In which Ireland continues to go to hell, the villagers prepare to move in with Thranduil again, and Lorna enjoys his help a little too much.
Many thanks to Nirva on AO3, who made certain all the Russian spoken in this chapter actually made sense.
Siobhan, amazingly, had no actual burns to speak of. Her clothing was singed and charred in places, but her skin was undamaged. The only thing she'd suffered from was smoke inhalation, as had those who tried to save her house.
Currently she was occupying one of the infirmary beds, blitzed out on Sveta's empathic equivalent of marijuana, too calm to set fire to anything else. Likewise, Mick wasn't making any more greenery spontaneously grow.
It was only a stopgap measure, but it would hold until Miranda brought help. Once they were certain Lorna would stay stabilized, they were sending her back with Lord Thranduil, where she would at least be away from so many minds she couldn't shut out. It ought to work until he felt comfortable trying to build her a proper block.
Doc Barry seemed content to watch the news; when Nuala had the chance to see a bit herself, she found that things had only grown worse. A national emergency had been declared, for all the good it was doing. Most people really didn't seem to be doing this on purpose, and, of course, trying to arrest the more destructive ones was impossible.
But even the more benign of abilities were causing chaos. The screen showed an aerial view of the M7, currently covered over with creeping vines. A few people were trying to cut a path, to no avail; as soon as one was severed, two more took its place.
Even through her distraction, Nuala realized that the majority of these seemed to be nature-based – which, if this really was Lord Thranduil's fault, wasn't surprising. She doubted it was going to be producing many technopaths.
Thank God they had theirs, or she wouldn't be able to see all of this. Unfortunately, all that foliage meant that Miranda and whoever she brought with her would have a hell of a time getting here.
"The Doors are stationary," Sveta had said. "They are where they want to be, and nothing we can do will move them. Miranda will find a way here."
Nuala hoped it wouldn't take too long. Lord Thranduil had brought her a box of goodies, but she didn't know how to use any of them. It left her feeling rather superfluous.
She left to check on Lorna, and got a nasty surprise in what she found.
The woman's vitals had been something close to normal, her olive skin no longer ashy. Now, though – he hadn't been in her room for five minutes, yet her pulse and her blood pressure had dropped back into the toilet, her pallor nearly that of a corpse.
"Jesus." Even as Nuala ran to check the machines, blood leaked from Lorna's nose, shockingly bright against the washed-out grey of her skin. Once again, she'd utterly lost consciousness, and even through Nuala's sudden panic, a thought occurred to her.
"It's you," she said, dragging out an oxygen canister. "Lord Thranduil, you've got to get out'v the room. She was fine after you left, but now you're back and this happens."
The glare he bent on Nuala was nearly enough to make her piss herself. His pale eyes were like chips of ice, but there was nothing at all impassive about him now. For a moment, she was afraid he'd break her neck.
"It's telepathy," she said desperately, wiping Lorna's nose before affixing the mask. "She's got it, you've got it, and this only seems to happen when you're near her, so don't be near her." Nuala was rather surprised at the vehemence in her own voice – she hadn't intended it at all. "Go ask Sveta – maybe she knows why."
Lord Thranduil continued to glare at her with such ferocity that she shuddered, but a glance at Lorna got him moving. Hopefully the break room was far enough away that his influence, or whatever it was, would lift. If not, Nuala was going to have to kick him out of the clinic, and she didn't even want to guess what he would do then. She was bright enough to realize that Lorna was the only one out of all of them that he actually listened to, but Lorna needed to be able to speak first. God help all of them if this somehow killed her.
Thranduil burst into the tiny room with the equally tiny television, two seconds away from actual murder.
Its only occupant was Sveta, who regarded him with a surprising amount of equanimity. A measure of calm washed over him when he met her pale eyes, soothing his raging heart. She held a cup of that bitter sludge the Edain called coffee, and sipped it while he glared at her.
"Nuala said my mind is killing my wife," he said flatly.
"It's very possible," Sveta said, still calm. "How old are you, Lord Thranduil?"
"Somewhere around six thousand years," he said, pacing as much as the small room would let him. "Why?"
"Your wife has your six thousand years of memories bearing down upon her mind. It is little wonder hers cannot stand it. You need to build her a barrier – both to keep other thoughts from invading her mind, and to keep your own from destroying it."
He paused mid-step. "I will not risk damage to her."
Sveta rolled her eyes. "You do not need to go into her mind," she said. "Just make a barrier around it. She has no way of making one herself, and we do not have anyone who can teach her. You are the only one who can do this."
She was so reasonable he had an irrational urge to strike her. Though of touching Lorna's mind was abhorrent, after what he had done to the two policemen. No, he would not be doing anything similar, but it still send a tendril of dread curling through him.
