Epilogue - A Fairy Story by Lipstick

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Chapter 2: Troublesome Things

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Troublesome Things

The door slams shut behind me and I hear a lock click. Sweat pricks under my hair. Hold it together, Maitimo I think. They must be trained to notice such things down here. A bad reaction to a locked door, an involuntary shudder at instruments of restraint, all signs of one who has been a guest of such houses before. I can feel every muscle in my body and I command each one to be still.

I have never once in my long life denied my elven nature. It has never been necessary. I have either lived in cultures where beings such as myself are acceptable, and so have been left to do as I will, or I have lived where the very idea of me is unthinkable, and so again have been left pretty much to myself.

People also assume I am, in fact, a very elaborate fake. Particularly since that damned movie came out.

Down here however, the rules of reality are much stricter. What can pass as minor eccentricities of character or curious tricks of DNA in the daylight, all pose troublesome questions here. There is nothing like the appearance of an elf on a locked ward to set the patients progress back by months.

Of course, there already is one elf on this ward. That is why I am here after all.

The nurse introduces me to Dr Stephens. He too is in regular clothing. So we are all in modern dress. It changes nothing. He still has all the power. I still should not be in existence. The psychiatrist certainly catches his breath when he sees me. I am sure he is thinking somewhere along the lines of - oh no not another one.

"I did not realize Maedhros had any family," said the doctor.

"Maedhros?" I say.

"Oh, well that is what we have always called him. He said it a lot. We assumed it was his name."

Now my conscience pricks me. Oh well little brother, I have come to rescue you in the end. It is more than you ever did for me.

"His name is Makalaure," I say quietly. "Kanafinwe Makalaure."

The doctor leads me into a small, untidy office and offers me tea. Hot liquid could be a reasonable weapon if it came to it, I think. I refuse. I do not wish to indulge my more dramatic thoughts.

"If you wouldn't mind," said the doctor, "I have a few questions to ask. It would be very helpful to have some background on your brother's case. He has never been very communicative with us."

"I may have some questions for you, also." I reply.

The doctor ignores me. He pulls down a large blue file from a shelf, opens it and removes a pink edged piece of paper from the front. I cannot see what is written on it, but I do register a lot of question marks and crossings out. He then takes a similar, but empty pink form from a little set of drawers on his desk.

"Cannofinway Mackolawray, " mispronounces Dr Stephens. I spell it out for him. I also point out Kanafinwe is the nearest thing my brother has to a surname. The second pink form duly receives its first scribbling out.

"How old is he?"

"I do not know. We do not count such things."

The doctor gives me a curious look. The last thing he needs is for me to start backing up whatever broken history my brother has managed to give them. One can be discounted as a lunatic. Two and the odds on the tale being true increase fifty per cent.

This man has authorized my brother to be restrained, drugged, Eru only knows what on the basis that tale was a delusion. I do not think he is a cruel man. I also do not think he wants to hear the story is true.

"Where are you from?" He asks. Even though I speak English fluently, I have not lost my obvious Quenya accent. Mixed with the American I have picked up, I sound like Greta Garbo. Or so I have been told.

"Aman." I say. There is no point lying. In a culture where my presence is unacceptable, everyone starts constructing narratives the minute they behold me. If Dr Stephens so wishes, he may construct a perfectly fine narrative about us belonging to a little known ethnic minority. One perhaps where the rules of reality are not so well defined. Shamanic cultures have existed in Siberia and the Eastern Balkans almost to this day, after all.

It is not so very far from the truth. It may be the tale that can free Makalaure.

"Do you know when Makalaure first came to Britain?"

"No." I do not add that I suspect he has never left.

"Did you have much access to Western Culture when you were growing up?"

"No." I choose to elaborate. It may well be helpful. "We had never seen a motor car or a television."

"I see. And you obviously did not speak English."

"No. We spoke Quenya. Or Sindarin, when we had to speak to other tribes. I assume my brother could speak very little English when he was brought here?"

"Do you know, we assumed he was speaking a made up language? We did try to identify it, but none of the translators we brought in had heard anything like it before. So we assumed it was gibberish."

"It is not."

"No," the doctor pauses. As if to reassure himself, he continues. "He was in a terrible state when he was brought in here."

"Really? How long ago was that?"

The doctor looks at the original form. "1993. Ten years ago now. He was brought in from a regional hospital, when it was closed down. Most of the patients were released under Care in the Community. But he was deemed a specialist case, and referred here."

"By the way, you are his younger brother, I take it?"

"No I am the eldest."

The doctor looks confused. Somehow, the mathematics are not adding up. Makalaure has been here ten years, which would put him in his thirties by now, at least. I should by rights be pushing forty. But I am sitting here without a line on my face, looking I guess, not a day older than twenty five. For the first time he looks uneasy. I decide to be kind.

"We age well, us Quendi." I reassure him. "That is what we call ourselves."

