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Gohen: Redemption

Beta: Ilye, Fimbrethiel

chapter three

He rolled out of the bed, his head pounding. It had been a week, and his head still ached. He stumbled into the bathroom, relieving himself while leaning his forehead to the wall. He fought back a wave of nausea before pushing away from the toilet, moving to the sink to brush his teeth. No time for a shower this morning; his guest should arrive soon, so he shaved and washed his face quickly.

In the mirror, the face looking back seemed haunted. Tired. And he was. He leaned his head to the side and peeled back the bandage from his neck. The bruising and swelling had finally gone down, and the two small wounds were almost gone. He put his foot on the edge of the tub and removed the gauze from his thigh, revealing a similar wound.

Two names formed in his head immediately: Vincent and Marcus.

David poured himself a cup of coffee and walked into his small living room. He pulled out a large book and laid it on the low table by the couch, along with his mug. He retrieved a few-weeks-old Seattle Gay News, a pair of scissors and some archival tape. David made himself comfortable on the sofa, sipping the coffee as he turned to one of the last pages in the large book.

Slowly and deliberately, David cut an article from the newspaper. He trimmed it, read it for the hundredth time, and then adhered it to the empty page of the book. The article showed Vincent, smiling brightly for the camera, with the head of the Pride Foundation; it told of the generous donation and all the work Vincent Laurel had done for the community.

While he waited for his guest to arrive, David idly turned back the pages in the scrapbook. There was the Miami tabloid article about the famous Dolphin Incident, of course. A few pages before that was a photocopy of the passenger manifest for the Italian cruise ship Antonia Doria. Two names in particular were highlighted: Marius D'amras and Vincenzo Laurellio. Both names were followed by the words "PRESUMED DECEASED". Presumed, of course, David thought, since the Antonia Doria and all 1,753 passengers and crew disappeared without a trace in the mid 1960's.

More pages back, and Marcus and Vincent's faces stared back at him from a faded black-and-white photograph. They were standing on a gangway, waving as they boarded a steamship. The picture was slightly out of focus, but not enough to blur the letters "RMS Titanic" on the side of the massive liner. Several pages before that was a yellowing newspaper clipping dated October 9, 1871. The city of Chicago had been engulfed in flames the previous night, and the article spoke of the heroism of individuals who tried to fight the blaze and rescue survivors. The picture accompanying the article showed a figure cradling a child in his arms -- a figure with Marcus' face.

David's personal favorite, though, was at the very beginning of this volume. The first page held an authentic "Wild West" wanted poster. The sketch was badly out of proportion, but to anyone who had met the man himself, it was clearly Vincent Laurel. According to the poster, Victor Logan was wanted by the authorities in Kansas City for "crimes of an unspeakable nature". David had spent many hours wondering exactly what could have been bad enough in those times that they could not be spoken of. Whatever they were, though, the Kansas City police apparently satisfied their desire for justice because the facing page held Victor Logan's death certificate with a notation that he had been "hanged by the neck until dead".

He was still musing over the possibilities when he heard the knock at the door. His guest was finally here. David set the scrapbook on the table and went to open the door.

"I want to see these wounds. How are you feeling? Any aftereffects? Have you seen them since then?"

David was pushed to the side as his father stormed into the loft apartment. "Hello to you, too, Dad."

Maglor heard Erestor's distinctive chortle for the third time in as many minutes, and finally had enough. He had few guilty pleasures, but the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle was one of them. It was very difficult, though, for him to remember an eight-letter word for "Gounod vocal composition" with his hyena of a lover braying in the next room. Huffing in annoyance, he placed the newspaper on the side table and stood the quill he'd been using in its place beside the inkwell. He got out of the recliner, wiping his blackened fingertips against his faded blue jeans rather than risk damaging the T-shirt that proclaimed "Dragon: The Other White Meat" that he bought at the local Renaissance Festival three years ago.