"Even if you leave her alone, if you stay away, the others will drive her insane," Sveta said. "I can keep her distracted for a time, but not forever. You can do this because you must." Her gaze was placid but unwavering.
"Not yet," he said. "She must recover, and I must be able to—"
His words were cut off when the entire building jerked, the floor momentarily dropping from beneath him. The lights flickered, the table migrating across the room with a screech of metal upon tile, and his stomach apparently wanted to join it.
Sveta tried to brace herself against the wall, only for it to crack beneath her hand, a fissure the width of her thumb splitting the faded yellow paper.
Thranduil caught the television before it could hit the floor. He had weathered many earthquakes before he came to Eire, but this one felt unnatural. The earth was being twisted by forces beyond its control – twisted so violently that he suspected the cause lived somewhere in the village.
It went on for nearly a minute, while Sveta swore – for it could only be swearing – in a language he did not understand.
A number were swearing in English, too - swearing, and screaming. As soon as the earth was somewhat steady beneath his feet, he ran to check on Lorna, and wondered where in Eru's name Mairead had taken his children.
Lorna was groggy but unhurt, and he left before he could do her any more harm. How had he wrought this? It could not possibly be his doing alone. Perhaps he had merely been the match to what the Edain called gunpowder, some store that none of them had known existed. He didn't want to think about what might happen if this kept on as it was.
The stone of the road was cracked in places, several of the poles that held the power lines tilted at drunken angles. Mairead's vehicle was still parked outside; hopefully she had gone to the pub.
Several people he was only passingly acquainted with ran past, fleeing the thunderheads that bore down upon the village like a curse given form. Even Thranduil had forgotten just how much elemental power this world had, power quite apart from magic, and now the two were combining into something uncontrollable.
He had promised he would not destroy this island, but he was afraid that he had, all unwitting, broken that promise. Edain seemed to be, by and large, silly creatures, their lives both narrow and swiftly over, but they did not deserve this. Cold though he could be, he was not heartless; yes, they died easily, but the thought that he had surely hastened more than a few of their deaths was not one he could bear just yet.
Instead he hurried to the pub, and was unspeakably relieved to find Mairead and both twins under the table. She looked ready to murder someone, and he was rather worried that it might be him.
"There is little point, Mistress Mairead," he said, before she could speak. "There is nothing I can do about it myself."
"I don't suppose you know how long this'll last, do you?" she asked, crawling out from under the table.
"I do not, but I suspect Miranda might, whenever she arrives."
"She'd better. This isn't America or Japan – our buildings aren't made to withstand real earthquakes." She hauled the twins out from under the table, setting the carriers atop it. Incredibly, both seemed curious rather than frightened. "I think the mobile network's down – I can't reach Kevin."
"My halls can withstand anything," Thranduil said. "If this does not cease soon, you should all come with me again. I'm certain the technopaths can find a way to make your technology still function there."
"We'd need half the car batteries in town," Shivshankari said, crawling out from under another table. "We cannot just call it up out of nowhere. And you can forget the internet, unless it's on your phone."
"I thought you lot could do anything," Mairead said, brushing dust off her sleeves.
Damodara snorted. "If only. Magic can be convenient, but only up to a point. We can set your car batteries onto a regenerative cycle, but it would take more work and far more supplies."
Depending on how long this went on, that might be necessary – but then, if this kept on as it was, it was only a matter of time before Eire tore itself apart.
"We will do what we must," Thranduil said. "I think it wise that all of you gather your things together, just in case. I do not like the thought of any of you sleeping in such flimsy constructions."
"Oi, what're you calling flimsy?" Big Jamie demanded.
Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "Master Jamie, I live in a cavern as old as this island. Compared to that, everything is flimsy."
"Fair point. How much can we bring?"
"However much you feel like hauling through two miles of forest," Thranduil said dryly. "I could fit your village and everything in it ten times over, with room to spare."
A small aftershock shuddered through the floor. "I'll get Orla and the kids to gather some stuff," Big Jamie said. "We can haul it on the pallet-truck. Never thought I'd say this, but I'd feel safer underground."
"Sure Christ, we'll never carry all we need," Mairead sighed. "It'll be three trips at least."
"Old Sandy's got a tractor," Jamie said, pulling an empty cardboard box out from under the bar.
"No. I will not have my forest torn up by your machinery," Thranduil said. "Nothing has ever done so, and nothing is going to start now." There were likely few places on this island that remained truly pristine, and he would not profane his land any more than necessary.
Getting ready to move would give them all something to do until Miranda arrived. He would build Lorna a shield as best he was able, and hope that it actually worked. In theory, it should not be difficult, but neither should minorly altering an Edain memory, and look at the mess he had made of that.
