Mirkwood Manor
by
Lacadiva
Chapter 3
* * *
"I'm not a baby. I can stay home alone."
"No, Tristan. I don't want you home alone.
"T.K.!"
"Whatever!"
Charlita raced around the kitchen, preparing breakfast, looking at her watch every few minutes and becoming more anxious as time progressed. School was closed for teacher meetings, and Charlita had received the requisite letter informing her as such, but she'd promptly forgot it. She had not arranged for a babysitter, and was loathed to even use the word babysitter in front of her son, or he'd go off on another tirade.
"Get your jacket," she said. "You're going to work with me."
"Ma!"
"Don't 'ma' me! Get your coat, let's go, I'm late."
Tristan ripped his coat off the plastic hanger, sending it spinning around the wood pole and crashing to the closet floor. A sharp look from Charlita, and he huffed and picked it up and put it back.
"You have to promise me," she said, putting her own coat on, "that you won't get me in trouble. Just keep quiet, and for goodness sake don't touch ANYTHING. I'm still new on this job, and my boss is a little ... eccentric."
"Like that last old geezer?"
"He was nice."
"He stank like old food in the trash can."
"Stop it. Mr. Greenleaf isn't old, and he doesn't stink."
"He probably likes little boys. Freak."
"What! What do you know about that?"
"I hear stuff, I'm not dumb."
Charlita didn't know whether to discipline him or sit down and have along, heart to heart talk with him. Unfortunately, she had time for neither.
"We're going to talk about this tonight, young man," she said, grabbing her son's wool cap and pulling it over his head and over his ears. She knew how sensitive Tristan was about his ears. The slight points that brought him so much grief were barely perceptible to her, but he claimed that the other kids noticed, making him the brunt of many jokes. She dared not tell him that the ears he hated so where inherited from his father.
Any mention of Valgur would send Tristan into paroxysms of questions about a man she'd fought heaven and earth the keep away from them. Her last meeting with him had been nothing like the first one. The first being sweet, innocent, with a veiled smattering of the sensual. This lead to a strange, Svengali-like relationship, and ultimately a short-lived marriage. Her last meeting was violent and terrifying, and almost cost her life. The scar from the knife wound still itched and pulled every now and then, reminding her of his infinite cruelty. She shuddered at the thought of Valgur, beautiful but evil – unusually tall, broad, long black hair cascading down his back, bright, hairless face and mysterious blue eyes, and the ears, tapering to thin points. Such an unusual man, who claimed to be from another time – and she had believed it! How could she have been so stupid? He promised to unlock so many dark secrets for her, but instead brought her to the brink of death.
"Mom?"
She snapped back to the present, and found the beautiful face of her son. There was worry in his eyes. He knew what she was thinking about.
"He's not coming back."
"Who, baby?"
"My father. And if he does, I'll take care of him."
Spoken like a true man of the house. Charlita hugged her son gratefully.
"Let's go," she said.
Tristan grabbed a handful of X-Men comic books off the coffee table before following his mother out the door.
* * *
She'd been working non-stop for about two hours, and for that time, Tristan had been satisfied to sit in a Chippendale chair in a corner and flip through his comic books. It was only a matter of time, however, before he would get anxious and want to roam and explore.
"Ma, can I go to the bathroom?"
"Sure," she said, head buried in a map.
"Where is it?"
"Down the hall, fourth door on your right. And don't go exploring. You go right straight to the bathroom and come right back. I don't want Mr. Greenleaf to find your wandering around his house."
Tristan left, feeling a world of pre-teen angst and parental disrespect pressing down on his narrow shoulders. Why couldn't life be more exciting than going to school and hanging out at his mother's weird boss's house?
Fourth door on the right. Why not see what was behind the other three doors?
Tristan opened the first door he came to. Not much going on there. A room full of plants.
He opened a second door. More plants.
He opened the third. Not a plant, but a very tall man with very long white hair. His expression was somewhere caught between anger and curiosity. And his face was so pale that he seemed as if he was glowing.
"Who are you?"
"MA!!!"
Tristan took off down the hall back to the archive room. He ran smack into his mother who was standing there terrified upon hearing her child scream for her.
"What is it?"
