I am a sick excuse of a person who has not updated this story in approximately two months and three days. There is something sincerely wrong with my time-management skills. But I finished this chapter, polished it off a bit, noticed its resemblance to chapter four, and subsequently allowed Palm to meet Face. There's another confrontation in Elrond's office. I honestly did not take notice of this until I had finally finished writing chapter five. Fully. Which was…about an hour ago.

Of course, I do hope you enjoy this chapter. After two months, I hope this meets some of your expectations. (-doesn't want to set high standards for underachieving self)

Chiaroscuro - (5)

"The secret source of humor itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven."—Mark Twain

main genres: insanity/drama/angst/tragedy

With a soft sigh, Elrond walked along the hallways, mind in a soft daze of peonies and daisies. He believed that he'd forgotten almost all about something…yesterday, and that the tug in the back of his mind that bothered him was something insignificant. After all, many things had happened yesterday.

The tug of pain in his wrist—courtesy of yesterday's showdown with Glorfindel—made itself known as he pressed his palm to his face.

Between his fingers, he could see only quarters of people, fragmented limbs, torsos, faces—and he wondered what it would be like to dip them in crimson. Paint them all red. If there was light, there might as well be colors. And what other color than red?

He saw them all.

And beyond the hallway, just a flash of silver caught his eye, and he stiffened.

Everything—all things—passed in a blur. Elrond could hear footsteps, and his legs were surely moving, but what was he doing? The footsteps ringing in his ears obstructed anything else, drowning out sounds of surprise, protest—and even transcending sounds and inhibiting touch. The restraining hand on his shoulder was only a feather resting on his robes. It was not gripping the cloth tightly; fingers were not digging into his skin.

"Get out of my sight," he ordered the minstrel, his voice shaking. Then the fog in his mind cleared. He stared at the retreating, stunned Elf, and grasped for his hand. With apologetic, widened eyes, he mumbled, "I apologize. I do not know what came over me."

As Elrond's hand touched his, Elrond could feel the cool press of metal into his finger and jerked his hand away, turning around and rubbing his neck, head bowed. Shame flooded his features as soon as he realized the minstrel had felt the ring as well.

"Ah, I—I do not blame you, Lord Elrond," the minstrel said from behind him, feeling pity for him…for the entirely wrong reasons. "You must be loaded with many stresses."

I do not blame you, Lord Elrond.

Elrond wondered if anyone would still say that after they were dead, but ignoring that thought, he turned around, forced a genuine smile, and nodded. "My thanks."

When he made to walk away, however, Glorfindel stopped him.

So that was the hand on my shoulder earlier.

A frown appeared on Glorfindel's face. It didn't suit his sunny appearance, and Elrond told him this firmly, raising his hands shakily to push the corners of his mouth upward. He didn't look amused in the slightest, collected Elrond's hands in one—Elrond ignored the sharp pain in his wrist—and pressed his other hand to Elrond's forehead.

"You have a rising fever, Elrond," Glorfindel enlightened him, releasing his hands.

"A fever?" Elrond echoed blankly, dubious. He felt his forehead for himself.

"It usually occurs when you are ill."

"I know that!" Elrond protested. "I am a healer."

Glorfindel finally smiled, shaking his head. But his eyes betrayed his exasperation. "Well, come then. I'll take you to your station and have someone else heal you."

"I am perfectly capable of—"

"Ah, but you aren't," he interjected.

"I am," Elrond insisted.

They stopped their strides in the middle of the hall, and Glorfindel crossed his arms over his chest, gazing at Elrond seriously, trying to find any traces of jest. However, Elrond's attitude was intrinsically completely devoid of humor. Glorfindel sighed. "Prove it then. Heal yourself right now. Heal every single part of you that is tainted with these poisonous thoughts."

Elrond grinned. "Now that is impossible. I am incapable of doing so." And then, his mind caught on a snag. "Poisonous thoughts? I disagree."

"What else can they be called?"

Musing, Elrond tapped his finger against his chin. "Certainly not poisonous, though I'll allow that they are thoughts. And you haven't asked me why I cannot rid myself of them. Surely you would like to know? You were never the person to hold back your curiosity."

"My curiosity to die by fire?" Glorfindel supplied self-deprecatingly, rolling his eyes.

"No, to fall from great heights."

"I take what you mean. A fall from grace. Well, public censure isn't extremely pleasant, so to say." Glorfindel glanced around him, at the passing people in the hallway who caught him staring and smiled, bowing their heads respectfully to both him and Elrond. "The people here are much more accepting."

Elrond sighed. "How much did you love Ecthelion? Idril? Tuor? Turgon?"

"Enough to die."

"Then that is surely enough. You'll never be healed."

The golden-haired Elf shrugged. "I never expected to be. I am already too old to forget what has happened to me. You, on the other hand, are like one possessing a hand with a splinter lodged beneath the skin of your palm. And when that one is successfully removed, you turn your hand over, looking at me complacently, and between your fingers, in your fingers, embedded in the back of your hand, aggregating at your wrist, surrounding like a ring of thorns in your thumb, there are a million more."

"I don't magically produce those splinters by myself."

