Fruit of the Family Tree by Rocky41_7

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Chapter V

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Maedhros, in absence of any real staff in the house outside the one caretaker, took on many of the roles which might have been filled with maids and valets, and that included the laundry. Yet somehow, coincidentally, it always seemed to take him three times as long to get to anything of Thranduil’s, and so he had started doing it himself not very long after his arrival.

            But when he meandered towards the side room behind the kitchen where the laundry tub was kept and where most of the laundering took place, he could hear shuffling about that was not merely rats or beetles scurrying about business of their own.

            He slowed down and was able to approach the door silently, a trick he had perfected in childhood for no reason other than his own entertainment (he had then nursed a desire to sneak up on a deer, something he never did achieve to his satisfaction).

            Maedhros was there, sorting through a bin of laundry, and as Thranduil observed him, he withdrew one of Maglor’s unwashed undershirts and pressed his face into it for a long moment. When he drew back, he breathed deeply, as if to calm himself, at which point Thranduil was seized by a coughing jag. Maedhros’ attention snapped over to him and his expression promptly dissolved into a subtle scowl.

            “Is there something you want?” he asked.

            Thranduil gestured to the laundry, but was wracked with coughing once again and had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. He had left the chair upstairs, thinking he could sit to do the laundry and so it would be alright, but he regretted now, clutching at the doorframe for support, that he hadn’t brought it.

            “You should go upstairs,” said Maedhros, and then, horrifyingly, approached.

            “No,” Thranduil wheezed, but he was not in a position to effect that desire, and Maedhros grabbed his elbow. That great, clear jewel at his forehead glimmered even in the dimness of the room. Thranduil thought he heard the house wailing in the wind, or the long-lost echo of some ghost’s scream.

            “Let me help you.”

            “N—” Thranduil broke off choking and the violence of his body’s convulsing forced him away from the doorframe; Maedhros grabbed him more firmly and held him up.

            “You should be in the chair,” said Maedhros. “I’ll get you there.”

            “No,” Thranduil’s feeble protest was barely audible and he found himself desperately wishing Maglor would arrive and interrupt. Maedhros’ fingers were just as cold as his prosthetic and his nails dug in as if he were a hawk securing its prey.

            “I hear Maglor has finally been overnighting in his room,” Maedhros said with a thinly conversational tone, pulling Thranduil back into the hall. He felt dizzy, trying to suck in air around coughing fits, but even so, had a sense that he did not want to share any information about Maglor.

“I know not where he spends his nights,” he rasped, swallowing against the sticky feeling in his throat, stumbling against Maedhros as the taller man continued to guide him forcefully away from the laundry room. “Working on his opera, I imagine.” It took him a few tries to get this short sentence out.

“He’s always been a bit flighty,” said Maedhros, his fingers tightening on Thranduil’s arm until his grip felt bruising. “Prone to running after the most recent shiny thing he’s seen. Someone must keep him focused. He breaks things, otherwise.”

Thranduil realized Maedhros was leading him towards the elevator, and he had a sudden vision of the red, red ghost and her accusing finger, pointed straight at the elevator gates. The dread that overtook him swamped the bounds of reason; he could not have even articulated what he was frightened of, only that he felt sure he could not allow Maedhros to put him in that elevator.

“No,” he gasped, throwing his weight back against Maedhros’ encircling arms. “No—”

“It will be easier than going up the stairs,” Maedhros soothed, pushing him forward.

There was blood spotting his lower lip and his muscles seemed unwilling to obey as he tried to dig his feet in, to lean back, to do anything to stop from being propelled into the elevator, but none of it mattered. It took a moment for his panicked animal mind to realize he was not going to be successful no matter how much he wanted to be, and if he did not determine an alternative strategy in short order, it wouldn’t matter anymore.

So rather than continue to fight against Maedhros’ forward momentum, he let all his muscles relax. Maedhros was not expecting it, and Thranduil dropped right out of his grasp and landed on his hands and knees. Unfortunately, he had not planned much beyond that, and simply tried to crawl away towards the foyer, blood dripping from his mouth onto his hands.

“It will be much easier if you go into the elevator,” Maedhros said, grabbing his shoulder.

“I can walk,” Thranduil gasped, flailing out to grab the wall and drag himself back up to his feet. His gambit, albeit successful, had already run its course; he needed something else. Part of him was tempted to call for Maglor, but he did not want to make Maedhros panic, and he was not sure he could raise his voice loud enough for Maglor to hear him anyway.