He glanced down at Nenya, gleaming on his right index finger. He'd had to re-size it when he took possession of it, though he seldom wore it. Perhaps it would aid him in his precision. At the very least, it couldn't hurt. He knew that he could do nothing until Lorna was stabilized, which galled him far more than he liked. Helplessness was not a thing he was accustomed to, and he did not intend to be so for long.
Miranda, Julifer, and their motorcycles stepped out into the field near Wicklow.
The Doors were invisible to the outside eye, and it was always a crapshoot as to whether or not anyone would see someone leaving one. That was not a worry right now, however; Miranda doubted anyone would notice from even a dozen yard away.
The scent of smoke drifted on the slight, incongruously warm breeze – the scent of burning wood and burning rubber, which was far less pleasant. Even from here, she could see a massive structure fire in Wicklow, flames licking at the storm-dark sky.
Less obvious, perceptible only to the Gifted, was the tingle of magic, far more than she had ever felt in her life. It was out and it was running free, wild and far beyond any hope of containment.
Damn Lord Thranduil to whatever hell might exist.
She kick-started her motorcycle and took off across the field, Julifer beside her. Angry as Miranda was at the damn Elf, she knew there was no way this was wholly his fault – what she didn't know was what the hell else was at work. She was rarely blindsided, but she hadn't seen this coming at all.
The DMA had ways of soaking up excess magic, of making sure this kind of thing didn't happen, and none of them were working. She'd kept tabs on the few Gifted who lived wholly outside the DMA – all save Von Ratched, who they could rarely find, and who never lingered long once they had.
Even if he'd been capable of doing this, which he patently wasn't, he wouldn't. The bastard detested disorder of any kind – but that probably wouldn't stop him coming here to investigate. His curiosity would probably compel him, though at least for now he'd have a hell of a time getting into the country.
No, it wasn't him, or any of the other Gifted, but was Lord Thranduil really the only Elf left? Oh, he said he'd know if there were others, but it was a big world, and some of the DMA's sparse records indicated that not all Elves had been benevolent.
Not knowing drove her mad – though not as mad as the clogged motorway she and Julifer shortly reached. Some chloropath had evidently been hard at work, likely without meaning to; a net of morning-glories stretched clear across the road, a tangle some two stories high. Getting to Lasgaelen was going to take time they didn't have.
Lorna woke to a minor earthquake, and had to claw the oxygen mask off her face so she could sick up off the side of the bed. The sound of her vomit splattering on the tile only made her do it again.
"Fuck my life," she groaned, spitting bile. She needed a glass of water, but that would involve hauling her sorry carcass off the bed.
How long had she been unconscious, and just what the hell had happened while she'd been out? Aside from a bloody earthquake. She considered shouting for someone, but decided it was too much effort. Sooner or later somebody would come in to make sure she wasn't dead.
Christ, her head still hurt. It wasn't like any other headache she'd ever had – it felt like her brain was pulsing, like something spiky had lodged itself in the center and was now trying to claw its way free. Some kind of heavy-duty opiate had dulled it, but it was still a little too there.
So were the thoughts that weren't hers, but they seemed a step removed from her, lacking the terrifying urgency of earlier. It was more like being on some heavy-duty drugs, and God knew she had enough experience with those.
It's the end of the world as we know it, she thought. I wish I felt fine. Where were Thranduil and the twins? She didn't doubt he'd got them somewhere safe, at least. For all his creepy lack of boundaries in some ways, there were other things she knew she could depend on him for. That conversation wasn't over, but like hell did she want to continue it right now. That could happen once she was sure it actually wasn't the end of the world.
Sveta came striding in, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "Ty zakonchila?" she asked, forcing Lorna to actually have to think to come up with a response. She was pretty sure she'd just been asked if she was done sicking up.
"I think so," she said. "I hope so."
Sveta's eyes narrowed. "In Russian," she said. "You need to practice. Your accent is atrocious."
Lorna racked her brain. "Dumaju, da. Nadejus'," she said carefully, though there wasn't much point; her Irish accent persisted no matter what language she spoke. "V tjur'me vyuchila. I mnogo let ne razgovarivala."
"Well, you will have time to learn. God knows we'll probably be stuck for a while."
Given that Thranduil still wanted her to learn Sindarin, it was a damn good thing she had an ear for languages. Still, she was likely to mix them up, at least at first.
Why was she thinking about something so trivial? But then, the thoughts weren't only hers; some of them had to be Sveta's, for they were in Russian.
Christ, her head hurt.
It must have been obvious, for Sveta said, "Your husband will come and build you a block, to keep everyone else out of your head."
Lorna didn't bother saying Thranduil wasn't actually her husband. He pretty much was, ceremony or no ceremony, no matter how creepy he could be. At the moment, that hardly mattered. "Where is he?"
