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They send him to Lorien after only two months in Aman.
Elrohir has quietly sabotaged every piece of machinery he can find in bright, white Tirion. All the geared conveyances; the elegant pumps; the fine, articulated wings of the fliers.
It does not matter that they are powered by wind or water or light, graceful and joyful. “They are Sauron’s engines,” he insists, with implacable gravity.
Evidence will not sway him; nor will humor. Elrohir has not laughed since he woke to his mother howling in his mind, splayed on the shocking wires, deep in the mountain.
Celebrían holds Elrohir’s hands with tender understanding as the carriage passes through the Garden gates. She, too, still trembles at times, remembering the fierce clasp of his arms as they climbed out of the belly of the steaming forge; the sudden pain of the freezing air in the Pass; the heart-bruising, blood-red dawn.