#henlo

Mallachel lets his hair settle back down against his back and considers the effect. He has not exhausted himself welding by hand this time, so the stability is less of a relief and more of a restriction. He has emotions about it, and they cannot be expressed by twisting his spirit, so they try to come out as a physical movement. He doesn't let them, of course, but the impulse is there.

Inconvenient.

Celebrimbor has stepped back, watching him carefully.

"Did it work?"

Mallachel breathes, and the air is just as bright and lightly smoke-scented as it was a minute ago, and he pretends not to care as hard as he can. "Yes," he admits, "I – I am contained."

"Good," says Celebrimbor. He puts his hand in his pocket, and -- the restriction around Mallachel's spirit unwinds. "Now, would you give me your ring-shape for a moment?"

What was the point of that then? "No, I'm-- I'm not tired, we're not finished yet, surely--" Mallachel is babbling. He forces the mouth shut. He doesn't have to change his shape on Celebrimbor's command, and he doesn't want to give up the mobility of this one. He'd rather wear the collar than go in that fucking box.

"Only for a moment, I promise," Celebrimbor says. Mallachel doesn't believe him. "Two minutes at the very longest."

They look at each other for a long moment. Mallachel considers his options. Celebrimbor's hand is still in his pocket. His safety measure. Mallachel wants to kill Celebrimbor, and his shattered mind shies from that urge like an untrained horse; like a coward; like an Incarnate.

Mallachel snarls, both at Celebrimbor and himself, "I'm going to count the seconds, and if it takes more than two minutes before I have legs again then I'll never listen to a word you say ever again."