As if looking for some stability, the doctor returns to the form. In the ethnic origin section, he ticks a box marked other, then scrawls "Kwendy" beneath it.

***************************************************************

My brother is sitting on an unmade bed chewing on the plastic tag around his wrist. Rather curiously, the bedding is made up on the floor beneath the bed frame. His hair is tangled and unbraided, although still long. He is too thin. Despite the reasonable temperature in the hospital, he is wearing a woolen hat of the shapeless sort rather common these days. It hides the transgressive ears. Maybe that helps keep the worst of trouble away.

"He goes through those tags like Blackpool goes through rock," the doctor said.

It takes him a while to focus on me, but when he does he smiles. I only meant to take his hand, but before I know it I am sitting on the bed beside him, holding him close. Little bag of bones that he is, he still feels so familiar I am almost choked.

I forgot what it was like to hold another Quendi. I was not much in the habit of cuddling even when there were plenty of us around. It feels strange, and not at all unpleasant to be able to sense another spirit in an embrace, even the damaged Fea of Makalaure. I can sense that too, damage done. Maybe that is what it felt like for the few ever privileged enough to hold me.

"Maedhros?" he asks, still unsure if this time I am really here.

"Yes, little filit. I am here. “I pause. Then, even though I am not all together sure if it is the best course of action, I add. "I have come to take you away from here."

He smiles again. Then he looks troubled.

"I knew you would. But is it very dark in Mandos?"

"How should I know? Silly little Kano, what have you done to get yourself stuck in such a place?"

"I do not know." He said slowly. Then, "It sounds so foolish, but do you know all the while I was here, right up until they did that thing with the electric, I thought I was an elf?"

The doctor pricks up his own rounded ears. There is no word in any elven tongue for electric.

Despite my presence, Makalaure has still not been able to put two and two together to make five. I let go of him, but keep my arm around his shoulders. Turning to the doctor, I speak in English once more.

"He said something about electric. Something you did. What was that?"

"Electro-convulsive therapy. I know, the name still frightens a lot of people, but really, it is quite safe. We only ever use it as a last resort, and he has made significant progress since then. We often had to restrain him, he was very violent, and he was harming himself quite badly. If I had known of your existence I would have asked your permission first."

"Did you ask Makalaure's?" I ask.

"Makalaure is detained under section. All his rights are passed on to his next of kin."

"But you told him what you intended to do?"

"Of course."

"How did he take it?"

"Rather badly."

I remember the bird. The poor creature must have been terrified.

I hold on to Makalaure a little tighter. Of course, in the end it must have been easy to give in. To believe exactly what all the kind, concerned people around him had been telling him for so long. It is only a nightmare got out of hand. You are not a murderer, not accursed, you have never so much as seen a Silmaril. You are not well, you have schizophrenia, we can make that better. Irresistible, I can see it now.

And I do believe these people are kind. They are healers after all, and healers have always been held in high respect among us elves. But I also cannot help knowing what I know.

At first, you are proud. You say nothing will make you flinch, nothing will make you scream, and you are foolish, because you have staked your sense of self on something that can so easily be taken from you. Then you scream, you fight, until screaming itself becomes a form of defiance. You scream to let them know you are still there, still yourself. Then one day, you cannot even do that. Then you are truly lost, and you will believe you are anything, whatever you are told to believe you are.

I am so tense I cannot shudder. My shoulders ache.

"Why are you sleeping on the floor?" I ask my brother, to change the subject.

"Because I get nightmares when I sleep on the bed."

I think Makalaure has been having my nightmares again. It would explain his objection to the identity tag. I pull his hand down from his mouth, for he has been distractedly chewing throughout our conversation. I hold his wrist in my lap and smooth it. There are bad scratches on his arm from where he must have clawed at it.

"Come on, "I say.”Let's go. Can you stand?"

He nods, and does so. I stand behind him, holding him around his waist, pushing his shuffling feet forward.

"What are you doing?" said the doctor, also rising.

"We are leaving." I say.

"No," he said. I do not know what I did then. I am sure I only looked at him. My arms never left my brothers waist. But he falls back onto the chair all the same.

I push my brother towards the door of the ward. It is still locked. I reach up with my good hand and pull the hat from my brother's head. I do not know if he has the spirit left in him to do what I need him to. Maybe with two, he will have the strength he needs.

"Come on Makalaure, you can do this."

Makalaure begins to chant. Softly at first, but soon stronger, until the voice sounds more like that of the Kanafinwe I knew. It gives an eerie feeling to the gray ward. The door unclicks loudly, then springs open. We head out, into freedom.

"Wait," calls a voice behind us. "Wait!"

It is the doctor. I ignore him, but he is running and we cannot move so fast.

"Wait, I know what you are!" says the breathless voice behind us.

"No you do not. Maedhros is a who, not a what." I reply, without turning my head.

I feel someone grab my arm from behind. When his hand slides off the end, he screams. That must have been the final straw for his nerves.

"Please," he said, almost begging now.

