Tada! Chapter two.

Er, happy reading.

Chiaroscuro - (2)

"Every man dies. Not every man really lives."—William Wallace

main genres: insanity/drama/angst/tragedy

Elrond snorted as he regarded Glorfindel's retelling of exactly how Men thought of him.

Rumors flew rapidly around settlements of the humans, and this particular rumor dealt with Elrond's tendency to alter the fate of women he had relationships with. However, the rumor's accusation was more or less the exact antithesis of the truth, even if it was true the women he courted died early—though Elrond supposed rumors nearly held no regard for truth. Almost like a lie. But one could easily see through a lie if he looked hard enough, and it was all too simple for Elrond to see the lies, looking hard or not.

Two voices. The same tone.

'I will come back for you. Stay here.'

'Don't worry; everything will be fine.'

'Yes, he is coming back.'

'You're safe here.'

'I will not hurt you.'

'I took you in, I cared for your wounds, and I never placed a blade at your throat. You can trust me.'

He couldn't quite distinguish who said which until his mind slowly coordinated each lie with its memory. A soft face, tenderly regarding his own as long, calloused fingers brushed aside the hair covering his eyes. It was him, always him, gentle and deceptive as ever. Elrond remembered that face. The face, bloodstained, weary, tired, resigned, and finally horrified.

"We cannot kill children!"

It would have been easier.

"Do they really think that I am the cause of their early deaths?" Elrond asked, a soft smile on his face as Glorfindel rolled his eyes.

"You sound almost proud of the rumor, Elrond. Did you not hear them speak of you? 'He chooses a woman at the prime of her age, and the unfortunate lady is killed or dead within ten years. That half-Elf half-Man brings misfortune to all of the young mortal women in Imladris.' If I am not mistaken, this is nothing short of a straight affront."

Almost appearing entertained, Elrond sat up in his pavilion chair, lacing his fingers together. "And nothing short of self-censure could possibly make me feel affronted. I feel rather wonderful today—not even rumors may touch me." He looked questioning now. "Could it possibly be that you yourself are insulted in my place, Glorfindel? I am honored, though surprised and curious."

Glorfindel denied Elrond's suspicion. "I am nothing of the sort. What bothers me is that it managed to reach my notice, though Elves should not have partaken in spreading such slander."

"It's not so much slander as it is with a grain of the truth," Elrond answered, closing his eyes. "But they are faultless here. My activities are the point of interest for many people here." His expression was almost serene. For that one small moment, Glorfindel could almost believe that Elrond's full stability was returned. He could almost believe that Elrond was sane. And then Elrond opened his eyes, convincing Glorfindel of the contrary. Elrond was not perfectly sane.

"You purposely choose women like them. Why? Why do you insist on having all of these women at your feet?"

"You sound almost like Gandalf," Elrond replied. "Yes, I purposely choose women like them, as you put it. Foresight comes into play here. It's very convenient, if I am seeking someone who dies young. But my reasons are peculiar. They would only sound reasonable to me. For example, if you are one who has lost everything and will continue to lose everything…what would you do? Sit there numbly and take the pain?" His mouth twisted into a smile. "It distracts me."

"That is sick."

"Well, I never claimed to be perfectly sane, did I?" he retorted good-naturedly.

Glorfindel sighed and shook his head, his tone connoting what seemed to be slightly resigned amusement. Or just resignation. "No, and if you did, I would tie you up in the city square in the strings of a corset and proclaim you are lying."

Elrond laughed lightly. "I anticipate no less, actually. To purge me of…my atrocities…you would go to the end of the world."

"Atrocities, no. I would not say they are atrocities. But he asked me to, as I only pledged allegiance to you."

"He."

"Yes."

"Well, he is gone, and his passing landed us on the cusp of the Third Age." Elrond's tone seemed so toneless, emotionless, that it was as if it were some orc report read aloud. Blank. Unfeeling. The friendly voice from earlier vanished into mist.

Glorfindel scrutinized Elrond's expression with doubt. "You don't really believe that."

"Believe what?"

"You don't really believe that you don't feel anything for his death."

"Quite frankly, I feel everything, from the wearing, eroding, and dulling ache in the back of my throat to the sharp twist of the knife in my abdomen." Elrond smiled again. "And besides, what does it matter what I feel and don't feel? All that is important is that I feel it. Because feeling is immensely important to the hröa and the fëa. It's the way they communicate with each other. But, Glor, don't you wish that you felt no pain?" Glorfindel's expression was neutral—no; blank, as if he were trying hard not to respond. "If there was no pain, no communication between the body and the spirit, one could go on forever and ever, fighting, living, staring blankly at walls. Without pain, I could do anything I wanted to. Without pain, I could kill mercilessly, and my spirit would not be consumed by writhing guilt. Unfortunately, I feel pain."

"And do you think, truly, that you could live without pain? Do you want to kill mercilessly and avoid the consequences on your conscience?" Glorfindel asked warily.

