i am certain this will be about seven chapters. c: I have been eager to write this, as both a gift and an opportunity to collab with the all-talented artist that is megatruth~
special thanks to Vivian for being such bae and getting me through this with her wonderful words and advice3
oOo
The ocean has frosted, and the skies are always starless.
Legolas can endure this no more, subsisting upon the crags of Latvia with nothing but the dread presence of his father to linger in the empty cold.
And their homes have always been cavernous; hewn in rock and freezing stone. Candlelight, wine, empty rooms, and nothing more.
For all along—pinned and nestled low beneath the choking wing of Thranduil—every last door and window had gone by locked and thrice times sealed throughout each of the one hundred and fifty five joyless years they'd experienced in the grey silence of this Baltic fog. Wary and guarded they've been despite the scores of troves upon groves that had cut them off from perhaps coming across the nearest settled farm.
Here, where there is no light nor sight of sunset. And sunrise, even less.
No kiss of lips or feel of touch. No taste of water, nor the scented lures of summer fruit.
There is only ever this, the tumid blues of his newly blooded veins, lovesick with the thought of death.
For the great ocean calls his name, lurid whispers in the dark, sweet and canorous with dreams of warmth and yellow sunrays. It's all he wants.
Yet, midst his despair: Legolas knows that Thranduil knows. All of it.
Knows that his father fears it most when he sees him balanced on the rim of his balcony, hair lashing against the white skin of his cheeks, stone cracking from underneath the input of his weight. Knows that the sharpened slags beneath beckon him like no other thing to perhaps go forth and fling himself to some sixteen hundred ells below and towards the vicious snarling of the sea.
It is only out of selfish panic, Legolas thinks, that Thranduil's pupils heighten before he thinks to look then to one side of the room, there, where Legolas knows lies the bloodied corpse of some young woman he once ago wished he could have one day held: snapped at the neck, glass-eyed, emptied—torn to pieces.
Now Thranduil can only cave;
Can only reach out his shaking hand and mindlessly beg, granting Legolas, at last, his truest wish of England.
oOo
They leave the next day, and never look back.
No one mentions it, no one speaks of it, and when their permanent absence at last becomes noticed, only the most holy and superstitious climb and labor the peaks of the crag to tear down what remained of their presence, burning and tossing all that remained (riches and clothing and paintings and whatever else that hung against the walls) deep into the forgotten dells of the ocean.
No one wishes to remember, not with rosaries clutched like melting diamonds in their hands, but if some do, it is only ever in whispers that they thank the cross for the ship that took the pale demons somewhere far from the moon-lit shores of Riga.
oOo
For a week they travel, but only when the sun lingers least.
Through ship they land on the icy isles of Denmark.
By ferry they cross the North Sea.
And when at last they land at the crowded docks of Grimsby, the fair town of Leeds is but three hours off by train.
Thranduil stresses that Grimsby is just as fine. That here, in the deep pith of this dank and dismal town, none will know their names. That the law is weak. That they could stay for a month or maybe two and then find respite amongst the bleak outskirts of Germany, where he insists that there are already so many countless acres to his name amidst still-standing property.
But Legolas retorts only with disgust on his face, and says that his wish lies within the leys of England's borders, and no other place. That he can bare it no longer: the pang of anonymity, of barely just existing. That now—when the world itself has fared and settled so far beyond that of just brick and stone and waxen tapers—he wants not only to be feared and gandered, but seen.
This time, Thranduil thinks of nothing to say in upshot.
He cannot say no when saying no means he loses all that's left.
Not with his son so close, lovelorn and foolish, so full of quiet hate.
And so they board the soonest train in silence, and do not speak again.
oOo
They reach Leeds faster than expected.
It is cold, and clear wet frost cakes along the black concrete of the streets.
Indeed there are more people here, but not too many more. The town is less fetid in its general smell, and there are buildings that tower and crowd against one another like hefted up cards, offering just enough shadow come the early hours of daylight.
It is a fair enough place, Thranduil supposes. For just a few months. Vast, dark. Away from the oceans.
Behind them, the train leaves them in a smog-ridden rush.
Side by side, they are tall and painfully foreign. They are gawked at and stared at, never once greeted. Their skin is too fair, their hair is too long. Their eyes are fireflies in the moonlight. They are perhaps a head taller than most of the men that pass them by. They wear what few could ever dream to afford. Thranduil can feel Legolas' discomfort. He knows this is not what his son had hoped for: the effortless cruelty of those he sought most.