“You never said,” Thranduil panted, his breath starting to come back to him, “why you went to war.”

Maedhros seemed to consider this and Thranduil dared a modicum of relief when he answered instead of making another bid for elevator.

“Revenge, of course,” said Maedhros. “What else does one go to war for? Revenge or greed. Perhaps it was a bit of both columns.”

“Maglor told me of your grandfather,” said Thranduil. He took a few deep breaths, reaching for both air and words.

“Mm. Did he say that’s where the name of this place comes from?” Maedhros said. Thranduil nodded. Maedhros looked up at the ceiling, and then around them at the hall, coolly appraising. “Father built it. After his exile. We all came with, naturally, and Grandfather too—felt he needed to take a stand in support of Father. Everyone gravitated around him, whether they loved him or hated him, so when he went mad, well…” Maedhros smiled a humorless smile.

“He went mad?” Thranduil supposed Maglor had made some implications to that effect, but neither of them had ever said it so plainly.

“Of course. After Grandfather was killed he lost his mind. I don’t know that he ever slept again. He had always been prone to fits of mania, particularly with his work, but this one seemed to consume him entirely. That’s the thing with love,” said Maedhros, and Thranduil hadn’t a prayer’s chance of reading his expression. “It consumes, it burns, and when it has nothing left to swallow, it combusts. He raged against the gods, defied anyone who would advise him against his course of conduct. No one was innocent in the path of his force; not bystanders, not our allies once he decided they did not see eye-to-eye enough with him, not even our family. You were either with him, or you were against him and had to be destroyed.

“He loved my grandmother so he hated and betrayed his half-siblings to prove it. He loved my grandfather, so he set fire to the world to prove it. Allegedly, he loved us too. He was killed very soon after we first saw real combat. Refused to retreat.”

“Is that when you came back?”

Again, that sickly, venomous smile. “No. Then we were left to prosecute his war for him, which we did. Unsuccessfully. I wonder how many family graves we can attribute to my father?”

Thranduil finally felt he had caught his breath again, but he was not convinced he could make it back up the stairs without a chance to sit down. He would have to try.

“You have my condolences,” he said, and he meant it.

“It’s rather late in the day for those,” said Maedhros.  

“I should lie down.” Thranduil made himself move away from the wall and shuffle into the foyer. Maedhros loped along behind him.

“Are you worried about the safety of the elevator?” Maedhros asked. “It’s quite stable. More than the rest of the house. It wouldn’t be much use to us if it was too dangerous to function.” Thranduil did not believe any of that.

“I prefer the stairs,” he said, as if he wasn’t exhausted by the time he reached the halfway point. Maedhros was still watching him from the ground floor when he sank down onto one of the steps to catch his breath.

“You seem to be feeling poorly. Let me make you a pot of tea.”

“Yes, thank you,” Thranduil muttered, relieved for anything that took Maedhros away from him. When Maedhros had vanished into the kitchen, Thranduil hurried up the rest of the stairs and into the library, where he collapsed gratefully into an armchair. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, but he could feel no sign of a fever.

He had a sudden vision of himself as just one more ghost of Formenos, and the thought of being forever bound to this place so far from home was like a weight on his chest, and yet if there were some way out of it, it seemed to recede further every day, like he were on a boat being borne from shore with no way to reach back.

He wanted to sleep, but he made himself sit up and dig out some loose papers from one of the library desks. It was time to write a more forthright letter to Elrond, and be honest about his grim prospects. In the past, he had not wished to worry his friend, or seem to complain too much, but now he felt he was losing the chance to tell the full truth. If he perished of this illness and Elrond knew he had never even mentioned it, he would be terribly hurt.

When Maedhros came in with the tea, Thranduil directed him to set it near the edge of the desk.

“Make sure you drink it all,” he said, pouring a cup of it for Thranduil.

“Thank you.”

“I will see if we have any medication which might serve,” Maedhros offered.

“I would rather have just the tea,” said Thranduil.

“As you prefer.”

When he was done with the letter, he sealed it to give to Maglor to send, as he had with the past letters. And then he wrote a letter to his father too. Oropher was gone, and could receive nothing from him anymore, but Thranduil wrote anyway, and once he started, he could not stop. He filled more than a dozen pages double-sided with everything that had happened since his father’s death, including the job of identifying the body which had fallen to Thranduil, and had to take several breaks to keep from spilling tears on the page and smudging the ink.

There were times he felt his grief for his father was under control, abated, but it often took only a quick look under the bandages to see that it was still there, as raw as ever.

