Celegorm sat back, all his prior levity gone, looking tense and troubled. He frowned into the space between them, hand falling away from his glass.

We were only banished from Aman as kinslayers. What must they have done, to warrant such punishment...?

The thought is a heavy one, and he exhales slowly. "You have been a commander for fifteen years. Imagine centuries full of that. In maudlin moments, I think our long lives an unpleasant jest played upon us, a cosmic joke at our expense. Imagine living through centuries of war, battles the length of decades, your memory undulled, perfect in the recollection of every face you loved, and every body you pulled from the mire of a battlefield."

He is too haunted, for a moment, for his eyes to see the celebration, to see Eiridan. His perfect features crumple just very subtly, the corners of his eyes and mouth crimping in private pain.

If not a curse, perhaps it was a blessing.