Mr. Greenleaf appeared at the door, and Tristan merely pointed. Charlita put a protective arm around her son, pulling him close.
"Mr. Greenleaf, this is my son, Tristan."
"I startled you," Greenleaf said. "I'm sorry."
"It's me who should be sorry," Charlita said. "I should have told you, my son's school is closed today. I neglected to arrange for a baby –"
"Ma!"
"Sorry...arrange for supervision....He was looking for the bathroom. I promise, he'll remain with me, and I won't let him wander around your house."
"I would appreciate that," Greenleaf said, eyes on the boy, smiling slightly. "It's a very large house, and I wouldn't want the boy to be lost."
"Why're you staring at me?" Tristan said defiantly at Mr. Greenleaf.
"Forgive me. There has never been a child in this house. Not since I purchased in many years ago. Would you like to see the rest of the place?
"I told you he was a freak," Tristan whispered to his Mother, who gave him a warning nudge.
"Do not fear me. I mean you no harm."
Charlita gave her son another little nudge. Something about her employer told her that her son would be almost safer with him than with her. Almost.
"Go ahead," she encouraged Tristan.
"What up with his hair?" Tristan whispered to his mother.
"I think he looks like he could be one of the X-men, don't you?"
This got Tristan's interest. He took a step toward Greenleaf and gave his mother one more look. She nodded, and he allowed himself to be ushered out of the door by the man who looked like a tall, willowy mutant superhero.
* * *
They ended up in the gardens. The calming, centering nature of the woodland realm in miniature instantly gave ease to Legolas' heart and mind. The calming effect on young Tristan was not lost on Legolas either. He watched as the boy seemed to take in all that was around him, breathe in deeply the air as if it were sweeter and more plentiful here.
Tristan reached out to touch a thick thorn of a rose bush, but instantly recoiled and looked to Legolas to see if he had done something wrong.
"Touch carefully," Legolas warned gently, then nodded in approval of the child's curiosity.
Tristan touched the thorn.
"Ow!" He quickly yanked his hand away and looked at his finger. No blood, no wound. Tristan shoved his hands into his pocket to prevent further injury or embarrassment.
"Why'd you let me do that?"
"The thorn hurt you?"
"Yeah."
"Then you have learned a very valuable lesson. You shall never do that again."
"You could have told me."
"Would you have listened? Now you know for yourself. Walk with me."
They continued to traverse the gardens, coming to a stop by an oak tree. There was still some shade, the last of its leaves clinging to wintering branches. They sat a few feet from each other. Legolas reached out to touch the grass, and noticed that Tristan did the same.
"You approve of this place?" Legolas asked.
"It's okay."
"Yes. It is 'okay.' It is the only place I know where I can be thoroughly at ease. I'm not comfortable with the pace of your world. Everyone racing about in metal boxes on wheels."
"You mean cars?"
"Of course I mean cars. I know what they are called. I speak metaphorically."
"Speak metaphorically with somebody else," Tristan shot back
"You have much anger inside of you."
"I'm not angry."
"What would you call it then?"
"Why do you care?"
Legoals found himself staring at the boy again. Tristan gave him a suspicious look.
"I recognize something in you, Tristan," Legolas said. "I care because I see in you what I found in myself many, many years ago."
"What?"
"You feel different. Set apart. Isolated. Not like your friends. Not so different that anyone could tell. Just something...slightly off. You're afraid that if they recognized it, they might persecute you for it. Or worse, abandon you."
Tristan shrugged his shoulders, pulling at the thick grass.
"My friends make fun of me sometimes," he confessed in a voice tinged with shame and regret.
"Then, are they truly your friends?"
Tristan merely shrugged.
"A friend is someone who would easily lay down his own life for you. And you for him. Can you say that about your friends?"
"Can you?"
Legolas looked up to the sky. The sun's brilliance made him squint.
"My friends are gone now."
"You mean dead?"
"Yes."
"That sucks. I mean, I'm sorry."
Legolas smiled.
"And they did lay their lives down for me. Many times."
"What if they had a good reason to make fun of you?"
"What would you consider a good reason?"
"My name, for one," he spat, then with even more distaste, "Tristan."
"What would you prefer?"
"T.K."
"And what does T.K. signify?"
Again, the boy shrugged.