"Sometimes I wonder."

They stared at each other.

Of course. What seemed to be an amiable conversation was nothing but insults slyly directed at each other.

Elrond closed his eyes and smiled. "I am sorry that you have to remove all of those painstakingly one by one, but why not just leave the splinters there?"

"Is that what you say to assure yourself that you're not going mad?"

Laughter ran through the now-empty hallways. "Look where we are, Glorfindel. Back on the track of poisonous thoughts again? Splinters, thoughts, what are they but the same thing? One is lodged in my hand; the other is lodged in my brain."

Glorfindel snorted. "Splinters lodged in your brain, certainly—look at yourself. You shouted at a minstrel earlier just for having silver hair."

Elrond froze. "How did you know?"

"Did you forget?"

He slowly relaxed his stiff posture and smiled weakly. "I suppose I did."

"As for thoughts, I think they are lodged in your hand." Catching the glint in Elrond's eyes, Glorfindel continued unhurriedly, "Not because of the Ring, but because of your disturbing tendency to reach for a sharp object every time someone has finished discussing with you something that could possibly trigger your memories."

"Cognitive ability is only possible with the mind."

"I don't think your mind recognizes what your hand seeks to do."

"Do you take me for a murdering psychopath?"

Glorfindel tugged him along the hallway again, with a small smile playing on his lips.

"Glorfindel, answer my question, or I swear to the Valar, I'll take your sword and fling it over the balustrade."

He chuckled. "But, Elrond, with you one can never tell."

"Well, even he's declared it—you're sick," Glorfindel said as the healer walked away.

Elrond chuckled. "Yes, I am. Twisted, revolting, mad, insane. Whichever you prefer."

Glorfindel sighed deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with the action. His hair spilled over his white robes. "Do you wish to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Anything."

Suddenly, Elrond reached out—and as Glorfindel made to step back, Elrond grasped him by the front of his robes, fisting his hand at the front of Glorfindel's chest, pulling him back with a rough tug. "Fine then," he said quickly, but faltered. Then he looked up again. "Will you answer my questions?"

Glorfindel, though he felt alarmed, gripped Elrond's wrist with his fingers slackly, fingers overlapping with his. "What questions?"

"Where to start," Elrond murmured. Why am I still alive? Why did I choose to be an Elf? Why am I the only one who won't die? Why did I leave him alone to die? He blanched at the thought, knuckles turning white as his grip on Glorfindel's clothing tightened. I left him to die. I left him to die. I could have joined him. He died in a strange land, with a strange woman and four strange children, and I wasn't even there to see him breathe his last breath.

He felt a tug on his wrist, and the clothing came free, leaving Glorfindel's robes rather wrinkled. "You said you would talk to me about them," Glorfindel reminded him.

Elrond slowly looked up. "Why can I not die?" When Glorfindel didn't respond, appearing uncomprehending—but truthfully, just unsure how to approach the inquiry—he clarified it. "Why do I have to live?"

"Why do you want to die?"

"You're answering my questions with more questions," he accused, leaning back against the cot.

"It's the only way I'll get you off topic about killing yourself."

He snorted. "Everyone else followed the path to their own demise. Why can't I?"

"Should I really discuss these matters with you in a healing house?" Glorfindel asked exasperatedly.

"Why, Glorfindel, it's the best place to discuss them."

The fact that they still continued to have civil conversation was rather remarkable. Had it been anyone else, Elrond would have shot them down immediately with his words. The chance of anyone ever understanding him was slim beyond the thread of a needle.

"Don't withdraw from the conversation at hand, Elrond," said Glorfindel. "We are still 'answering' your questions."

"With questions!"

"Why do you want to die?" he repeated. He grasped Elrond's shoulders and shook him. "Why is death so ideal to you that you prefer it over life?"

"Death is absolute."

"Then all those who want to live…"

"If there was a way," Elrond said calmly, "to give them my life force, I would gladly do so." He grasped Glorfindel's shoulders this time, and pushed him back, staring deep into his eyes. "Don't lie to yourself either, Glorfindel—you don't want to live forever. No one truly wants to live forever." His mouth warped into a faint, eerie smile. "They just don't want to die."

"But you're different from them. Why did you become an Elf in the first place if you detest living? Is that not what Elves do? Endure their lives until their flames exhaust their bodies?"

Elrond couldn't find a response to that. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth but a strangled gasp. His mouth thinned; he tugged at the finger that the Ring sat upon and stared up at the ceiling. Glorfindel waited for Elrond to regain his composure. But the next thing Elrond said threw him completely off balance.

"I touched her hands."

Glorfindel paled. "How could you…"

"I thought you disbelieved those rumors."

"You had no right!"

Elrond was ashen as well, tired and exhausted as he stared Glorfindel full in the eye. "I could not help it. You know I have no control over—"

"She is but a girl, Elrond! With many years to live, and you…how can you even look at her after you've seen it? How can you even…"

Bleakly, he replied, "She is not like them. She is nothing like them."

"Do you love her then? Is that why?"

"Foolish. I am a being who deserves no love."

"How can you be so sure she will fall in love with you?"

"Otherwise I would not have seen it."