He even mentioned his mother’s ghost, about which he had never spoken to his father, and her warning about Crimson Peak.

I fear there was merit in her concerns, he wrote. But the time with which I made have made use of her warning is past.

How he wished there was someone waiting across the Sundering Sea to receive this letter. There was not much his father could have done for him where he was, but it would have comforted him to know that Oropher was aware of his situation. It would have comforted him to know that Oropher was there, that somewhere on Arda, his father was there, writing his papers, going on his hikes, running his business. That his thread continued, even if Thranduil were not there to see it.

Instead, once Thranduil had finished the letter, he stoked a fire in the hearth and dropped the pages into it, watching his words curl up and dissolve into ash, never to have an audience. No ghost of his father appeared—it was not like Oropher to linger on when his business was done. It was the first time an absence of a phantom had made Thranduil feel alone.

***

            Maedhros seized upon him in the music room. Not that it was hard to know that’s where he was—Maglor retreated there most of the day. It was centrally located within the house, which meant while the rest of the building became increasingly unlivable, the music room was spared the worst of the ravages, and was often warmer than the extremities. This was, of course, in addition to it containing the objects in the house with the most interest for Maglor. Maedhros had left him alone with it, allowing him to arrange it as he liked, which was not the case with the rest of the house.

            “This is taking too long,” said Maedhros as soon as he swept into the room, the door banging shut behind him. Maglor jumped at his harp, and his brow knit at once, aware of where this conversation was going.

            “It hasn’t been so long,” he protested.

            “It is taking too long,” Maedhros insisted. “We should be done with it by now.”

            “It will be over soon,” Maglor pleaded. Maedhros fixed him with a hard stare, and Maglor knew he was in danger of signing the go-ahead order simply by being too concerned. “Everything will play out as we planned, dearest. Please, let’s not…let’s not make it messy.” This was an excuse he was sure Maedhros would take, and he did.

            “Don’t I always clean up our messes? Your messes?” Maedhros said. “I will take care of it.”

            Maglor rose to his feet, his eyebrows pulling together, unable to stop the frown which etched itself into his expression.

            “Maedhros, no…”

            Maedhros, still believing in Maglor’s lie, attempted to soothe him through it, as he had done successfully in the past. He came over and took Maglor’s upper arms. The great jewel gleamed at his forehead and made Maglor feel queasy; he looked away.

            “I will take him down into the cellar first,” he reassured Maglor. “You will have to see none of it.”

            “Maedhros,” Maglor tried again, giving Maedhros the most beseeching look he could, and then, on impulse, added in a much softer voice: “I don’t want to see you that way.”

            At this, Maedhros relaxed his mania, rubbing Maglor’s arm with his good hand.

            “Alright,” he agreed at last, though Maglor could see his reluctance. “If it upsets you so much. But I will not wait more than another fortnight. And I will increase his dosage.”

            That was…not ideal. But it was also the best deal Maglor was likely to get; if he pushed harder, he would only arouse Maedhros’ fatal jealousy.

            “Thank you,” he said, leaning forward to rest his cheek against Maedhros’ chest. Maedhros’ good hand touched the back of his head, massaging the base of Maglor’s skull.

            “Of course,” Maedhros murmured. “Anything for you, as always.”

***

            Maglor found himself incurably restive lately. He hadn’t worked on his opera in days, even when he meant to (and what he did write, he despised and destroyed). He couldn’t sit still long enough to read, and even harping only barely occupied him enough to keep him from getting up to pace.

            On one such day, he wandered into the library, thinking he might find Thranduil there, which he did. Thranduil was slumped over in his wheelchair, dozing, and Maglor hesitated, deciding perhaps it was best not to disturb him, when Thranduil opened his eyes, and seeing Maglor, straightened up.

            “Maglor,” he said, beckoning him over. Maglor came at once, pulling a chair over to sit beside Thranduil. “I need to talk with you,” Thranduil said grimly.

            “Of course, my darling,” said Maglor, reaching out to take his hands. “What is it?” Thranduil drew in a wheezing breath.

            “My illness,” he said, and there was strain in his sweet voice which had not been there when they met in Greenwood. “It improves not a bit. There are things which must been seen to. The paperwork, from the bank. Have you received it yet?”

            “No…” Maglor frowned deeply. Admittedly, it had been some time since he’d checked the post office. Thranduil broke off coughing, and Maglor reached up when it subsided to wipe a smidge of blood from his chin, but Thranduil caught Maglor’s hand and clasped them both in his lap.

