1.

Celeborn remembered how merry Elrond had been in his youth.  His losses seemed to teach him the value of joy, rather than embitter him, and that was when Celeborn had first realized that, if the Powers willed it, he would grow into one of the Wise.

Elrond was harder now, though, and sharper, too, like a Nandorin clay knife.  Such tools needed no sharpening over the years, but they were brittle, and if used the wrong way, they could snap.  Was it loss that made him such, or time, or the mortal blood in him?

Or was it his burden?

Celeborn had feared most for Elrond at Celebrían’s passing.  For years afterwards, when he knew Elrond recalled her, he often saw him glance down to the ring on his finger.  What went through his mind then?  Was he grieved to learn that not even the best arts of the Noldor could stop pain?

When Elrond told him, five years later, that he would never take stock in such things again, Celeborn remedied his opinion of his son-by-love.  He was one of the Wise now.

Did Vilya hasten that growth, or delay it?

2.

He left Lothlórien for a year after she refused to take it off at night.  It was not that he did not understand her counsel, or even that he disagreed with it on some level: the Necromancer, whoever he may be, was growing in might, and if his spies did not rest, why should Galadriel?

Yet it still hurt.  When they shared dreams, the woman he met was a pale shadow of her true self, for not all of her could dream.  And if she could no longer share all of herself with him, what was Celeborn to do?

In a dark moment, he wondered whether the Necromancer was his rival, or Celebrimbor.  In a moment darker still, he wondered which answer was worse.

And so he left, but only for a year, and when at last they were reunited and alone, they wept in each other’s arms.

With Nenya, the Lady of Lórien needed nothing to hold winter and shadow alike at bay.

Yet it seemed that Galadriel needed Celeborn even more.