"Galadriel will not be happy with you."

Elrond glanced away with a faint smile—or was it a frown?—as if he had his own private joke to enjoy at the expense of everyone else's obliviousness. "Truth be told, Glorfindel, I think she already knows."

"And how far can you see, Elrond? How far?"

Elrond's mouth twisted into a scowl, and he turned back to Glorfindel, clenching his fist tightly, the ring involuntarily constricting on his finger.

Hollowly, he answered, "I see the end."

He was insane.

There really was no other way to go about it, despite Celebrían trying to bring out Elrond's most redeeming characteristics to the forefront of her mind. She sat at the windowsill, pressing her chin into her palm as she gazed out of the glass.

The more she thought about it, the more she was frightened.

He was ruling Imladris in this condition?

"Celebrían," her mother's voice drifted to her. "If you wish to leave, consult Elrond."

Celebrían sat up straight and turned to her mother, eyes wide like a stunned doe. "I-I wasn't…" She ducked her head down, and short locks of silver swung before her eyes as she blushed. "It's not that I…want to leave," she said quietly. "It's just… He's very unfortunate."

Galadriel sat down across from her, folding her spidery pale hands into her lap as she stared straight into her daughter's face. "I will not judge you for your fears or favorites. If you wish to stay, we will stay," her mother counseled softly. "But if your desire is to depart, then we will depart for Lothlorien."

She nodded, biting her lip, and glanced back toward the window again.

And at the worst moment possible, Elrond crossed the courtyard with Glorfindel.

She couldn't stop herself from staring. His face was as white as clean sheets hanging on a clothesline, and the veins in his neck were prominent as he turned back to Glorfindel with some sort of a sharp, angry retort. Glorfindel stopped short, stood there, and gazed after Elrond who walked away, eyes searing onto the path his feet took before him.

"I don't think now is a good time…"

"Before I tell you my decision," Elrond said quietly, a disturbingly amused smile engraved into his lips, "I wish to know if Imladris has somehow fallen short of your standards. Is that why you ask to leave? To avoid the risk of offending me? Lady Celebrían, you could leave at any time if you wished it. I could not stop you, and if it is your wish to—" he abruptly stopped, and took in a sharp breath. Celebrían sat there in the arm chair, masking her stance to flee, helplessly frightened for and of Elrond. He continued, clearing his throat, "—if it is your wish to leave, I would not want to. So why, Lady Celebrían, do you wish to leave?"

"You disturb me," Celebrían murmured, half hoping he would not hear. "You frighten me to no end."

"Is that so?" Elrond asked pleasantly, and his smile contorted maliciously. "Then I will inform you of my verdict." His fingers twitched, and the ring seemed to glow angrily. "You may not leave Imladris."

Shocked, Celebrían remained rooted to her seat. Her mouth opened, and her lips attempted to form words, but nothing came to mind except for a great chasm, expanding with her on one side and Elrond on the other.

Elrond continued. "In fact, you are not permitted to leave until your mother decides to end your stay here. So, my fair lady," this was said with a fair tinge of sarcasm, and Celebrían felt extremely hurt—but then, strangely accepting, "will you go to your mother and ask her to leave? Or will you remain here in my realm?"

Horrified at his malevolent gaze, Celebrían covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes watering with the tears as she attempted to focus on Elrond's expression.

As if almost incredulous, Elrond inquired quietly, "Are you…actually crying?"

Celebrían did not respond to the question and wiped the tears that escaped from her eyes. "Why are you so hurtful?" she asked, her voice small. "Why do you pretend to be so cruel?"

"Pretending to be cruel…?" Elrond regarded Celebrían silently. His fingers tapped against the table in a rapid succession. Then, his mouth thinned. "Do I confuse you?"

"Immensely so," she admitted, sniffing. "You frighten me, confuse me, and fascinate me."

"Fascinate you?" he repeated amusedly. His expression rapidly changed to a more remorseful, regretful one, and he stood, tugging a handkerchief from the pocket of his robes. Cautiously, he approached Celebrían and knelt down beside her, holding the cloth out, fingers gripping it tightly. Then, he gently began to wipe her tears away as he mumbled, "I'm sorry…extremely sorry. I apologize for scaring you, making you cry, and seeming unnecessarily cruel. You may leave Imladris whenever you like. The guards would escort you beyond the Sea, if it is your will."

Surprising them both, Celebrían began to laugh through her tears and held Elrond's hand, dabbing at the places he had overlooked.

"Th-Thank you," she stuttered.

Elrond placed the handkerchief in her hand, and politely, she excused herself from the room. Growing pale, Elrond leaned against the chair, on his knees, and placed his palm over his forehead.

What am I doing? She must not leave Imladris.

Vilya began to sear into his fingers, constricting, scorching—the pain was a white fire, sending his blood up his arm and back to his heart in an inferno of pain.

She must not leave Imladris.

He shut his eyes tightly, nails digging into his finger as he attempted to pry Vilya off.

The damn Ring was—it was—

—the light struck and faded within—

—a conflagration—

And that concludes chapter five of Chiaroscuro.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be off hiding under a rock again, trying to pull my fingers together for the sixth. *bows*