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He may have already spoken his last words, and had to all but hope that Námo was listening, but his thoughts are his until the end.
My cousin, I can not hold out longer.
My love, I can not stay.
He meets the eyes of the Deceiver before him one last time.
I am sorry, Elrond. I am sorry, Narví.
- - -
His steps stop and he falls behind Gil-galad and Galadriel, who both turn around in concern.
“Elrond?”
His knees give out when he realizes who he just felt die. His hand flies to his chest at the aching sensation of a missing person. He blinks at the hands on his face, wiping away tears he hadn’t even noticed. Gil-galad pulls him close against his chest and he just sinks into his hold and solid heartbeat.
“He’s gone,” he whispers, tears springing back into his eyes when he says it, almost as if it wasn’t real before, and now that he’s said it…
“Who’s gone, Elrond?”
“Celebrimbor,” he whispers, wiping at his tears and trying to choke out the sobs building up in his chest. There’s an almost ear-piercing scream from somewhere else in the camp. “Narví.”
He’s up and moving again, no matter how shaky his legs may be. He finds the dwarven smith on her knees and silently kneels next to her. They both felt it, after all. He hears her sobs taper off as they lean on each other, turning into hiccups.
“Damnit, Khel, I told you not to trust him.”
“We both did. But Þauron has a way of wiggling past a person’s defenses.”
They both sit in silence before Narví speaks again.
“How do you feel about helping me kick Þauron’s ass?”
“I would love to.”