"Tristan is a very noble name," said Legolas, "an ancient name, that belonged to a great knight warrior."
"Warrior?"
Legolas nodded. The boy let slip a smile.
"I know of no warrior with the name, T.K. You said your name was one reason for which you are persecuted. What is your other reason?"
Tristan shrugged again, and stared at the ground. Then he reached up and slowly removed his hat.
Legolas' blue-gray eyes widened. His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but the word could not find their way to his mouth. And when they did come out, they were in the dead language of the Elves.
* * *
Tristan saw the look of shock on Mr. Greenleaf's face, and instantly felt overcome by shame and embarrassment. What was he thinking? For a moment, he had believed that he could trust Mr. Greenleaf, that he was the only person who would understand him, not regard him as a freak.
He was about to run, about to put as much ground between Greenleaf and himself as he could. Nevermind how angry his mother would be later, or the punishment he would receive for running off, disappearing. He imagined in that split second that freedom from the trauma caused by his defective ears could only be achieved by running away, losing himself in the streets, going where no one knew him or cared about him. He saw himself racing down the streets, dodging cars, insults being hurled by the hateful masses....
Until Mr. Greenleaf pulled back his long, platinum hair, revealing his own pointed ears.
Tristan's mouth fell open, and stayed until Mr. Greenleaf himself encouraged him to close it with a finger to the boy's chin.
Greenleaf then smiled and said, "I shall honor your secret, if you will honor mine."
* * *
Two hours had passed, and Charlita was beginning to worry. Mr. Greenleaf and Tristan had been gone for quite a spell. Just as she had reached the point of stopping her work to go find them, Tristan came running back, happily grinning and racing straight for his comic books.
"Tris...I mean, T.K., where did you go with Mr Greenleaf ?"
"Just outside. We walked around the garden. It's kinda nice."
"That's all?"
"We talked some. He's cool."
"He is?"
Tristan opened a comic and settled down to read it, but his mother's silence commanded his attention. He raced over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.
"What was that for?"
"Nothing. Thanks for bringing me here."
Again, Charlita was speechless.
"Mr. Greenleaf said I can come and visit him anytime I want. Can I?"
"Can we talk about this at home tonight?"
"Sure."
Charlita was baffled again by her son's suddenly lack of brooding. He seemed genuinely happy. At ease. She watched as he wandered back over to his comics and sat on the floor.
"Oh, ma...?"
"Yeah?"
"You can call me Tristan."
That did it. Tomorrow, she would talk to Mr. Greenleaf.
* * *
She knew something was wrong the moment she stepped up to the door. She shifted the weight of the heavy grocery bag in her arms and looked down at Tristan. He was carrying his own bag, and looking up at her quite curiously. She thought for a moment they should run, but if the hairs rising on the back of her neck, or the sick knot of fear forming in her gut turned out to be for nothing, should would have felt ridiculous for frightening her son. So she dug quickly in to her shouldering bag and pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to her son.
"I forgot ice cream."
"No you didn't. You said I couldn't have any because I didn't clean my room."
"I changed my mind. Go get some now."
"Ma?"
"NOW!"
She snatched the bag from Tristan. Then took a deep breath, realizing he could see her fear. She formed an uneasy, unconvincing smile.
"Chocolate," she said. Tristan headed back down the hall to the elevator, looking over his shoulder curiously at his mother.
Charlita slid the key into the lock with a trembling hand. Once the door was open, she stepped into the dark room, leaving the door open behind her in case she had to run out. She quickly put down the grocery bags and reached for the light switch. Before she could touch it, a strong, leather covered hand clamped around her mouth, and an arm that felt made of steel grabbed her about the waist. She tried to scream, fought to scream, flailing her arms wildly, but her assailant only laughed, enjoying her struggle.
She recognized the laugh and ceased to move. She knew it would be to no avail.
And then she found herself flying across the room and slamming into a wall. She turned. The lights came on.
"Val! What do you want?"
Valgur turned his back for only a moment, throwing long, blue-black hair over his shoulder and revealing pale pointed elven ears before closing the door and locking it.
Eyes that were cold and empty and as dark as his hair bore into Charlita's. "I came to see how my lovely wife was doing, and to say hello to my son."
End Chapter 3. Comments if you like. Many thanks. Eat your peas.
