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It takes a little more than a month for Celebrimbor to crack.
Annatar (or rather, the being who even now is tempted to think of himself as Annatar when Celebrimbor is around) has, up until this point, instructed the interrogators to leave the prisoner's hands alone. He has never laid a hand on Celebrimbor himself, except with intent to comfort; presenting oneself as a saviour and friend is by far the most effective way to get information when that's what one wants. And anyway—they are still friends, or else they will be again, once this is done. So Annatar has had his hands left alone.
But it has been a month now. Celebrimbor has come close to telling him—so close—multiple times. And each time he backs out at the last moment. It's frustrating (it's not like Annatar enjoys seeing him in such a pitiful state) and worse: Annatar has, truth be told, begun to think his friend simply won't be persuaded. Celebrimbor loves to make things, loves to enact his will on the world. One of many ways in which they are alike. If taking his hands apart doesn't do it, nothing will, and in that case there would be no point keeping them intact anyway.
By the time he sweeps into the cell, they've already wrestled Celebrimbor into the chair and tied him there, to make it easier for them to do their work. Not that it will have been such a struggle—they told him the prisoner has been getting weaker all the time, which is consistent with his own observations. Celebrimbor's eyes widen, apprehensive. Annatar has never been here for this part before. He's given them very precise instructions, this time, and wants to ensure they don't get any of them wrong. For all his poor elf knows, though, Annatar might be here to finally step in and begin handling things himself.
The interrogators look at him, waiting for confirmation. He looks at Celebrimbor instead. As usual, he looks bad: bruises, lacerations, gauntness. Sleeplessness. Terror. Celebrimbor locks eyes with him immediately, of course, pleading silently. It irritates him when Celebrimbor does this; one would think, if he were so desperate, he would just tell Annatar what he wants to know and be done with it.
Annatar tosses the interrogators a cool glance: Well? What do you wait for? They take the cue and begin.
The first finger-bone snaps and Celebrimbor screams. His voice cracks, seeming almost to shred; that, the thing calling himself Annatar thinks, is what comes of shrieking with an already damaged throat. It is a scream as much of shock as it is of pain—he had had no warning. Maybe, after so many hours and still not one injury towards his hands, he came to think they simply were not allowed to do it; that his onetime collaborator wouldn't countenance it. That is what comes of making assumptions.
There is, forthwith, a pause.
Celebrimbor runs out of air quickly and cuts himself off, almost retching for breath. The interrogators step back; it's part of their instructions. Start with the smallest finger of the left hand. Break each bone individually. Pause a little while between them—give him time to feel it. Do it cleanly. If I find a single one of those bones shattered, I will act accordingly. Celebrimbor begins to sob, hard and soundless, his shoulders shaking.
Annatar folds his arms.
The interrogators are on his middle finger when Celebrimbor calls out, voice hoarse and cracking, "Annatar—Annatar, please—it hurts—"
It's not as though he doesn't feel pity for his friend, doesn't want to take care of him: he lets that sympathy and regret fill his face and colour his voice. "I know, Tyelpe. I want this to stop, too. But in the end, it's your choice. Not mine."
He does not really think Celebrimbor will tell him, not at this point, which is quite disappointing. He almost isn't paying attention when the interrogators break another phalange and Celebrimbor makes a noise less like a scream and more like a choked wheeze. But then he gasps, "Galadriel!"—and, well. Annatar is certainly paying attention now.
He unfolds his arms and approaches, taking care to be gentle. Celebrimbor watches him, frozen; the interrogators back away. Bending down so they can be eye-to-eye, he gentles his voice as much as he's able, and says: "Galadriel?"
Celebrimbor is crying again, but he manages, "Galadriel—Gil-Galad—and Círdan. Please, please…"
Galadriel. Gil-Galad. Círdan.
"All of you out," he says, in the Speech he made. "And get me supplies from the infirmary—" He rattles off a quick list, gauze and antiseptic and salve and small splints and other such things. They go without delay. When he turns his gaze back to Celebrimbor, his friend (his friend—what a relief that he can call him that and it can be really true again, now!) has bitten his lip. It's bleeding yet again; every time Annatar has visited him here before, it has been bleeding, and he supposes he knows the precise cause now.
