Yes, I am a very horrible person, putting off everything else for this. This. Welcome to the butchering of Tolkien's characters by my hands. Er, fingers. Disturbing concepts. Lunatics (Elrond). And to top it all off, trauma. It's particularly depressing, but since my senses are considerably dulled, I can't tell my writing from depressing and horrible. It might be both.

Warning!: This story does not have a happy ending.

So 'good' news. It's just like my depressing short stories. Needless to say, it's most likely uncanonical. And doesn't fit in with the Tolkien-verse. So let's call it A/U.

...I would say enjoy, but I'm not sure that's possible with this one.

Disclaimer (forgot to put it the first time, sorry): I do not own anything recognizable as a part of Tolkien's brilliant masterpiece. :)

Chiaroscuro - (1)

'If you are going through hell, keep going.' –Sir Winston Churchill

main genres: insanity/drama/angst/tragedy (and some romance - if it can be considered that)

Drowning.

Or was he dreaming?

This horrible, gut-wrenching feeling.

Drowning, drowning, drowning.

He could feel his fingers bathing in the blood of his enemies, his loved ones, his own red—and all he could see was the darkness. The darkness, creeping upon them all like a cloud of toxin, rimmed red and bursting from the belly as it threatened to rain.

The face of a monster had appeared before him, and he had stepped back, expecting solid ground in a land of shadow. Instead, he sunk. He sunk into the ground, and the monster stared down at him, a malicious twist of the mouth appearing on his face.

It was his face.

He was quite sure he was drowning now, because there could be no other explanation to the walls of water coming up around him, enveloping him gently.

No dream could replicate such agony, the feeling of his diaphragm locking, precious air escaping his lips in a soft gasp—and he was even surer that he was sinking into a murky abyss with nothing to hold onto but the slimy particles of sand slipping through his blood-stained fingers. He didn't know what was beyond the abyss, what was inside, and he didn't want to find out, but he saw nothing to grip onto because he could see nothing at all, and everything was happening so slowly and he was dying so quickly…

The blood was still on his fingers, and he tried to examine them, bringing them up to his face and narrowing his eyes.

Why were they still stained with blood?

War was like drowning. The waters started to spin until red slowly crept along the dark blue, mingling and swallowing.

Swallowing…

Sauron's mouth.

Red…

"Lord Elrond, how did he die?"

Hurrying along an enclosed hallway, hoping to avoid the eyes of anyone who would see him, and then…caught. A stiff reply. "Honourably."

How did he die?

In red.

Elrond was faintly aware of a suffocating grasp on his wrist, pulling him, dragging him. And then, the sound of water relinquishing him from its hold. He had really been drowning. His mind reacted frantically, but his body did nothing, allowing itself to be dragged.

"You idiot," a voice hissed.

His knees hit something hard, wooden, and he collapsed onto the floor, shuddering and coughing. He blinked the waters out of his eyes as someone stood next to him, motionless. The robes the Elf wore were pristine white, hemmed with gold. Elrond closed his eyes, immediately recognizing the person beside him.

When he stopped coughing, he was dragged upwards into a standing position by the arm, and a towel was placed in his hands.

"Dry yourself," Glorfindel ordered coldly, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression was furious.

Elrond looked at Glorfindel coolly, wiping the water from his face and tying it around his waist. "Why did you come? There was no reason to—"

An almost incredulous, but even more so irate, expression appeared on Glorfindel's face as he took Elrond by the arm again and led him out of the baths. Next time, he would have someone supervise Elrond, be it Erestor or another councilor. Everyone they passed in the stone-tiled walkway had a right mind to make room for the awkward duo, as it hadn't been the first time a similar situation presented itself. Glorfindel looked livid. Elrond, on the other hand, looked calm and collected, with a wry countenance.

"Are you taking me to see Gil-galad?" Elrond inquired composedly.

Glorfindel did not dignify that query with an answer. Whenever Elrond asked this question, he knew never to respond to it specifically. Instead, he said patiently, "I am taking you to a healer."

Elrond laughed, almost delightedly as if someone had left a gift on his desk for him to open. "Glor, I am a healer. Why would you need to take me to one when I can heal myself?"

"Not just any healer," Glorfindel replied. "Mithrandir. I am taking you to see Mithrandir."

"You are taking me to see Mithrandir," Elrond reiterated pleasantly, and Glorfindel could feel Elrond tensing. He stopped and pulled his wrist sharply from Glorfindel's grasp. "I have no reason to see him. And so, I will not go to him."

