Fruit of the Family Tree by Rocky41_7

Introduction

Thranduil and Maglor arrive at the estate.

The ground had grown terribly uneven; the carriage jounced about as its wheels careened through ruts scored deep into the dirt path from generations of use and absence of care. The coals of the heater had died long ago, and the further they traveled, the less Maglor seemed to speak. The amiable jabber with which he had filled up the many hours since they sailed from Mithlond had died miles back. But at last, after most of the day, he said:

            “How are you feeling?”

            It was an almost clinical question.

            “Well,” Thranduil murmured in response, not tearing his eyes from the bleak, colorless landscape passing by outside. Scrubby, nearly leafless little bushes dotted the roadside here and there, but otherwise very little seemed to grow, and the sky had been the same dull gray since they had secured this carriage and driver three days ago on the outskirts of the Swanhaven. The only building they had passed in the last three hours had been a dilapidated old shack playing home only to a murder of crows.

            “I know it has been a long journey,” Maglor observed. “And under…regrettable circumstances. You’ll be able to rest at the house. We’re almost there.”

            Thranduil said nothing. He could not be termed a great conversationalist himself, and he found Maglor’s demeanor as they neared his ancestral land somewhat worrisome. It was not like Thranduil to be hasty, and it troubled him to think that perhaps Maglor believed they had made a mistake. They had left Greenwood in such a rush; he was almost certain Maglor had skipped customs in Alqualondë entirely.

            “Wretchedly cold in here,” Maglor complained, rapping his knuckles against the window frame of the carriage and nudging the dead heater testily with his toe. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to that. The weather here is ghastly.”

            Thranduil at last turned his eyes from the scenery and, removing his hands from the folds of his cloak, held them out to Maglor, who stared blankly in response. The ring Maglor had given him glinted sharply on Thranduil’s finger: red diamond and gold, an old family heirloom, Maglor had told him.

            “Yes?” he said.

            “Your hands,” Thranduil said. Maglor let go of the walking stick he’d been fiddling with and almost tentatively extended his hands. Thranduil shifted to sit on the edge of his seat and took one of Maglor’s hands between his, gently, finger by finger, easing off his black leather glove. He did the same with the other, laying them both on his lap, then clasped Maglor’s hands between his own, skin on skin, pressing the dim heat of his palms against Maglor’s icy fingers.

            Maglor stared.

            Thranduil stiffened slightly, trying to feel out a misstep.

            “Warmer?” he asked softly, grasping each of Maglor’s hands individually before letting go and returning his gloves.

            “Yes…thank you.” Maglor in his bewilderment tugged his gloves back on and went on staring, before a particularly sharp jerk of the carriage turned his attention to the window. “Ah. There it is.”

            As they rounded a hill Thranduil could see the dark spires looming up as the beast of a house lumbered into view.

            “Formenos,” said Maglor. “I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment.” He did not sound excessively sympathetic about the notion.

            “Why would it be?” Thranduil asked.

            “It’s rather old,” said Maglor.

            “I am sure it is quite well.”

            The carriage creaked and groaned as it was hauled over the clay-heavy soil of the property, the soggy unpaved drive sucking at its wheels. Maglor observed the approach of the house dispassionately, and jumped out as soon as the carriage came to a halt. Almost as a second thought, he offered Thranduil a hand out.

            “My family has lived here since my father’s exile,” Maglor expounded. “Formenos was the house he built to show that nothing would deter him from his greatness. He’s dead now, by the by, though we never did recover a body. You may hear the locals refer to it as Crimson Peak.” Thranduil froze as Maglor withdrew his hand, staring up at the dark house, which seemed to pierce like an arrow shaft the pale, unbroken sky around them.

            “What?” he asked, a hoarse note in his voice. Maglor cast a glance over at him from where he was overseeing the unloading of their luggage.

            “Crimson Peak,” Maglor repeated. “It’s the pejorative nickname the locals have given to this place.”

            “Why do they refer to it so?” Thranduil asked quietly, pulling his cloak a bit tighter around himself as he continued to look up at the warped towers, the dangling eaves, the missing window sills. One window on the left side of the ground floor looked like someone had thrown a brick through it.

            “My grandfather was murdered here,” Maglor replied bluntly. “It was apparently quite the wretched scene, though I never saw it. Mother and Father and Maedhros did, but Mother wouldn’t let anyone else in after she’d seen it. It was a closed casket funeral. Maedhros said—ah, well. Perhaps I shouldn’t say such things, should I?” He chuckled and hitched a smile on his face which he hoped looked genuine. “I wouldn’t wish to give you nightmares your first night in your new home!”

            Thranduil reached for his case, but Maglor waved him off.

            “Nodien will take care of that,” he said. “Let me show you in.” He offered Thranduil his arm and after a brief pause Thranduil took it, and allowed Maglor to lead him through a courtyard bristling with dead vines and untrimmed brown grasses bursting through the stonework, and up to the front doors, easily more than twice as tall as Thranduil himself.

            “Here it is,” Maglor said with manufactured cheer, throwing open one of the oaken double doors into a main hall so shrouded in shadow it was nearly impossible to get a look at it from the front step. Maglor took Thranduil’s hand, intertwining their fingers with a smile and a vice-like grip. “Welcome home, husband mine.”

Chapter End Notes

Hope you're looking forward to everyone having a terrible time <3 <3 If Thranduil's speech sounds slightly more old-fashioned than the others, then I've succeeded...this is meant to reflect the somewhat archaic Iathrin dialect of Sindarin.

On tumblr | On Pillowfort | AO3