But time amongst those that yet dream is nothing if not fleeting. People scurry and bustle throughout what remains of the evening hour, dispersing by the clusters in several different directions until it is only the two of them standing within the almost-darkness of the station's moth-ridden lamplight.
Thranduil smiles. Amidst the unkindness of strangers, there are always admirers. He stares a young woman down, watches her fall into lovesick spell. He could take her now if he wanted. Could walk over and charm her collar wide open so that he may bleed her bone-dry into the fell thirst of his mouth. He wonders if Legolas has ever allowed himself to feel this, such ravenous need, the thrill or the prowl.
On a curious whim, he turns towards his son. His brow is set low and lined, fixed into place. His thin lips are pressed, looking almost too entirely graceless with his two valises held especially tight in each of his fists.
"Are you not pleased?" Thranduil asks him in a wry whisper. "Is this not all that you wanted?"
"I will wait for the next to arrive," Legolas tells him after a moment, motioning towards a small family huddled for warmth against the station's brick wall. "They wait for York. They speak of bridges and river ports. It isn't far."
There is little that Thranduil says from that point on that is not utterly useless in the swaying of his son. And so they wait and board the next train.
The risk is far too great if he does not.
oOo
In the silence, Thranduil wishes that he could take it, do it.
Snap the boy's wretched neck and run.
oOo
They settle into York on the morrow, and promptly hire a land steward.
The River Ouse besets the area,splits the city in half.
The town itself is smaller in size, humble in its architecture but never in its insistence of fog.
There are nine different bridges, and sixteen lesser others which lead and cross into the narrow outskirts of River Foss.
All smells of old water, rockweed, and moss.
In the middle of the southern bank and not far from the main market is the Lendal Bridge of which Legolas seems to be irrevocably drawn. It oversees the main square and past farther gates of vast gated gardens which lead into extravagant stucco mansions of perhaps four stories in size.
There is also a theatre.
"Here," Legolas says, and it is the first word he's spoken since they left the train behind.
He turns to the land steward who has already spent nearly the whole of the evening at their side, all but fruitless in his efforts of sale.
"Here, lad?"
"Yes. Are there any properties in this area? Any at all?"
Thranduil's teeth rake inside his mouth. The steward turns on his heel to face him as if for permission. He is both the parent and the client, after all. But Thranduil only lowers his eyes.
So the steward looks to Legolas once more, and after a moment, he nods.
"There is a manor amongst those leading to the Theatre Royal that is currently vacant, but—"
"We'll take it."
"Is this manor gated?" Thranduil interjects.
"It is metal-gated, my lord."
"And its size?"
"Three floors."
Thranduil can already feel the excitement brimming on Legolas' face. It's nothing, if not sickening.
"You were to say something," Thranduil says coolly, approaching the smaller man with his hands clasped behind his back. "Before my son rudely interrupted."
The steward nods, shrinks into himself like a mouse caught fat in its lair. Thranduil towers over him, darkens him into the bough of his shadow. The moon is glum and half eaten. The area is clouded and dim, and the river sways gently beneath them.
Legolas watches Thranduil closely, his breath drawn quicker than before. It is a habit he cannot bring himself to kill all of this century later:
The pretend need to breathe, unfelt breath he secretly wills into the black rot of his lungs.
He knows now in an almost-dread that his father hungers. That his father's appetite is a cold red storm that never stops.
"Y-yes, my lord," says the steward, his receding steps stopped short by the silvern paling of the bridge. "It is very old. I cannot speak grandly of its interior, it has gone so long untouched—but it is its tall and vernal gardens, sire, that are madly sought after and prized." He pauses, clearing his throat. "My lord, it is very expensive."
Thranduil smiles, and it is a wicked thing to behold. Even in the deep dark the fangs in his mouth shimmer with thirst.
He knows full well how carefully Legolas is watching him.
It is a feeling better than blood.
"There isn't a price that would keep me," Thranduil tells the steward at last, backing away. "Please lead us."
The steward does.
Legolas, pale and stiff, finds room enough to release his breath and follows four steps behind.
oOo
It is massive in size.
