[ to be frank, he remembers very little of his first days here. he knows that this is neither the halls nor valinor, he's been told that he arrived by 'train'--which he's come to realize means a thunderous contraption that moves at great speed--and he knows.. that he'd died. he's certain of that. he's already had the panic attack (several, actually) about it, and about the days (weeks, months? longer? one loses track of time in sauron's gracious care.) leading up to it. he's still in a great deal of pain, of course. the physicians and healers had done their best with what was left of him, and that's more than he might have expected, given what was done to him.
he's heard that there are others here-- family, even. he hasn't contacted them, though, at least in part out of shame. instead, the moment he'd been able to leave, he'd done so, dressing in donated clothing, leaning heavily on a cane. his attending healer had been against it, but.. celebrimbor'd had enough of prisons, no matter how caring his jailers.
it's a barely recognizable figure, then, that limps into view of the cafe. hair shorn and barely curling beneath the lobes of his ears, bandages around most of his visible skin, and clearly missing two fingers from his left hand and one from the right, he's clearly been through hell. and if the physical signs weren't enough, well, probably the way he flinches at loud noises and shies away from contact is telling all on its own.
he freezes on the sidewalk when he notes a familiar figure, though, visible eye--the other hidden beneath bandages--widening in stunned disbelief. it's not possible. ]
You-- [ his voice trembles, and he looks a moment from crumpling on the spot. ] .. Atar..?
cracks knuckles
he's heard that there are others here-- family, even. he hasn't contacted them, though, at least in part out of shame. instead, the moment he'd been able to leave, he'd done so, dressing in donated clothing, leaning heavily on a cane. his attending healer had been against it, but.. celebrimbor'd had enough of prisons, no matter how caring his jailers.
it's a barely recognizable figure, then, that limps into view of the cafe. hair shorn and barely curling beneath the lobes of his ears, bandages around most of his visible skin, and clearly missing two fingers from his left hand and one from the right, he's clearly been through hell. and if the physical signs weren't enough, well, probably the way he flinches at loud noises and shies away from contact is telling all on its own.
he freezes on the sidewalk when he notes a familiar figure, though, visible eye--the other hidden beneath bandages--widening in stunned disbelief. it's not possible. ]
You-- [ his voice trembles, and he looks a moment from crumpling on the spot. ] .. Atar..?