Chapter 3
* * *
"I'm not a baby. I can stay home alone."
"No, Tristan. I don't want you home alone.
"T.K.!"
"Whatever!"
Charlita raced around the kitchen, preparing breakfast, looking at her watch every few minutes and becoming more anxious as time progressed. School was closed for teacher meetings, and Charlita had received the requisite letter informing her as such, but she'd promptly forgot it. She had not arranged for a babysitter, and was loathed to even use the word babysitter in front of her son, or he'd go off on another tirade.
"Get your jacket," she said. "You're going to work with me."
"Ma!"
"Don't 'ma' me! Get your coat, let's go, I'm late."
Tristan ripped his coat off the plastic hanger, sending it spinning around the wood pole and crashing to the closet floor. A sharp look from Charlita, and he huffed and picked it up and put it back.
"You have to promise me," she said, putting her own coat on, "that you won't get me in trouble. Just keep quiet, and for goodness sake don't touch ANYTHING. I'm still new on this job, and my boss is a little ... eccentric."
"Like that last old geezer?"
"He was nice."
"He stank like old food in the trash can."
"Stop it. Mr. Greenleaf isn't old, and he doesn't stink."
"He probably likes little boys. Freak."
"What! What do you know about that?"
"I hear stuff, I'm not dumb."
Charlita didn't know whether to discipline him or sit down and have along, heart to heart talk with him. Unfortunately, she had time for neither.
"We're going to talk about this tonight, young man," she said, grabbing her son's wool cap and pulling it over his head and over his ears. She knew how sensitive Tristan was about his ears. The slight points that brought him so much grief were barely perceptible to her, but he claimed that the other kids noticed, making him the brunt of many jokes. She dared not tell him that the ears he hated so where inherited from his father.
Any mention of Valgur would send Tristan into paroxysms of questions about a man she'd fought heaven and earth the keep away from them. Her last meeting with him had been nothing like the first one. The first being sweet, innocent, with a veiled smattering of the sensual. This lead to a strange, Svengali-like relationship, and ultimately a short-lived marriage. Her last meeting was violent and terrifying, and almost cost her life. The scar from the knife wound still itched and pulled every now and then, reminding her of his infinite cruelty. She shuddered at the thought of Valgur, beautiful but evil – unusually tall, broad, long black hair cascading down his back, bright, hairless face and mysterious blue eyes, and the ears, tapering to thin points. Such an unusual man, who claimed to be from another time – and she had believed it! How could she have been so stupid? He promised to unlock so many dark secrets for her, but instead brought her to the brink of death.
"Mom?"
She snapped back to the present, and found the beautiful face of her son. There was worry in his eyes. He knew what she was thinking about.
"He's not coming back."
"Who, baby?"
"My father. And if he does, I'll take care of him."
Spoken like a true man of the house. Charlita hugged her son gratefully.
"Let's go," she said.
Tristan grabbed a handful of X-Men comic books off the coffee table before following his mother out the door.
* * *
She'd been working non-stop for about two hours, and for that time, Tristan had been satisfied to sit in a Chippendale chair in a corner and flip through his comic books. It was only a matter of time, however, before he would get anxious and want to roam and explore.
"Ma, can I go to the bathroom?"
"Sure," she said, head buried in a map.
"Where is it?"
"Down the hall, fourth door on your right. And don't go exploring. You go right straight to the bathroom and come right back. I don't want Mr. Greenleaf to find your wandering around his house."
Tristan left, feeling a world of pre-teen angst and parental disrespect pressing down on his narrow shoulders. Why couldn't life be more exciting than going to school and hanging out at his mother's weird boss's house?
Fourth door on the right. Why not see what was behind the other three doors?
Tristan opened the first door he came to. Not much going on there. A room full of plants.
He opened a second door. More plants.
He opened the third. Not a plant, but a very tall man with very long white hair. His expression was somewhere caught between anger and curiosity. And his face was so pale that he seemed as if he was glowing.
"Who are you?"
"MA!!!"
Tristan took off down the hall back to the archive room. He ran smack into his mother who was standing there terrified upon hearing her child scream for her.
"What is it?"
Mr. Greenleaf appeared at the door, and Tristan merely pointed. Charlita put a protective arm around her son, pulling him close.