            “You must retrieve it as soon as possible,” he said. “I would sign you on now, as soon as we can. You must have access to my account.”

            “Why?” Maglor whispered, clutching at his hands.

            “The money,” Thranduil said, and turned his head away to give a single, sharp cough. “From my father. It must be yours.” Maglor felt like someone had punched him in the throat. “It would have been regardless, were I to live. But as that seems now unlikely, I wish to make sure there are no questions over to whom it belongs.” Even this small speech seemed to have wearied him. The bruises under his eyes were perpetual, and those beautiful green eyes had grown bloodshot and dull. “I will not be able to make the improvements to the house we discussed before,” he apologized, his voice barely more than a ragged whisper. “Nor the garden. But this I can still give to you.”

            Maglor realized he was shaking.

            “It can fund your opera,” Thranduil went on. “Then you will need no backers. Or at least, I imagine not. I confess I know little of how much capital is required to fund an opera. This will give you a considerable start, I hope. When I have gone, you can pay others to do the work I might have done. Make the house livable again.”

            “You still think it can be saved?” Maglor asked, his voice breaking.

            “Of course,” Thranduil murmured. “Anything can be saved, with enough love and attention. Isn’t it so? You require only the resources, which I can give to you.”

            Maglor’s self-control broke, and then he was weeping openly.

            “You won’t die,” he lied.

            “I am afraid I very likely will.”

            “No, you can’t,” Maglor wept. “You just need more fresh air. I’ll take you out more. I haven’t done it enough, I’m sorry. You aren’t dying. I won’t allow it!” Thranduil reached for the dove-tree teacup and Maglor snatched it out of his hand. “Stop drinking this!” he wailed. With a flick of his wrist he emptied the contents into the fireplace. “It’s no good for you! It hasn’t helped at all! I’ll get you something else. I’ll make you some chamomile. It’s so bloody cold in here!” he cried. “Are you cold? Where’s the damned cat? She should be with you! Are your feet warm enough? Wait here, I’ll be back soon.”

            Maglor ran off and returned later as he’d said he would, with a tray of hot chamomile tea, and a blanket for Thranduil.

            “Here,” he said, pouring a cup and setting it in Thranduil’s hands. “Warmer now? Is that better?” Thranduil nodded, and Maglor was almost certain he was being placated, but it didn’t matter. He arranged the blanket over Thranduil’s lap so that it hung down over his feet. “What were you reading?”

            Thranduil closed the book to have a look at the title and said: “A History of Artistic Movements of Tirion.” Maglor settled into the chair he’d pulled up next to Thranduil and leaned in against his arm, so he could lay his head on Thranduil’s shoulder.

            “Read it to me?” he said.

            Thranduil took a long drink of tea, flipped the book back open to the first page, and began again, this time aloud for his audience.

***

            That night after dinner, Maglor did not go up to the master bedroom. Instead, he went into Mother’s old studio, in which no one had set foot in what felt like a million years. Her old discarded projects were still there, along with about a jumble of things he and Maedhros had shoved into the room from other parts of the house in their first days back at the estate, and about a foot of dust. He was sure no one would disturb him there. He lit up a candelabra, took up one of the creaky stools, and bawled.

            It was going to go on as it always had. Maedhros would keep dosing Thranduil with tea and even if Thranduil had given some consideration to Maglor’s warning not to drink it anymore, he might not heed it, and even if he did, the damage might be done. Were he not to take another sip of it in his life, his internal organs might have already sustained such damage as was irreparable, and death was inevitable.

            Thranduil was too weak now to flee, and he did not understand the danger he was in, or that there might be still time to avoid it. He had no idea of the bodies bricked underneath the cellar, no comprehension of the harm Maedhros truly wished on him. He wished to give Maglor what Maglor had planned take from him since first they met. It was astonishing, that anyone could be so naïve as to the cruelty which truly existed in the world, and the thought that he would be the one to teach Thranduil how terrible the world could be made Maglor sick to his stomach.

            There was no one who could save Thranduil—no one but Maglor.

            But doing that required confronting Maedhros, and exposing himself and the horrors he had committed for this place, for his relationship with Maedhros, to Thranduil. It was Maglor’s worst, most closely-held fear: that anyone other than Maedhros might see him for what he really was.

            So Thranduil would die, thought Maglor, wiping with his hands at the tears and snot that dripped down his face. Die because Maglor was so ashamed of what he had allowed himself to become that he refused to undo it.

