Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings/The Silmarillion and all things there related to do not belong to me. All rights to the Tolkien Estate.

Time frame: Siege of Imladris: between 1356 and 1409 of the Third Age.

A/N: For the first time, I bring to you a something written by me as a college student (so exciting, amIright?) I do apologize for the lengthy silence from me. Not only was I working up until the day before I left for college, but of course I was also moving, settling in, and starting class. Enough of that though.

I hope you enjoy the story. I will warn you now, some of this is a bit vague, so for the time being you're going to have to fill in some things by yourself (though ultimately I do intend to incorporate the underlying idea/plot into something much longer). Still though, as I said, I hope you enjoy!

Note: I noticed that the link on the email was broken (for some reason). So I took down the original and reuploaded the chapter again. Sorry for the double email, and any confusion.

~Out of Darkness~

A growl of frustration slipped between Elrond's lips. He shut his eyes tightly, blocking out the letters and words swimming on the page before him, and forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath. One hand – the hand not still holding his quill – drifted to his forehead and he massaged his temples briefly, though it was painfully clear that he had long ago lost the battle to thwart the headache throbbing behind his eyes.

He had been studying this text for what he suspected was now three days. The hours, mornings, and nights had long since all blurred together, his only marker of time the plates of food that would seemingly magically appear on his desk, and the soft glow of the fire as it was lit near evenfall. Every so often he would stand to stretch, but he could only force himself to pace once or twice around his study before he found himself in his desk chair once more, his attention focused on the dark words scrawled in darker ink across the old and tattered parchment.

There were answers here – answers to questions they did not even know they had, but would lead either to victory, or to ruin. He knew it with cold certainty. Just as he knew, with equal parts dread, horror, and justification, that if he did not soon find the answers he sought, the Witch-king would overrun their defenses and boil into Rivendell, leaving only bloody snow and rotting corpses in his wake.

Warm hands on his shoulders and neck jolted Elrond out of his dark thoughts, and he started. He twisted sharply, heart leaping into his throat as all of his instincts clamored at once – some to flee, some to fight, and still others to do neither. He froze, silver eyes wide and entire body taught as a bowstring, even as his gaze fell upon the slight, silver-haired woman standing behind him.

For an instant, all was still and silent, as if time had been turned to stone. The two regarded each other – one with concern, the other with confusion and alarm. But then the startlement and the traces of fear in Elrond's eyes began to bleed away, leaving behind only raw exhaustion and the first glimmer of relief.

Celebrían, her ice-blue eyes still stamped with worry, cupped Elrond's cheek. "You need to rest, Beloved," she said softly, her quiet voice heavy in the stillness of the drawn study.

Elrond shook his head, though the gesture seemed almost more of an instinctive reaction than a true response. But then his mouth twisted into a dark grimace, and he turned his head away from Celebrían. "Unfortunately," he said, both a sigh and a growl mixed into his tone, "I fear I do not have the luxury of rest at the moment. I must-"

Celebrían cut him off. "You will be worthless to us if you are unable to even stand, regardless of whether you find the accursed answers you keep speaking of." It seemed that her voice was sharper than she had meant, for when she continued, her tone was much gentler. "Elrond," she said, and her hand went to Elrond's chin, forcing his head up so she could look at him, "there is too much darkness in your heart right now – too much exhaustion and despair. You need to rest, in order to regain your strength."

Elrond, who had met Celebrían's eyes as she spoke, looked down. He was trembling, he noticed an instant later with a strange sense of detachment, as if the body that was sitting, shaking and aching, was not his own. He blinked once, slowly, and his roaming eyes fell once more upon the parchment.

"But…" he began weakly, the driving sense of urgency – the need to find the answers he sought – crippling his heart like a thorn.

"You cannot even see straight," Celebrían pointed out softly, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

She was right, and Elrond knew it. The words were already beginning to swim before him once more, and as he lifted his eyes, he found that he could not make out whether there was one latch or two on the door to his study. He shook his head, trying to settle his vision…but to no avail.

"You will work better once you have rested," Celebrían prompted. "Please, Meleth," she begged.

And she had him.

Elrond's shoulders slumped very suddenly, and his head bowed. His trembling intensified, as he at last released the iron shackles of will that had bound his strength, keeping him functioning over the past three days. His breathing sounded labored, as if it rasped in his throat.

Celebrían reached down and took his hand. His skin jumped at the contact, and for an instant Celebrían thought he was going to flinch away. But then his hand tightened around hers, clutching to her as a drowning man will clutch to a lifeline.

"Come, Love," Celebrían said softly, soothingly. "Leave this darkness, at least for a time. Walk with me back into the light. Put away the dark thoughts and darker words."

And then Elrond allowed Celebrían to pull him from his chair and, leaning heavily upon her for support, let her guide him from the darkness of the stifling room.