#just cause.

"Well it worked, did it not?" Lord Celebrimbor's tone has a kind of laughing cheerfulness that Arondir thinks would be irresistibly warm if not for the hoarseness of it. The rough, cracked, irritation of a throat that has spent hours weeping. Or screaming. His robes are stained with blood, his right hand is wrapped in a rusty brown cloth. Arondir studies with narrowed eyes. Commander Elrond stumbles sideways to the corner and slides to the ground, hands running upwards to grip at his hair. "It worked," Lord Celebrimbor repeats. He's shuddering. "It worked- after everything, he is arrogant enough for Fëonorian Oaths-"

"You could have been killed!"

"No. Needs me. Needs me and - cannot- cannot hurt you, or Elrond or- I'm sorry, I don't know your name." Ignoring High King Gil-galad's instructions to keep still, Lord Celebrimbor has turned his head. He is looking at Arondir with a faint air of polite chagrin. Like a host afraid he has neglected a guest.

"Arondir," Arondir supplies, and Lord Celebrimbopr opens his mouth as though to speak-

He coughs up blood. His eyes widen and he turns his head more sharply, spitting on the ground-

(Bronwyn, fine one moment- laughing, even, and the laughter becomes coughing and then her hand is stained red-)

"Get the gown off him, my King, we need to assess the extent of his injuries-" Arondir finds himself speaking, finds himself moving.