            Maedhros’ words echoed inside Maglor’s head: I am the only one who could love you. Maedhros had said these exact words to him only once, but so many other things he’d said seemed to return to this central thesis: that Maedhros was the only one in the world who could truly know Maglor, and still love him.

            And maybe he was right.

            Maglor did not see a way he could be honest with Thranduil without making Thranduil shrink from him in hatred and disgust. So maybe Maedhros was right, and there was no love for Maglor outside of that house. But this was also true: none of that changed that Maglor loved Thranduil, and if Thranduil hated him forever, it would not stop Maglor from loving him for a single day.

            He was not foolish enough to believe in the absolution of this one act—but he also could not believe it would make no difference at all.

***

            Thranduil’s illness grew worse, and Maedhros pushed pot after pot of tea on him, followed by watery congee when Thranduil tried to turn down the tea, insisting he would fix it, but nothing helped. Thranduil’s head felt like it was full of lead; most days getting out of bed at all took concerted effort, and he spent most of the day yearning for sleep. His garden plans had been left by the wayside, and when he had started coughing blood into his handkerchief, he had realized with a distant awareness that he was likely dying.

            He spent more time in the library, but he often fell asleep at the desk or in one of the musty, moth-eaten chairs, waking sometime later to realize with resigned disappointment he simply did not have the energy to be doing what he wanted to do.

            Maglor was much more present than he had been in the earlier days of their marriage, which was a comfort, although he still often felt he understood very little about his chosen spouse. Thranduil had been too ill for much physical intimacy between them since their first encounter in the house, if there was anything about him that remained appealing to Maglor. Bloody lips and bony shoulders were not wonderful enticements. Not that it would matter long—whatever Maglor said, Thranduil was sure he would not last a few more months. He would never see spring on Crimson Peak. 

            Maedhros had promised to get him a key to the house after he had familiarized himself with it more, but he had never done so. He had also told Thranduil never to go into the cellar, but Thranduil did not think much of Maedhros’ edicts, and so one day, after waking in the library and feeling particularly spiteful, he broke the rule just because he could. Maybe, he thought bitingly, the ghost had not been warning him away at all. Or perhaps it was useless to live one’s life based on messages from the dead.

            Fitting the chair into the elevator was always troublesome, but Thranduil managed to back it in, at which point he became closely aware of how cold it was there (particularly as he had not bothered to dress that morning, and so was clad only in his cream-white nightdress and a thin shrug). That was why it startled him but little when a ghostly arm reached through the right wall of the elevator, clawing at the lever that moved it from floor to floor. A low moan rattled the elevator, and Thranduil looked at the groping hand.

            “Have you a warning for me as well?” he asked. “Shall we see what’s at the heart of that?” He pulled the lever down to take the elevator to the basement, and the ghost withdrew.

            It was clear that while the rest of the house had gone uncared for, the cellar had suffered neglect in the extreme. Thranduil was at once amazed the entire house hadn’t collapsed; there must have been three inches of water on the floor in some places. Moss and mold covered the stone walls and water dripped around like he was in a cave (he frowned as turning the wheels of the chair smeared his hands with the foul water). The rank smell of rot which pervaded the entire estate was so powerful he gagged. It appeared to play host to an assortment of random, unrelated junk.

            What a colossal disappointment.

            Thranduil had suspected Maedhros was keeping him out of parts of the house simply out of ill will, and here was the proof. There was nothing down here. Maedhros was simply bitter that he was no longer the unquestioned master of the house now that his younger brother had wed.

            To make the rickety elevator trip worth it, Thranduil poked around some of the things. There was what must have once been a very fine dress, abandoned to rot into the floor. There a delicate crown of golden flowers terribly bent out of shape and appearing to rust. There was a steamer trunk, emblazoned with a name: Elwing Dioriel.

E.D.

            Thranduil hunted around for a tool, found a shovel with a broken handle, and used it to bash open the lock on the trunk. It took him a few tries, but when he did get it open, it was mostly empty, except for a necklace—its large setting pried open and empty of any jewel—and a small, leather-bound journal. Picking it up to leaf through, he was surprised to see it was not written in the common Tengwar, but in the archaic Cirth, also known as Daeron’s Runes. It was not something taught anywhere outside of Doriath, where Thranduil had grown up, to the best of his awareness. More interesting still, Elwing’s recollections began in Tengwar, but abruptly shifted to Cirth perhaps two-thirds of the way through the journal.

            His curiosity piqued, Thranduil opened to the first page properly to read.

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Chapter End Notes

Did you know that gold doesn't rust? Thranduil doesn't.

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