"Mr. Greenleaf, this is my son, Tristan."
"I startled you," Greenleaf said. "I'm sorry."
"It's me who should be sorry," Charlita said. "I should have told you, my son's school is closed today. I neglected to arrange for a baby –"
"Ma!"
"Sorry...arrange for supervision....He was looking for the bathroom. I promise, he'll remain with me, and I won't let him wander around your house."
"I would appreciate that," Greenleaf said, eyes on the boy, smiling slightly. "It's a very large house, and I wouldn't want the boy to be lost."
"Why're you staring at me?" Tristan said defiantly at Mr. Greenleaf.
"Forgive me. There has never been a child in this house. Not since I purchased in many years ago. Would you like to see the rest of the place?
"I told you he was a freak," Tristan whispered to his Mother, who gave him a warning nudge.
"Do not fear me. I mean you no harm."
Charlita gave her son another little nudge. Something about her employer told her that her son would be almost safer with him than with her. Almost.
"Go ahead," she encouraged Tristan.
"What up with his hair?" Tristan whispered to his mother.
"I think he looks like he could be one of the X-men, don't you?"
This got Tristan's interest. He took a step toward Greenleaf and gave his mother one more look. She nodded, and he allowed himself to be ushered out of the door by the man who looked like a tall, willowy mutant superhero.
* * *
They ended up in the gardens. The calming, centering nature of the woodland realm in miniature instantly gave ease to Legolas' heart and mind. The calming effect on young Tristan was not lost on Legolas either. He watched as the boy seemed to take in all that was around him, breathe in deeply the air as if it were sweeter and more plentiful here.
Tristan reached out to touch a thick thorn of a rose bush, but instantly recoiled and looked to Legolas to see if he had done something wrong.
"Touch carefully," Legolas warned gently, then nodded in approval of the child's curiosity.
Tristan touched the thorn.
"Ow!" He quickly yanked his hand away and looked at his finger. No blood, no wound. Tristan shoved his hands into his pocket to prevent further injury or embarrassment.
"Why'd you let me do that?"
"The thorn hurt you?"
"Yeah."
"Then you have learned a very valuable lesson. You shall never do that again."
"You could have told me."
"Would you have listened? Now you know for yourself. Walk with me."
They continued to traverse the gardens, coming to a stop by an oak tree. There was still some shade, the last of its leaves clinging to wintering branches. They sat a few feet from each other. Legolas reached out to touch the grass, and noticed that Tristan did the same.
"You approve of this place?" Legolas asked.
"It's okay."
"Yes. It is 'okay.' It is the only place I know where I can be thoroughly at ease. I'm not comfortable with the pace of your world. Everyone racing about in metal boxes on wheels."
"You mean cars?"
"Of course I mean cars. I know what they are called. I speak metaphorically."
"Speak metaphorically with somebody else," Tristan shot back
"You have much anger inside of you."
"I'm not angry."
"What would you call it then?"
"Why do you care?"
Legoals found himself staring at the boy again. Tristan gave him a suspicious look.
"I recognize something in you, Tristan," Legolas said. "I care because I see in you what I found in myself many, many years ago."
"What?"
"You feel different. Set apart. Isolated. Not like your friends. Not so different that anyone could tell. Just something...slightly off. You're afraid that if they recognized it, they might persecute you for it. Or worse, abandon you."
Tristan shrugged his shoulders, pulling at the thick grass.
"My friends make fun of me sometimes," he confessed in a voice tinged with shame and regret.
"Then, are they truly your friends?"
Tristan merely shrugged.
"A friend is someone who would easily lay down his own life for you. And you for him. Can you say that about your friends?"
"Can you?"
Legolas looked up to the sky. The sun's brilliance made him squint.
"My friends are gone now."
"You mean dead?"
"Yes."
"That sucks. I mean, I'm sorry."
Legolas smiled.
"And they did lay their lives down for me. Many times."
"What if they had a good reason to make fun of you?"
"What would you consider a good reason?"
"My name, for one," he spat, then with even more distaste, "Tristan."
"What would you prefer?"
"T.K."
"And what does T.K. signify?"
Again, the boy shrugged.
"Tristan is a very noble name," said Legolas, "an ancient name, that belonged to a great knight warrior."