"Why, no, to both. No one can live without pain, and undoubtedly no one can live with wrenching culpability. Therefore this theory of mine is incomplete. We could be bearing in mind the loosely defined term of 'pain', as there are different ways to fall apart from the inside—or outside, if you consider bruises, lacerations, and amputation. What is pain? Is it physical? Psychological? There is a broad range of definitions for pain. Certainly, what pain I interpret and what pain you interpret may be different. Or, with luck, be it good or bad, we feel the same pain. But who is to say that psychological pain can constantly be healed? That, I think, is the difference between the two. Communication between the fëa and hröa is a rather peculiar thing. Pain registers in our bodies, and our spirits tell us to stop. Stop. Stop fighting, stop hurting—do whatever it takes to feel better, to feel right again. Whatever it takes." Elrond glanced absentmindedly to the flowers blossoming in his garden. "So what does it take for me…to feel right? I feel wrong. Am wrong."

Glorfindel placed his hand gently atop Elrond's. His meaningful glance, more than words could ever convey, seemed to say, ironically, 'You don't have to do this to yourself. You shouldn't do this to yourself.'

"I can't seem to do anything else," the clogged reply came, and Elrond pulled his hand from Glorfindel's sharply. His strangled tone indicated an abrupt change in the conversation's topic. "The party from Lothlorien should arrive soon," he said quietly, bowing his head. "I hear their footsteps."

"Sharp as ever," Glorfindel noted, without a smile on his face.

Elrond nodded to him, and they both stood as three Elves stepped into the scene, bowing respectfully as Galadriel, Celeborn, and a young Elf-lady came up to them. Immediately, it was as if a match was struck and tension was lit. Elrond and Galadriel locked gazes, staring at each other wordlessly as Glorfindel greeted Celeborn and her daughter. Quietly, Elrond and Glorfindel stepped aside, and the three Elves took their seats in the pavilion. Shyly, the young Elf—Celebrían, wasn't it? her name sent apprehensive tingles up Elrond's spine—took Elrond's hand and consented to being led to her seat. His gaze didn't leave her for a while, shocked at her silver hair. Though it was signature of being Lord Celeborn's daughter, her soft expression reminded him of the people at Sirion.

Running along a sandy path, the wind gently blowing back his hair… He ran into the arms of a silver-haired Elf. Just someone. Not anyone whose name he remembered, but a soft face, tender, caring, loving. He only remembered the face.

"Elrond, what are you doing out here? It's extremely windy today."

"Catching up to Elros," he replied, huffing slightly.

Tersely, Galadriel addressed Elrond. "We come to ask you if we may stay in Rivendell."

"Lothlórien?" Elrond inquired. He imagined the toll this must have had on Galadriel's pride and wanted to smirk at it.

"Amroth," she replied, and that was answer enough.

"Well, you are very welcome to stay," he finally said, immensely enjoying the almost annoyed look behind her calm expression. "Would you prefer separate rooms or to rest in one altogether? If it is the latter, I can have it arranged that you are led to Gil-galad's—" his tone changed to a calmer, more mature tenor, and Galadriel's eyes narrowed slightly at the near-imperceptible frenzy in his voice, "—chambers. Since he is not here and will not be returning…" Elrond trailed off, his expression contorting into something akin to confusion. He turned to Glorfindel with a perplexed, dulled gaze, inclining his head to the side. Glorfindel shook his head. Elrond did not resume finishing his sentence. Instead, he continued on as if he hadn't lost track of his thought. "I hope your stay here is satisfactory."

Galadriel seemed almost…chary of Elrond. She nodded quietly, and another glance passed through them. Celebrían watched carefully, almost fascinated by the interaction between her mother and Elrond. He stood quietly and bowed.

"I must take my leave of your company for now. I will send for someone to guide you to…" His eyes widened, and his voice locked in his throat. What was he saying? He turned around quickly to leave, when Galadriel's voice interrupted the chaotic turmoil in his mind.

"You have changed, Elrond, ever since we lost him."

"I have," Elrond answered blandly. Their eye contact broke before he finished his sentence, ending their exchanged thoughts, leaving the pavilion. But he died. You say it as if we could bring him back. He is not lost, he is dead.

Silently, Glorfindel followed him.

The room was silent. It seemed that Elrond's study was always silent. Glorfindel stood quietly by the desk, facing the window. The light filtering through the glass lit his eyes up even further. Elrond sat in the old chair, closing his eyes and breathing quietly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to twenty.

"I have changed," he muttered. "I have changed?"

"Why sound so incredulous?"

"Ah, you're teasing me." Elrond turned in his chair to look at Glorfindel, who simply offered him a soft smile. He smiled back almost helplessly, as if he couldn't do anything else but smile until his lips split and his mouth splintered. "At least you are willing to… No one else here will look me in the eye besides her and her husband. Am I really so unbalanced, Glorfindel? Do I frighten them? Do I frighten you?"

"Despite what you think, I am incapable of being frightened of you. Do you wish for me to be?"

