"Breathe."

Fingers carding through dark brown hair.

"Breathe," and deep shuddering gasps as shoulders shake.

"Breathe. Don't think, just breathe." A quiet sob into a green-clad shoulder. "Breathe."

An arm wrapped around his shoulders, fingertips rubbing soothing circles over his back. Low, tuneless humming. The smell of mint.

Another sob. Aching chest, stinging eyes.

"Elrond." A soft voice near his temple. "Elrond, you aren't breathing. Breathe."

A whimper. He hates how pathetic he sounds. "Erestor?" A child's voice, small and uncertain.

"I'm here." Soft. Understanding. "It's okay, Elrond," and it's not okay, it hasn't been okay since the day of the attack and it'll never be okay ever again, "it's okay, I'm here, I'm not going anywhere."

He wants - he doesn't know what he wants. Celebrían back. Celebrían healed. Celebrían never hurt at all. His sons not consumed with anger and grief and hate, his daughter not locked in her room and silent. His sons, his daughter, with no reason to be. To get up off of his chief advisor's floor. To stay right here in Erestor's arms forever. To sleep. To remember. To forget.

Another sob. He thinks he's running out of tears.

Another. No, he'll never run out. Is that good or bad?

"Go to sleep," hands holding him steady, "go to sleep, Elrond." Erestor pulls him closer. "You're safe, I've got you," and that's all it takes for Elrond's eyes to flutter shut, his breath to even.

For the first time since the attack, Elrond's dreams are calm.