"What?" I ask angrily. I can feel the heat in my eyes.

"I know. I know I have made a terrible mistake. But please listen to me."

I force myself to calm down and turn to face him, shifting my brother onto my right shoulder. The doctor looks terrified.

"I know, I have made a mistake. I will not try and keep you here. But please. Your brother he, he may not be human, but he is ill. I will stand by that. I saw him when he first came here. He was delusional. He was definitely seeing something that was not there. He hears voices. He has admitted as much. He was very distressed. In the other hospital, where security was not so tight, he tried to."

"It is alright." I say. Poor Makalaure.

"He needs to take medication. I won’t give him any tranquilizers because I do not think he will struggle so much with you. But he does need to keep taking the anti-psychotics. Trust me."

"I do." I say. "Thank you."

The doctor walks away. As good as his word, he returns, not with security, but with two small white boxes.

"He needs to take two tablets, every evening before bed. When they run out, give this letter to any doctor and they will prescribe some more."

I really cannot see two small tablets a night being of much help against the curse of the Noldor. This man seems to think they are important, though. He risked his life to make sure Makalaure had them, and that in itself is a form of magic. The spirit in which they were given may have imbued them with a greater power than their chemical components.

I put the boxes in my coat pocket. They are now rather full.

He was a brave man that doctor. I nod, it is the nearest I can manage to a bow while still supporting Filit. It is all I can think to say.

I hope he does manage to convince himself we were just some very unusually gifted Siberians. When the shock of us has worn off a little.

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We sit on a wall outside the hospital. Yet more pigeons flock at our feet. The little bit of elven magic with the door has all but burnt out my brother.

I too, am too tired for the moment to carry him any further. So we sit and watch the grimy world unfold around us.

We are certainly not your average picture-postcard immortals. Me with my American twang, Makalaure with his psychosis. But we have survived, we may be the only such two who have. All that history can change you in ways one would never expect. And we are still good for a trick or two, aren't we? When the conditions are right.

I know where it is I have to take my brother. I just have no Idea how I am going to get him there. Quite plainly, he cannot move another step. I look up to the sky and it gives me no answers. This is one little filit Lord Manwe has utterly deserted.

"Wait here." I say to my brother, as if he could do anything but. He makes a strange noise when he realizes I am leaving, and I have to shush him a little. He reminds me of Ambarussa, when they were elflings.

I return to the hospital reception and take two plastic glasses from the water cooler there. Nobody questions me, and I offer no explanations. When I am back on the wall, I remove the miniature bottle of champagne from my pocket and pour us both a toast.

"To us and to the future." I say, and drink.

I have to admit, I am a little shaken myself by this afternoon's events, and am rather glad of the alcohol. Makalaure has his nose in the glass, but does not drink.

"It tickles," he said.

"Will you stop acting like one village is missing its idiot and drink!"

He takes an uncertain sip. His eyes widen at having a mouthful of bubbles, but he swallows and looks pleased enough.

"I know, it probably is not wine as you remember it, but it is the best we have now."

"Oh it is wine. Why did you not tell me that before?"

He drinks more confidently this time. I cannot help but wonder exactly how much history Makalaure has missed.

Neither of us have much appetite for the peanuts I am also hoarding. My brother opens the packet and starts throwing them, rather absent -mindedly, at the scrabbling pigeons.

Looking at them, I notice their mangled feet. Like me, most of these birds appear to be amputees. In a moment of solidarity, I throw a few peanuts myself.

We sit and drink champagne and feed the pigeons for quite some time.

After a while, a hooded kid careers down the pavement on a BMX bicycle and scatters them. There is a loud whooshing sound, a flurry of wings and they are gone. I think they drop a few feathers in my lap. I look down.

It was not feathers, but a small purplish piece of paper with a woman's face on it. It is a twenty pound note. In these latter days, the damned must help the damned.

I stand and raise my hand, still grasping the strip of paper, towards the road.

"Taxi!" I call out.

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Chapter End Notes

 

Maglor's ability to open doors by chanting at them first appeared in Finch's "Under the Curse" story.

Maedhros' comments on his own unacceptability are a little borrowed from Sethos' fic, "A Study in Human Weakness" although there it was his sexuality that was at issue. Maedhros has now managed to find himself in an environment where, theoretically at least, he has much greater freedom to do whatever he wishes. Except, of course exist. Some rules relax, others tighten as history unfolds.

Code-switching:
I know I use both Quenya and Sindarin names in this chapter. As I see it, Maedhros is speaking to his brother in Quenya, Maglor is answering in Sindarin. People having conversations in more than one language happens a lot round where I'm from. Maglor is using Sindarin, because somewhere in his jammed brain, he realises he is amongst strangers and Sindarin is therefore the correct language to use, despite the fact no one can understand it.

"Detained under section" is Mental Health jargon. The full expression is "Detained under section three of the mental health act 1987". In other words, Maglor is deemed unwell enough to be locked up against his will.