He was making this difficult for Glorfindel. "And if I accompany you?"

"Why," Elrond said mildly, "that would only make it worse. I require no company."

Clad in only a towel, Elrond numbly gathered all of his dignity and moved around Glorfindel, treading down the hallway. Glorfindel simply stood there, the hand that had pulled Elrond along now resting on the weathered hilt of his sword. He gazed after Elrond quietly, and the passersby in the vestibule quickly glanced away, continuing on with whatever mindless thing they had been occupied with earlier. Glorfindel allowed himself another moment to watch Elrond descend the stairs into the entrance hall before he went the opposite way, a sigh on his lips.

Elrond continued down the hall wordlessly, his lips pressed tight together as he ignored the world around him. Many people cast him curious glances as he walked past them, some Hobbits, some Dwarves, some Men, and Elves. He slicked back the hair from his forehead calmly, arriving at his study without disturbance. He stood there for a while, gazing blankly at the door. Placing his palm against the wood, Elrond leaned against it, inclining his ear towards it, as if there were something within to eavesdrop on.

Rustling was heard behind the door. Elrond opened it slowly, and when he caught sight of a dark sapphire robe, a wry smile appeared on his face.

"Erestor," he greeted casually, ignoring the astonished look Erestor gave him. "What brings you to my study?"

"What brings you, half-naked and attired in a bath sheet, to your study?" Erestor replied. "I am come to deliver a letter of particular importance—or so the messenger claims—to you. It has the seal of the Lady on it."

"The Lady?" Elrond inclined his head to the side and took the letter Erestor extended to him. He recognized the seal and made a face. "What does she want now?" he asked, annoyed.

"You would find out if you open the letter," Erestor replied with a smirk. "I must take my leave to assist the mortal woman whose presence you requested yesterday."

Elrond glanced to Erestor. "Adelurui?" His lips pulled into a displeased frown. "What troubles ail her?"

"She wishes to leave Imladris."

Abruptly, Elrond threw the letter onto the disordered desk and clutched his hand. "Why? Why would she…" His eyes unfocused. "Why would she want to leave? There is nothing beyond the borders of Imladris for her, short of death!"

"Have you grown attached to this woman as well?" Erestor asked tolerantly. "Or is it because she will die young that you seem to prefer her over the company of an Elf-lady?"

The implication of an Elf-lady nearly suffocated Elrond, and he frantically retrieved the letter from the desk and tearing open the seal, unfolding the creased paper. His eyes searched the paper for some sort of confirmation that this was some sort of a joke, albeit unamusing and stodgy. "She is coming. She and her husband are coming to Imladris. That infuriating woman."

"And her daughter," the counselor added. "The messenger arrived and said they would be here by approximately tomorrow.

"Daughter," Elrond repeated flatly, placing the useless letter back on the desk. He went over to the large cabinet doors and took a robe from the hanger, draping it around his shoulders. He pulled breeches on as well before he turned back to face Erestor. His eyes wavered towards the letter again. "She and Celeborn have a daughter."

Shifting slightly, Erestor stated her name. Elrond must have misheard.

"C…Celebrindal?"

"No, Elrond, Celebrían. Celebrían."

"Your grandmother's epessë was Celebrindal. She had a habit of walking around barefoot—quite a bit like your brother, Elros. She was extremely swift on foot," Eärendil said softly, placing his hand on Elrond's forehead. His other hand tickled Elros' feet. "When you two grow up, I know you will be fast runners…" A gentle frown appeared on his face. "You will need to run."

"Run," Elrond whispered softly.

"Pardon?"

Elrond shook his head. "Nothing. It is nothing." He straightened his back and stood still for a while, staring vacantly at the wall opposite him. Then, he finally smiled and turned to Erestor. "It is never anything. I am sorry for keeping you here."

Feeling Erestor's worried and odd glance, Elrond dismissed him quietly and sat down at his desk. He positioned himself ramrod straight, as if holding a serious audience with someone before him. His lips parted, and he exhaled quietly, bowing his head down and his gaze flickering over to the letter again. 'Coming to visit you' and 'delighted to see you again' were inexistent in the letter. Instead, it was cold formality put to paper that Galadriel addressed him with. 'We will be coming here to hold business with you.' How to say it? Their relationship was rocky, and he could never tell what she was thinking, though she could possibly see right into his mind.