"No, no," Elrond said all too quickly, shoulders slumping slightly. He rolled the sleeves of his robes up to his elbows and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. "Think of me as you've always thought of me." He raised his head and looked at Glorfindel, and almost unconsciously, he shifted, staring back. "What do you think of me?"

Glorfindel sighed. "Are you playing some sort of game with me, Elrond?"

"A game?" Elrond repeated. "What sort of a game?"

Ignoring Elrond's words, Glorfindel continued. "Is this how you cope? How you try to ignore the pain? As you put it, you can feel everything, from the 'wearing, eroding, and dulling ache in the back of your throat to the sharp twist of the knife in your abdomen.' It distracts you. Everything distracts you. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you get off track, losing your train of thought. You get confused easily whenever someone mentions him. Whenever you yourself mention him. Is it simply because you are incapable with living in pain or incapable of living without it?"

How many times had this room been silent, words leaving their impact and rendering everyone else mute? How many times? Elrond asked himself. He inaudibly stood. His entire life consisted of sitting, standing, staring, separating. He couldn't remember the last time he lied down, feeling safe, and closing his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time someone held him and whispered it would be all right and sincerely meant it. He wanted to forget.

"To them," he said softly. "To them all, to him, to her, to them, that jewel was always first. Always came first. Before children, before adults, before lives. My existence and his existence and their existence were tied to that jewel. Like strands—" Recalling speaking to Gandalf about strands, Elrond laughed to himself darkly, "—in a tapestry, all weaved around a brilliant, gleaming orb of light. Light! If the world had gone dark, it seems all of our lives would be insignificant. I used to live with them, though I doubt you don't already know. They never spoke to me of those blasted things. They convinced me that we were more important, that Elros and I came first to them then. 'I took you in, I cared for your wounds, and I never placed a blade at your throat. You can trust me. I won't leave you.' And what do I say in return to that? What do I say in return to a promise that was supposed to be kept? Yes, Father, I trust you? I believe that you won't leave me? And what will I say—what did I say—when he finally did? When he—they—said to us, 'I will come back for you; stay here.' Please come back. Almost tantamount pleading to someone who has died; please, come back. Open your eyes. Breathe. Except a million times worse." Elrond let out a frustrated cry. "Would that I have a million blades ripping through my throat! I would have healed by then, Glorfindel! I would have healed by then!"

"You would have been dead."

"Healed," Elrond answered adamantly, dully. "I would have long been healed."

"Death is not the road to salvation," Glorfindel told him flatly. "Stop trying to deceive yourself."

"Not so, Glorfindel, not so!" he exclaimed, his voice transcending an octave of hysteria. "For me, it is escape. I wish everything, everyone would not be so colorful, garish, bright! I see everything in color! From the dewy morning grass rooted in the ground to the crimson, glinting blood that flowed from his wounds. I much rather prefer the grey of the Halls of Waiting than the color of life flowing through our veins. It always comes back to light. Light, light, light. Without light, without life, there is no color but grey."

Abruptly, Elrond grasped the hilt of Glorfindel's sword and pulled it from the scabbard hanging at his side.

"You have gone mad."

"Finally!" Elrond laughed. But a hint of faint desperation, a hint of pleading, rang through his tone, as a small clatter of stone setting off a series of echoes in a well. "Finally, someone says it. I have gone mad. Kill me. Kill me!"

The sword clattered to the ground as Glorfindel pushed it aside and held Elrond's wrist firmly in his fingers.

"Save me," he mumbled.

Quietly, Glorfindel relinquished his hold on Elrond. "I am not the Kinslayer you expect me to be," he murmured, the ice in his blue eyes sharper than ever. "I cannot replicate your past experiences. If your 'father' held you at sword-point, even then…I am nothing like them."

A faintly disturbed expression appeared in Elrond's face. "They never…" He stopped short and blinked. "…Of course. My apologies. I should not have expected it of you." He stepped away from Glorfindel, almost shocked, backing away, and avoided looking at the sword. His expression was frantic, as if he were a child, lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces. A lonely crowd, pressing him one step backwards, over and over again, until the heel of his foot reached the putrefying, deteriorating brink of the promontory—of reason.

When Elrond was out of sight, Glorfindel exhaled sharply and knelt down to collect his sword. His legs, however, failed him, and he sunk to the ground on both knees, quickly grasping the side of Elrond's desk to right the balance that returned to him. That gaze, from so long ago. Frightened, horrified, angry. Of himself. Seeming almost like Maeglin.

No, Elrond was not Maeglin.

Elrond became uncomfortably aware of the fact that the rumors were in fact the topic of the week as soon as he stepped into the hallway. He had not expected to see Adelurui, but as soon as he did, he felt a sort of bitter taste in his mouth and quietly walked away, a scowl on his face. Everyone he passed by quickly turned away, and it reminded him too much of yesterday. Unaware of a young Elf-woman's gaze on him, he continued down the hallway to the public baths, and her eyes flickered to the young human woman standing in the hall, shocked.

Concerned, Celebrían looked back to Elrond, but he had already vanished from her sight.

She stepped back into the shadows.