The small personal library was directly off the living room, and Erestor had left the door open, as usual. Maglor leaned against the doorframe and was about to scold him for it, but words simply failed him. Erestor lay draped across the overstuffed chair, head resting on a pillow against one arm, and legs crossed hanging over the other. He wore his favorite black silk pajama bottoms, and his chest was bare and smooth, almost glowing in the lamplight. He had not noticed Maglor's approach, or at least gave no notice of it. Maglor leaned in, trying to catch the title of the book that Erestor found so amusing.

"Oh, Valar, not that again!" he groaned.

Erestor looked up from his battered and dog-eared copy of The Silmarillion. "What?"

"Why do you keep reading that rubbish?"

"Excuse me, you lived this rubbish, remember?" the younger vampire chided, raising an eyebrow.

"No, I lived that," Maglor insisted, pointed a slender finger to a large red book on the far shelf, wedged between "Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns" and "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix".

Erestor followed Maglor's finger with his eyes, and then shrugged.

Maglor rolled his eyes. "All right, then. What is it that you find so amusing that you feel it necessary to chortle like a madman?"

"This whole passage about Ecthelion is hilarious. Do you know, it actually says that he killed Gothmog on purpose? As though he would consciously decide to stumble head first into a Balrog and then fall backwards into a fountain! Not to mention, this makes it sound like that fountain was fifty feet deep! It was barely chest deep, and he managed to drown in it."

"Well, he did have a Balrog lying on top of him."

"He was also drunk at the time."

"And how do you know that?"

Erestor cocked his head toward the far shelf, indicating the same red book Maglor had pointed to earlier.

Maglor shifted his weight, moving slightly away from the doorframe. "Really?" he asked with genuine interest in his voice. "Maybe I should read that one after all."

The black-eyed Elf laid the book on a side table and regarded Maglor coolly. "I don't think you'd enjoy it that much. There aren't any pictures at *all*."

"Ha ha. Watch out, or I'll rig the DVD player to replay The Council of Elrond over and over and turn the volume way up. Again."

Erestor groaned. "Oh, all right. I need a brandy. Do you want one?"

"Do I ever say 'no' to that question?"

Erestor stood and started for the door. "No, I asked 'Do you want brandy?', not 'Do you feel randy?'" he teased, earning him a swat on the backside from Maglor as he passed.

Maglor noticed that Erestor had knocked the book onto the floor, and he bent to pick it up. The book fell open in his hand at Erestor's bookmark. Sure enough, there was Ecthelion in his heroic glory, valiantly sacrificing himself to destroy the Lord of the Balrogs. His curiosity piqued, he wondered about what this Tolkien fellow had to say about the real hero of that day.

The elder vampire turned the page, and his mouth fell open. Erestor had blackened the entire passage that would have dealt with the passage through the Cirith Thoronath. Flipping back a few pages, Maglor found other passages blacked out. He turned to the end of the book, to the index. Sure enough, there it was -- one thick black mark between Glóredhel and Golodhrim.

Erestor walked through the door again, carrying two snifters of brandy. He stopped short, his eyes wide as Maglor held up the index of the Silmarillion, displaying the dark mark.

"Was it that far off?" Maglor asked, his grey gaze boring into Erestor's.

Erestor was still for a moment, and then kicked back the small amount of brandy in one of the glasses. His eyes fell to the second glass, which he promptly kicked back as well. Erestor calmly placed the fragile glasses on the nearby bookshelf and said in a low, dangerous voice, "Give that to me."

Maglor closed the book slowly, handing it to Erestor who snatched the volume from him. "You have to talk about it eventually, Erestor."

Erestor purposefully turned his back to Maglor, retreating to their bedroom with Maglor close behind him. Maglor's voice was tight, sharp as he called after Erestor. "Dammit Erestor, how long do you intend to keep this up? Pretending he didn't exist?" The book flew past Maglor's nose, thudding heavily against the wall. Maglor took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm in the face of Erestor's pain and anger. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, less harsh. "Why do you do this to yourself? You wallow in the past, in those musty old books downstairs. And yet, you deny your own past, no matter how much it hurts you to do so."

