*reads the pinch at the corners of your eyes, the anguish tightly reined in—and for a heartbeat is thrown all the way back to Imladris, to Celebrían's rescue, and the long nights of a family's agony after (it hurts so much, Erestor)* (*and he can only think that your despair must be rooted in Glorfindel's suffering, and the long days of stagnancy and helplessness after (but these things always take time)*)
*on impulse, reaches out and clasps both of your shoulders, pressing firmly in emphasis* *and you don't know it, but he is echoing what he told Elrond all those millenia ago* *gently, but firmly still* Don't cut yourself off. You don't have to talk to me. You don't have to talk now. But don't cut yourself off.