The gardens that surround it are untamed and knotted.
Vegetal vine and briar alike.
Nowhere near the stone alcazar they previously resided in amongst Latvian crags, but its stairs are winding and its doors are endless, and there are windows with no iron bars.
There are layers of dust at every lode and ridge, the wood creaks and groans with age, but the sheer elegance of its scheme is all the louder, and its chandelier is all the brighter with its small and unwavering…flames?
"Are those candles?" Legolas asks.
"No, lad," the steward tells him, prudent in the unloading of his briefcase on a nearby table. "It is gas powered. But the glass tiers are detachable, in the preferred case of tapers."
"Not candles, then…" Legolas repeats, staring fervently at the ceiling.
Thranduil chuckles. The sound echoes throughout.
"Forgive my young and foolish son. He must be worn from our travels."
The steward nods, says nothing further.
oOo
It doesn't take long for Thranduil to decide that this will indeed be their new home.
For the time allotted, no more than three months, Thranduil supposes, this would make do.
The purchase is quick and seamless. The steward does not ask many questions, but Legolas can see the quiet suspicion and daunt distrust in the man's beady eyes as Thranduil signs paper after paper as if he'd already done it one thousand times before.
Amid the forbearing hour of silence and form-filling, Thranduil stresses his unrest of solicitors. Of marketers, dealers, venders, or of anyone, really, and demands a locksmith by the coming evening to replace and to fix in new fastenings to each and every door.
The steward agrees and promises to make arrangements.
The purchase is finalized, and Legolas watches from the corner of his eye as the man reaches to shake his father's hand. When contact is made, the man flinches back as if shocked.
Legolas knows that Thranduil's hands are dry ice.
The man leaves, doesn't look back.
oOo
The next night, the locks are changed.
Thranduil oversees each door until he is satisfied.
Legolas hasn't shown himself since the previous day. Thranduil thinks for a moment that perhaps the foolish boy has gone into the outside by himself, but the notion is quickly discarded.
Legolas would brave no such feat, especially now, to face the realities of this crude and savage world without his father's hand present to clutch on to in the darkness.
Thranduil laughs.
He looks through the cracked glass of one of the foyer windows, and sees that it is a woeful afternoon. No birds, no life. No sun. He drinks the wine from his chalice but does not taste, only just senses the weight of the liquid dispersing somewhere into the cold flesh of his throat, never to sate the enormity of his thirst. But oh, what well it does to whet it.
He drinks the bottle to the pith, and realizes there is no other to replace it. He stares at the empty space in which the walls immure him—raw and cruel—wherein this grand and miserable edifice, he is alone with an imprudent son and a merciless god that must only detest him. He cannot remember the last time he threaded his fingers into a lock of hair that was not his own, cannot think of warmth or kindness.
He is dead where others cannot touch, shapeless in his loathing for all things he cannot have. And he has, but never enough.
He grits a curse and toils his hair behind the length of one ear. It is sharper in its salience now that he has not fed. He realizes through the murk of his reflection that his skin has gone pallid. His lips, he dreads, are nearly bone-white.
He brings both his hands to clench at the rim of a wooden dresser and snarls into the heavy echoes of the room.
There is a vicious ache he can no longer flout taking root inside the undermost basal of his being. He sucks in a breath he does not need and looks to the mirror that mocks him.
Indeed what he wears draws off attention from the utter stillness of his pulse. Gilt threads at the hem of his cutaway lead down to the black leather of his boots. Gloves cover his hands. He can see the veins at the side of his neck swell into plain sight. He buttons up, looks away.
Legolas is standing at the very top of the staircase, still as ice, looking down at him.
"Do you revel now in what you see," Thranduil growls. "Now that you have leeched and complained."
"Had I pity for the sight of you," Legolas says. "But I have nothing."
"Ungrateful boy," chuckles Thranduil. "Wayward in your folly, you've never known what it is to have nothing."
An explosion of glass, a feral hiss, and Thranduil leaves the shattered mirror behind, along with the silence.
oOo
He makes way through the wilted grass of the front gardens and does not lock the metal gate.
The Lendal Bridge is not far, and so he slows in his steps.
There are people that he comes across, yes, but very few. They clinch into themselves underneath the blind of umbrellas to avoid the winds that are quite strong enough to whip the length of Thranduil's hair back and forth.