"Let it go, Maglor," Erestor warned, his face tight with anger.

Maglor crossed his arms, his temper flaring. "How about this time we don't let it go? How about you face up to the truth and tell me what happened?"

Erestor looked out one of the large windows. "It doesn't matter. It's done."

The elder vampire stepped forward, raising his voice at his lover. "You loved that Elf for so very long!"

"Haven't you heard?" Erestor sneered. "This is the twenty-first century; there is no such thing as Elves."

"Well, you sure as hell aren't Doctor Spock with those ears!" Maglor spat.

Erestor shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's Mister Spock, you idiot," Erestor said, waving his hands at Maglor. "Doctor Spock wrote books about raising children!"

Maglor smirked. "Really? Did he ever write one on how to deal with temper tantrums? Children in denial?"

"Yes," Erestor replied calmly. "It was called 'Leave Me the Fuck Alone If You Don't Want A Steel Rod Through Your Chest'."

Ever the sarcastic one, Maglor replied, "Does it come in paperback? Or better yet, Books On Tape?"

Erestor began making their bed... again. "You know, just go back to your crossword, Maglor."

"Erestor!" Maglor yelled, grabbing the shorter Elf by the shoulders and forcing him to meet his gaze. "He existed! You cannot wipe him out by never saying his name, by crossing him out of books! He was real. He was alive. He was your heart. He was your goddamn soul!"

"Fine!" Erestor cried out, tears forming in his eyes. "If I tell you, will you fucking drop it? Forever?" he asked, amazing both himself and Maglor with the extent of his vulgarity this day.

Maglor released Erestor's trembling shoulders, taking his lover's hand in his and drawing him to the bed. Erestor rested his head wearily against Maglor's shoulder and drew in a deep breath.

"1679 was when it started to go wrong," he began. "We were Prague. The Black Plague was rampant; death was all about us. We didn't know then, but there was another plague starting that year. A plague with only one victim.

Glorfindel."


