, authoritative figure you had known so well. Now, there was something else there—something personal, intimate, and full of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said, and this time, the words were more than just a polite acknowledgment. There was something in the way he said them that made your heart skip, made everything else fade away. “Not just for my life, but for bringing light to a dark moment. I will not forget this kindness.” The weight of his gratitude was enough to leave you breathless. It wasn’t just his thanks, it was the promise in his words—an understanding that this moment, this act, would not be forgotten. The forest around you seemed to hold its breath in that moment, as though the world itself was pausing to bear witness to the exchange between you. You could feel the sincerity in his words settle deeply in your heart, the bond that had been forged in this shared moment of healing and vulnerability. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, both caught in the stillness, in the connection that had formed between you—stronger than any magic, more powerful than any words.

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