"Telling everyone to gather their things to move underground with him. Until these earthquakes stop, it's not safe to stay here."
"Earthquakes?" Lorna asked, struggling to sit up. "Plural?"
"You have missed much, during your nap," Sveta said, shaking her head as she went to the sink, filling a plastic cup with some water. "If we had had any idea what your Lord Thranduil's magic would do, we would have just relocated you all until your government could be dealt with."
Lorna took the glass from her, washing her mouth out and leaning over to spit in the sink before taking an actual drink. "You wouldn't have been able to shift most'v us," she said. "Most'v them have lived their whole lives in Lasgaelen. I'm not sure they'd leave for anything short'v nuclear war – and there's a few I'd wonder about even then." It was a point of pride with Old Orla, that she'd only left Lasgaelen once in her entire life. The villagers had been strangely territorial even before Thranduil actively entered their lives; yes, there were many that had moved away once they reached adulthood, but those that stayed were stuck like barnacles.
"They ought to be ready for it anyway," Sveta said. "We have no way of knowing yet just what is coming."
Thranduil appeared in the doorway before she could say anything more – a Thranduil who, while a touch paler than normal, was in enviably full possession of himself. Exasperating and unsettling as he could be, Lorna really did love him, and she couldn't help but smile a little now.
"Sveta believes I might be able to help you," he said. "You must remain as calm as you can, under the circumstances, but I need not go into your mind – I simply must touch it."
"I'll leave you to it," Sveta said, squeezing past him. Lorna only half registered her leaving, because Thranduil's plan disturbed her immensely.
"It will not harm you, Dilthen Ettelëa," he assured her, or tried to. Hard as he was to read, he didn't sound entirely sure himself. But then, how could be he – she doubted he'd ever done anything like it before.
She drew a deep breath, trying to orient herself. She knew that Thranduil would never hurt her – that he wouldn't be doing this if he truly thought it might do her any lasting harm. "Okay," she said, "hit me."
The look he gave her was absolutely appalled. "What?"
"It's a figure'v speech. It means 'let's get this over with'."
He still looked disconcerted, but he stepped forward and laid his cool hands on either side of her face. "Be still," he said. "This might feel peculiar, but it should not hurt."
I hope not, she thought, and tried to do as instructed, distracting herself by trying to call up all the Russian she remembered. She had a feeling Sveta was serious about teaching her how to speak it properly – and hell, maybe she could actually learn how to read it. Raisa had tried to teach her, but she'd been utterly hopeless at it. At least Irish, Welsh, and English all had roughly the same alphabet; when confronted with something so totally different, her brain had promptly locked up. It didn't help that her spelling in the other three languages was abysmal to begin with.
Thranduil was right – quite abruptly her head felt…odd. It wasn't painful, but it was like nothing she had ever before known: a strange sort of pressure, though not unpleasant. It sent a feeling of warmth through her, soothing her unsettled stomach and loosening the tension in her limbs. In fact, it was making her tingle in rather inappropriate places, and she wondered just what the hell he was doing. She didn't want to break his concentration to ask, and it wasn't like she was complaining.
Her eyes drifted shut, that warmth coiling and solidifying in her core. Now was not the time or place to be having a wank, but it was tempting. A little too tempting. She tried not to squirm in her seat as the sensation grew and strengthened, entirely without physical contact save his hands on her skin.
She moaned before she could help it, and Thranduil's fingers twitched against her face. "Keep going," she said. "You're right – this doesn't hurt at all."
"I did not realize you were so very starved, Dilthen Ettelëa," he snorted. "Nor did I expect this side-effect."
"I'll take what I can get. Now keep on."
"I suppose it is just as well you are enjoying this," he said dryly. The heat rose yet further, blanking out everyone else's unwelcome thoughts.
Lorna gave up trying to sit still, and she didn't need to look at Thranduil to know he was as amused as he dared to be. He could smirk all he liked, provided he didn't stop doing what he was – oh. She wasn't quite sure just what sound left her throat, but it was probably embarrassing. She didn't know if there was an actual earthquake or just one in her pants, and she didn't care. This was everything she'd been trying and failing to give herself for months.
When she opened her eyes, she found that Thranduil was indeed smirking. "I believe your people have a saying," he said, running his hands through her tangled hair. "Was it good for you?"
Lorna thwacked him in the ribs. "Yes, and you know it. Let's get the twins, some stuff, and get out'v here before the whole bloody village collapses."
Nice, Thranduil. Very nice. At least somebody is enjoying themselves.
Ty zakonchila? = Are you done yet?
Dumaju, da. Nadejus'. = I think so. I hope so.
V tjur'me vyuchila. I mnogo let ne razgovarivala. = I learned in prison. I have not spoken it in years.
Title means "It gets worse" in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with hope.