He quickly places the heft of three strands to cover over the knife-ends of his ears, careful in tucking the rest against the bloodless crescent of his neck so that in this way he may not be so wary that it might suddenly flit away.
Few are daring enough to look in his direction, either way. He is a pale star amongst a gray sky, luring and lucent. He knows this.
He crosses the bridge and sees that there is a scampering crowd in the market square. Women saunter and giggle into each other's ears, flanked tightly inside their huge and laminous gowns, veiled bonnets on their heads. The men hold canes in their hands. Most are dark of hair. Some wear hats, some bearded. All walk with hollow purpose in their stride.
The hunger that wracks the net of Thranduil's innards hones with each person that passes him by. There are young women that simper at him, that tempt him with their dipped crested collars (and oh, how their pulse throbs), the innocent bat of their eyes—
Thranduil is helpless not to suddenly squint at the familiar feeling of needle-wounds ripping themselves open inside the duct of his mouth, cutting, in turn, the red flesh of his tongue.
He has little choice but to swallow.
He tastes his own blood.
Like dust-ash and rot.
He knows now that he can control the tines that damn him no longer, and so he idles little and instead takes to the sidewalk of the opposite road where he knows there will be an alcohol vender.
Once there, he hauls open the door.
Bells chime.
On his glove, there is snow.
oOo
He walks in and carefully ungloves his hands.
But he bothers only because it is York tradition when entering shop.
He must adhere, now that his thirst is all but caving him. At least in this way the wine will placate well until the dusk. But no longer.
His skin binds by the inch at the thrill of the thought.
An old man greets him at the counter.
"Milord, how may I serve you?"
"Montrachet," Thranduil tells him. "White."
The man nods and goes into the back. Thranduil waits. The foul taste in his mouth remains. He can hear the sound of children knelling in from the streets. They race on the sidewalks, singing psalms at the top of their lungs. Callow and useless and pious: he is reminded of Legolas. His eyes narrow, his jaw clenches rough.
He imagines that if his son were not what he is, Legolas would kneel gladly before the cross. Praying, crooning, basking in the light of a yellow sun Thranduil remembers not.
He feels like he might lose what is left of his constraint, feels his hands begin to shake in the violence he chains, but the old man appears once more before him just in time.
"Here you are, milord."
Thranduil nods, pays his due, and takes the bundle into his arm.
"Good day," he says.
He leaves immediately, doesn't bother with his gloves.
oOo
When he exits, Thranduil nearly stumbles.
But only because there is someone there to impede his path.
His mind strays, his skin is strung tight, and so he loses his grip. He drops the bottle but knows he must not, by any means, react on reflex.
He girds himself to hear the sharp eruption of glass, of wasted liquid and of his wavering patience alike, but it never comes. The man, by some miracle, has managed to catch the bottle with one hand a mere five inches from the ground.
Thranduil steps back, softly clears his throat.
"Pardon me," he says. "My thoughts lied elsewhere."
The man stands and concedes him with a half-smile, offers him the bottle. Thranduil accepts the gesture. Despite his own caution, he lingers;
For there is a quiet blue somber now that looks back at him midst the gentle dropping of snow. Wave upon wave of black and silver hair that falls like a Viking king's mane down a pair of broad shoulders. Bearded, crisp-jawed. Sharp English nose.
The man wears a coat that is lightly furred at the collar. Gray. He is tall and virile where others are not.
Thranduil falters. He would walk away now as he should. But he doesn't.
The voice that is let to the air in between them is an imminent storm.
"No, it is I who has been rude."
Thranduil, not once looking away, tilts his head slightly to the side in further gratitude. The man mimics him in return, wishes him a good day, and goes promptly through the shop's door.
It is quick and strange and meaningless; a stranger with a casual kindness to give.
Yet, Thranduil is left standing.
He crosses the street and feigns interest in an old woman's fruit stand. With the corner of his eye he watches. A few minutes pass and the same man from before steps out of the shop with a small package in his hand.
Thranduil turns, hesitates. There are others rushing towards that very same direction from the middle-most of the street:
A woman (black of hair and all flowing skirts) and two young boys.
She takes the man's arm in hers as if she'd known him for years. The children jump at their feet.
"Thorin, love," she begins with a smile.
But Thranduil does not care for the rest.
oOo