"Mithrandir, you can come out now," he finally said, after growing weary of the silence.

A small laugh, rough and gravelly, came from behind Elrond, right at the window. "Ah, I can never seem to mask my presence when next to you."

"No, you mask it well; however, there is always a way to tell," Elrond replied. "But what are you doing in my study?"

"Is a visit from an old friend so uncalled-for?"

Elrond let out some sort of a loose laugh, sounding almost choked. "Am I still qualified to be a friend? You have seen my behavior. I am hardly bound to this world by a thread."

"Qualified—immensely so," Gandalf answered, a smile twinkling in his eyes. "You are bound by your soul."

Turning around, Elrond faced Gandalf fully, a dark fire burning in his eyes. "A thread," he repeated. "My soul is but a thread compared to the fabric binding Arda together. If my thread were to be severed, I doubt it would make a momentous variance. Unless…" His grey eyes only seemed to darken, if that were possible for them to dim any further. "Unless I bear that. Is my existence only imperative because of that? Does such a thing weigh as much value as a Silmaril that I must survive to hold it?"

"Elrond, you are not yourself."

"I'm never myself."

Gandalf's expression faded to blank, the smile lost within. "Who are you then?"

"What. What am I," Elrond said flatly. "I don't know what I am. Confused? Sick? Twisted? Is Elrond even here, in this study? You know who I am. Am I Elrond?" He stood, pushing aside his chair roughly. "Who am I, Mithrandir?"

"Until you find out yourself, I'm afraid we will never know." The look in his eyes…condolatory.

Condolatory.

"Yes, yes, let us all wallow in bewilderment," Elrond muttered. He looked up, and his tone was more amiable now. "What brings you here, Mithrandir?"

"Glorfindel requested that I see you, since you would not see me," the wizard explained. Elrond couldn't quite determine the tone in his voice.

"There's nothing wrong with me," he said softly. "It's just only sometimes that I… Just sometimes," he finished lamely.

"Aren't you worried about yourself, Elrond?"

"Seldom. What is there to be worried about?" Nervousness crept into Elrond's voice. Before Gandalf could answer, he continued, responding to his own question, "Everything. Did you know about this, Mithrandir? Did you know?" He waved the letter in his hand around, allowing Gandalf to see it clearly. "Did you ask her to come?"

"She comes for other reasons," Gandalf replied obscurely. "But you may get to know her daughter."

With an ill-disguised contemptuous snort, Elrond turned his head to the side. "Taking into consideration that she may have knowledge of my widespread reputation with women, I honestly disbelieve the possibility. If she chooses to associate with me, it may end in doom."

Gandalf chuckled. "Why, you remind me of Námo. It always ends in doom. Perhaps, if you do not touch her hands, you will not have to witness it."

"Four women in seventy years, all dead. Adelurui is the fifth," Elrond said instead.

"I do not think she will stay."

"Oh, so you heard? Erestor informed me that she wished to depart from Imladris. But if she does not stay, she will depart from Arda."

"You young fool," Gandalf said softly. "Are you still trying to deceive yourself into thinking that what you felt towards them was really love? If it were actually 'love,' you would have long bound yourself to only one of them."

"It's not love; I never tried to deceive myself into thinking it was. Just care. Compassion. That alone may break a person. She will die with care; I will live with nothing."

Sighing, Gandalf took a seat before Elrond. "A rather noble action of yours. However, do you really think you are helping anyone by prolonging their death?"

Elrond's gaze was hard. "They must live until their lives are truly over. I, who am cursed to live, must live until my life is truly over. And maybe—maybe it will never end. But am I simply supposed to stand there and watch someone die when I have the means to decelerate the process? If it were someone you cared about, Mithrandir, what would you do?"

"You are not helping them, Elrond," Gandalf repeated firmly. "If you are to associate yourself closely, to bring them to see a more personal side of you, then expect the pain coupled from both sides because of one's death. Don't you think those women, those that are dead, might have been pained to leave you? Upset because they thought you truly loved them and did not wish to leave you? Stop trying to delude yourself." His eyes glinted with stone. "It is not just about Elros, is it? It is not because they are of the race of Man?"

"No."

"You are masochistic."

A sardonic, deprecating smile appeared on Elrond's lips. "That may be so. But how do you know I am not insane?"

"I do not," Gandalf responded, and the room was silent.