"Warrior?"
Legolas nodded. The boy let slip a smile.
"I know of no warrior with the name, T.K. You said your name was one reason for which you are persecuted. What is your other reason?"
Tristan shrugged again, and stared at the ground. Then he reached up and slowly removed his hat.
Legolas' blue-gray eyes widened. His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but the word could not find their way to his mouth. And when they did come out, they were in the dead language of the Elves.
* * *
Tristan saw the look of shock on Mr. Greenleaf's face, and instantly felt overcome by shame and embarrassment. What was he thinking? For a moment, he had believed that he could trust Mr. Greenleaf, that he was the only person who would understand him, not regard him as a freak.
He was about to run, about to put as much ground between Greenleaf and himself as he could. Nevermind how angry his mother would be later, or the punishment he would receive for running off, disappearing. He imagined in that split second that freedom from the trauma caused by his defective ears could only be achieved by running away, losing himself in the streets, going where no one knew him or cared about him. He saw himself racing down the streets, dodging cars, insults being hurled by the hateful masses....
Until Mr. Greenleaf pulled back his long, platinum hair, revealing his own pointed ears.
Tristan's mouth fell open, and stayed until Mr. Greenleaf himself encouraged him to close it with a finger to the boy's chin.
Greenleaf then smiled and said, "I shall honor your secret, if you will honor mine."
* * *
Two hours had passed, and Charlita was beginning to worry. Mr. Greenleaf and Tristan had been gone for quite a spell. Just as she had reached the point of stopping her work to go find them, Tristan came running back, happily grinning and racing straight for his comic books.
"Tris...I mean, T.K., where did you go with Mr Greenleaf ?"
"Just outside. We walked around the garden. It's kinda nice."
"That's all?"
"We talked some. He's cool."
"He is?"
Tristan opened a comic and settled down to read it, but his mother's silence commanded his attention. He raced over to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.
"What was that for?"
"Nothing. Thanks for bringing me here."
Again, Charlita was speechless.
"Mr. Greenleaf said I can come and visit him anytime I want. Can I?"
"Can we talk about this at home tonight?"
"Sure."
Charlita was baffled again by her son's suddenly lack of brooding. He seemed genuinely happy. At ease. She watched as he wandered back over to his comics and sat on the floor.
"Oh, ma...?"
"Yeah?"
"You can call me Tristan."
That did it. Tomorrow, she would talk to Mr. Greenleaf.
* * *
She knew something was wrong the moment she stepped up to the door. She shifted the weight of the heavy grocery bag in her arms and looked down at Tristan. He was carrying his own bag, and looking up at her quite curiously. She thought for a moment they should run, but if the hairs rising on the back of her neck, or the sick knot of fear forming in her gut turned out to be for nothing, should would have felt ridiculous for frightening her son. So she dug quickly in to her shouldering bag and pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to her son.
"I forgot ice cream."
"No you didn't. You said I couldn't have any because I didn't clean my room."
"I changed my mind. Go get some now."
"Ma?"
"NOW!"
She snatched the bag from Tristan. Then took a deep breath, realizing he could see her fear. She formed an uneasy, unconvincing smile.
"Chocolate," she said. Tristan headed back down the hall to the elevator, looking over his shoulder curiously at his mother.
Charlita slid the key into the lock with a trembling hand. Once the door was open, she stepped into the dark room, leaving the door open behind her in case she had to run out. She quickly put down the grocery bags and reached for the light switch. Before she could touch it, a strong, leather covered hand clamped around her mouth, and an arm that felt made of steel grabbed her about the waist. She tried to scream, fought to scream, flailing her arms wildly, but her assailant only laughed, enjoying her struggle.
She recognized the laugh and ceased to move. She knew it would be to no avail.
And then she found herself flying across the room and slamming into a wall. She turned. The lights came on.
"Val! What do you want?"
Valgur turned his back for only a moment, throwing long, blue-black hair over his shoulder and revealing pale pointed elven ears before closing the door and locking it.
Eyes that were cold and empty and as dark as his hair bore into Charlita's. "I came to see how my lovely wife was doing, and to say hello to my son."
End Chapter 3. Comments if you like. Many thanks. Eat your peas.