	Navigation multi-story arcs previous next		Gohen: Redemption Beta: Ilye, Fimbrethiel chapter three He rolled out of the bed, his head pounding. It had been a week, and his head still ached. He stumbled into the bathroom, relieving himself while leaning his forehead to the wall. He fought back a wave of nausea before pushing away from the toilet, moving to the sink to brush his teeth. No time for a shower this morning; his guest should arrive soon, so he shaved and washed his face quickly. In the mirror, the face looking back seemed haunted. Tired. And he was. He leaned his head to the side and peeled back the bandage from his neck. The bruising and swelling had finally gone down, and the two small wounds were almost gone. He put his foot on the edge of the tub and removed the gauze from his thigh, revealing a similar wound. Two names formed in his head immediately: Vincent and Marcus. David poured himself a cup of coffee and walked into his small living room. He pulled out a large book and laid it on the low table by the couch, along with his mug. He retrieved a few-weeks-old Seattle Gay News, a pair of scissors and some archival tape. David made himself comfortable on the sofa, sipping the coffee as he turned to one of the last pages in the large book. Slowly and deliberately, David cut an article from the newspaper. He trimmed it, read it for the hundredth time, and then adhered it to the empty page of the book. The article showed Vincent, smiling brightly for the camera, with the head of the Pride Foundation; it told of the generous donation and all the work Vincent Laurel had done for the community. While he waited for his guest to arrive, David idly turned back the pages in the scrapbook. There was the Miami tabloid article about the famous Dolphin Incident, of course. A few pages before that was a photocopy of the passenger manifest for the Italian cruise ship Antonia Doria. Two names in particular were highlighted: Marius D'amras and Vincenzo Laurellio. Both names were followed by the words "PRESUMED DECEASED". Presumed, of course, David thought, since the Antonia Doria and all 1,753 passengers and crew disappeared without a trace in the mid 1960's. More pages back, and Marcus and Vincent's faces stared back at him from a faded black-and-white photograph. They were standing on a gangway, waving as they boarded a steamship. The picture was slightly out of focus, but not enough to blur the letters "RMS Titanic" on the side of the massive liner. Several pages before that was a yellowing newspaper clipping dated October 9, 1871. The city of Chicago had been engulfed in flames the previous night, and the article spoke of the heroism of individuals who tried to fight the blaze and rescue survivors. The picture accompanying the article showed a figure cradling a child in his arms -- a figure with Marcus' face. David's personal favorite, though, was at the very beginning of this volume. The first page held an authentic "Wild West" wanted poster. The sketch was badly out of proportion, but to anyone who had met the man himself, it was clearly Vincent Laurel. According to the poster, Victor Logan was wanted by the authorities in Kansas City for "crimes of an unspeakable nature". David had spent many hours wondering exactly what could have been bad enough in those times that they could not be spoken of. Whatever they were, though, the Kansas City police apparently satisfied their desire for justice because the facing page held Victor Logan's death certificate with a notation that he had been "hanged by the neck until dead". He was still musing over the possibilities when he heard the knock at the door. His guest was finally here. David set the scrapbook on the table and went to open the door. "I want to see these wounds. How are you feeling? Any aftereffects? Have you seen them since then?" David was pushed to the side as his father stormed into the loft apartment. "Hello to you, too, Dad." Maglor heard Erestor's distinctive chortle for the third time in as many minutes, and finally had enough. He had few guilty pleasures, but the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle was one of them. It was very difficult, though, for him to remember an eight-letter word for "Gounod vocal composition" with his hyena of a lover braying in the next room. Huffing in annoyance, he placed the newspaper on the side table and stood the quill he'd been using in its place beside the inkwell. He got out of the recliner, wiping his blackened fingertips against his faded blue jeans rather than risk damaging the T-shirt that proclaimed "Dragon: The Other White Meat" that he bought at the local Renaissance Festival three years ago. The small personal library was directly off the living room, and Erestor had left the door open, as usual. Maglor leaned against the doorframe and was about to scold him for it, but words simply failed him. Erestor lay draped across the overstuffed chair, head resting on a pillow against one arm, and legs crossed hanging over the other. He wore his favorite black silk pajama bottoms, and his chest was bare and smooth, almost glowing in the lamplight. He had not noticed Maglor's approach, or at least gave no notice of it. Maglor leaned in, trying to catch the title of the book that Erestor found so amusing. "Oh, Valar, not that again!" he groaned. Erestor looked up from his battered and dog-eared copy of The Silmarillion. "What?" "Why do you keep reading that rubbish?" "Excuse me, you lived this rubbish, remember?" the younger vampire chided, raising an eyebrow. "No, I lived that," Maglor insisted, pointed a slender finger to a large red book on the far shelf, wedged between "Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns" and "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix". Erestor followed Maglor's finger with his eyes, and then shrugged. Maglor rolled his eyes. "All right, then. What is it that you find so amusing that you feel it necessary to chortle like a madman?" "This whole passage about Ecthelion is hilarious. Do you know, it actually says that he killed Gothmog on purpose? As though he would consciously decide to stumble head first into a Balrog and then fall backwards into a fountain! Not to mention, this makes it sound like that fountain was fifty feet deep! It was barely chest deep, and he managed to drown in it." "Well, he did have a Balrog lying on top of him." "He was also drunk at the time." "And how do you know that?" Erestor cocked his head toward the far shelf, indicating the same red book Maglor had pointed to earlier. Maglor shifted his weight, moving slightly away from the doorframe. "Really?" he asked with genuine interest in his voice. "Maybe I should read that one after all." The black-eyed Elf laid the book on a side table and regarded Maglor coolly. "I don't think you'd enjoy it that much. There aren't any pictures at all." "Ha ha. Watch out, or I'll rig the DVD player to replay The Council of Elrond over and over and turn the volume way up. Again." Erestor groaned. "Oh, all right. I need a brandy. Do you want one?" "Do I ever say 'no' to that question?" Erestor stood and started for the door. "No, I asked 'Do you want brandy?', not 'Do you feel randy?'" he teased, earning him a swat on the backside from Maglor as he passed. Maglor noticed that Erestor had knocked the book onto the floor, and he bent to pick it up. The book fell open in his hand at Erestor's bookmark. Sure enough, there was Ecthelion in his heroic glory, valiantly sacrificing himself to destroy the Lord of the Balrogs. His curiosity piqued, he wondered about what this Tolkien fellow had to say about the real hero of that day. The elder vampire turned the page, and his mouth fell open. Erestor had blackened the entire passage that would have dealt with the passage through the Cirith Thoronath. Flipping back a few pages, Maglor found other passages blacked out. He turned to the end of the book, to the index. Sure enough, there it was -- one thick black mark between Glóredhel and Golodhrim. Erestor walked through the door again, carrying two snifters of brandy. He stopped short, his eyes wide as Maglor held up the index of the Silmarillion, displaying the dark mark. "Was it that far off?" Maglor asked, his grey gaze boring into Erestor's. Erestor was still for a moment, and then kicked back the small amount of brandy in one of the glasses. His eyes fell to the second glass, which he promptly kicked back as well. Erestor calmly placed the fragile glasses on the nearby bookshelf and said in a low, dangerous voice, "Give that to me." Maglor closed the book slowly, handing it to Erestor who snatched the volume from him. "You have to talk about it eventually, Erestor." Erestor purposefully turned his back to Maglor, retreating to their bedroom with Maglor close behind him. Maglor's voice was tight, sharp as he called after Erestor. "Dammit Erestor, how long do you intend to keep this up? Pretending he didn't exist?" The book flew past Maglor's nose, thudding heavily against the wall. Maglor took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm in the face of Erestor's pain and anger. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, less harsh. "Why do you do this to yourself? You wallow in the past, in those musty old books downstairs. And yet, you deny your own past, no matter how much it hurts you to do so." "Let it go, Maglor," Erestor warned, his face tight with anger. Maglor crossed his arms, his temper flaring. "How about this time we don't let it go? How about you face up to the truth and tell me what happened?" Erestor looked out one of the large windows. "It doesn't matter. It's done." The elder vampire stepped forward, raising his voice at his lover. "You loved that Elf for so very long!" "Haven't you heard?" Erestor sneered. "This is the twenty-first century; there is no such thing as Elves." "Well, you sure as hell aren't Doctor Spock with those ears!" Maglor spat. Erestor shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's Mister Spock, you idiot," Erestor said, waving his hands at Maglor. "Doctor Spock wrote books about raising children!" Maglor smirked. "Really? Did he ever write one on how to deal with temper tantrums? Children in denial?" "Yes," Erestor replied calmly. "It was called 'Leave Me the Fuck Alone If You Don't Want A Steel Rod Through Your Chest'." Ever the sarcastic one, Maglor replied, "Does it come in paperback? Or better yet, Books On Tape?" Erestor began making their bed... again. "You know, just go back to your crossword, Maglor." "Erestor!" Maglor yelled, grabbing the shorter Elf by the shoulders and forcing him to meet his gaze. "He existed! You cannot wipe him out by never saying his name, by crossing him out of books! He was real. He was alive. He was your heart. He was your goddamn soul!" "Fine!" Erestor cried out, tears forming in his eyes. "If I tell you, will you fucking drop it? Forever?" he asked, amazing both himself and Maglor with the extent of his vulgarity this day. Maglor released Erestor's trembling shoulders, taking his lover's hand in his and drawing him to the bed. Erestor rested his head wearily against Maglor's shoulder and drew in a deep breath. "1679 was when it started to go wrong," he began. "We were Prague. The Black Plague was rampant; death was all about us. We didn't know then, but there was another plague starting that year. A plague with only one victim. Glorfindel."