It takes barely a thought to undo the bindings that keep him still on the chair. As they spring loose, he cups Celebrimbor's face in his hands, mindful of the bruising. The elf sobs, and Annatar feels a wave of affection wash over him, like a dam breaking. His poor Tyelpe—so stubborn and wilful! So hurt. In a fit of sentimentality, he wraps his arms around Celebrimbor and pulls him close. And after all, why not? Can he not be sentimental for a moment, now that he knows he need not lose his friend? Celebrimbor makes a small, miserable noise; Annatar sighs. "I know, sweetness," he murmurs, and presses a kiss to Celebrimbor's forehead. "I know. It's alright now. I have you. It's alright."
As Annatar puts the splints and bandages for his fingers in place, as he bandanges and swabs and fixes, Celebrimbor continues to sob. He thinks there has been a change in the timbre of them, though: no longer sobs of pain, but sobs of relief. It's a satisfying change, all things considered. Annatar talks to him the entire time, keeping up a steady murmur of soothing inanities that are all, nevertheless, true. Hush. It's alright. You'll be alright. I have you. I know it hurts. You can rest now. It's all over.
Something strange happens when he says the last one, though. Celebrimbor starts, suddenly fearful again, and says, "Ah. No."
Annatar (who does not think he will soon grow tired of that name, now that he can give Celebrimbor gifts again) looks at him, a little perplexed. "No?" He prompts, making sure to telegraph gentle bewilderment in his tone. He doesn't want Celebrimbor to think he's angry; he really isn't, not anymore. As far as he's concerned, it's all one between them now.
"No." Celebrimbor is distressed. "No, no, no, no…" He dissolves into wordless weeping again.
Annatar just hums and continues his work, carefully disinfecting a nasty-looking gash on Celebrimbor's chest. If his poor friend doesn't want to elaborate, there's no need to make him, and anyway loss of certain faculties of speech can happen with the right stressors. He's seen it before, in other subjects; usually temporary. Almost anything lost can be recovered, or else remade. He has not broken Celebrimbor; he knows what it looks like when someone has gone beyond repair, and this isn't that. And if there is something that has snapped, some hairline fracture on a level deeper than flesh, well—they have all the time in the world for Annatar to fix it.
And it is satisfying work, to fix Celebrimbor, to ensure his injuries heal. He has always loved fixing things. There's something satisfying about it—if one does things a certain way, one can simply reorder the world, like tapping an unruly set of papers into neatness or polishing a jewel. He could do more, he knows. With his Ring, he could heal Celebrimbor to completeness near-instantly. But he thinks that if Celebrimbor were to regain full use of his legs too soon, he might try and run, and that simply could not be borne.
Celebrimbor cries all the while. At a certain point he stops sobbing, but tears still slide down his cheeks. He lets his head loll, resting it on the back of the chair. Annatar can feel his stare, exhausted and still hurting. So, once he's done, he carefully takes hold of Celebrimbor and lifts him off the chair, bringing him down to the ground; the better to hold him. He tenses, but doesn't squirm or struggle—and once Annatar has him properly arranged in his arms, Celebrimbor even relaxes into it. He hooks the fingers of his uninjured hand into Annatar's robes and holds tight. That makes him smile, satisfied and therefore tender. He has one hand placed at the base of Celebrimbor's neck, and he uses it to seek out and dull a good few of Celebrimbor's pain receptors, all the most problematic ones; the elf makes an inarticulate sound of relief, eyes fluttering shut.
"There now," he murmurs. "Is that not better?"
Celebrimbor says nothing, though the tears continue to slide down his face for a long while.
After Celebrimbor has finally finished crying, Annatar stands up, lifting his friend with him. Celebrimbor is light even by mortal standards, much lighter than he should be. They (by which he mostly means himself) will have to do something about that as soon as possible.
Celebrimbor is, if not completely asleep, then at least dozing. Annatar talks to him anyway. "Well, now," he says softly. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable, hm?" His own quarters are the most likely candidate, he thinks. He can watch his friend more closely from there—and somebody should make use of that bed.
A mortal would be unable to hear what Celebrimbor says in response. Annatar hadn't been expecting an answer at all; he has to strain to hear it.
"No," Celebrimbor mumbles. His words are slurred and his voice hoarse. "Oh no. No, no, no."