Disclaimer: I don't own the Silmarillion
Pairings: past one-sided Amrod x Thranduil
Characters: Thranduil, Oropher (mentions Amrod and some random Sindar as well as Mandos)
Warning: non-canon compliant AU, slash, past non-con (semi-explicit detail), mentions of blood and violence, insanity, severe depression, suicidal tendencies, catatonia, PTSD, unhealthy coping methods
Song: Monochrome Kiss
Words: 975
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alive (adjective): having life: not dead or inanimate; still in existence, force, or operation: active; marked by alertness, energy, or briskness
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/alive
Alive. Was that what this hell was called?
Being alive.
Thranduil did not like it at all. It was very cold. And very painful.
Lying there silently, he recalled the ceiling vividly. His head would move neither right nor left and his hands felt anchored to the sheets, as heavy as the towering mountain's very foundation. His muscles were filled with lead, and they would not flex.
His fingers would not even twitch.
And there was the ache. A constant, burning ache in his bones to accompany the writhing and screaming of his mind. Lying there day after day, having nothing to live for, wanting only to leave everything behind, was it any surprise he wished only to escape?
Yet no matter how he tried to withdraw within his mind--reaching for the door that would release his spirit, grasping and clawing at the locked handle until his nails were bloody and broken--there was nowhere to go. The door lay at the end of a long hallway full of barricaded rooms, their cold frames gazing out at him without compassion. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
Nothing to do. But sit and be alive.
That anyone would call this living was a sickening joke.
He could still feel. Feel the hand grasping at his, clutching tightly and squeezing. The lips brushing softly across his skin, on his knuckles and cheeks and brow. The warmth of heated water washing his bare flesh. The silkiness of sheets on his legs as he was tucked in each night.
Sheets... But the last thing he wanted to think about was a bed. And remember the wild silver eyes flashing with glee as he screamed and struggled.
And he could hear sounds. He could hear his father's voice, alternately frantic with worry and soft with sorrow. Sometimes raging violently and sometimes crying down upon his face. Most often it was whispering in his ear, telling him how much he was loved and wanted, how much Oropher wished he would awaken. How much his father wanted to see him move again, smile again and speak again. How much his father wished to hold him tightly again and never let go.
Thranduil had no desire for touch or for bodily comfort. The only comfort he desired was darkness and coldness. Away from here. Away from life.
There were also the healers. And he could hear their words as well.
That he was going to fade from violation. That he was going to die and nothing could be done to resuscitate his failing spirit. What a joke! Had he been able, he might have spared a bitter laugh at their expense! Did they not see that he was already trying to die, to remove his nuisance from their care? Did they not see that, had he been allowed to choose his fate, the time in which he would have descended into the gray of the Halls was long past?
Did they not see him struggling to cease his endless breath and close his distant eyes for good?
But no matter how he pulled at that locked door, it seemed there simply was neither a key to unlock its fastened edges nor blunt force to cave in its thick, hard wooden surface. Mandos did not desire him, and the Lord of the Death would not take him away to judgment.
"It is not yet thy time, little one. More there is yet for thee in this life."
More what? More suffering and displeasure? More pain to solidify the pitiful experience of fate?
More red on white?
What was there left for him here but a broken family and a ruined life? What was there other than scorn and hatred and terror to reign over his thoughts and feelings, ghosts from the past that could not be exorcised with time or dedication?
Memories that would never fade away.
And yet, as the months drew on, Thranduil slowly began to accept that he was not going to fade and die like the healers said, no matter how powerfully he willed his own fire to burn out. No matter how desperately he wished for there to be some sort of end. No matter how much he hated the truth of the matter, he was alive.
And he could not use death as a crutch to escape...
To escape the terror of ravishment. Of being tied down and bruised and forced. Of hands yanking his hair until the roots bled or of teeth imbedding themselves in his shoulders and throat, tearing into tender skin as he cried.
Of bodies joining through agony, spilling blood down his thighs...
Bitter though he might be, Thranduil felt the will to die leave his spirit slowly. Its acceptance was harrowing... sickening...
And when he finally moved for the first time since his rape all those months ago, he noted blandly that his skin felt warm and was flushed fully, healthy and pink. He stared down at his fidgeting, twining fingers until his father grasped his face between broad, callused hands and kissed his cheeks, pulling him into an embrace and rocking him safely like a child. Telling him how he was loved and cherished, how utterly relieved his lone parent was that he had survived. And all the while he looked over a shoulder toward the white-washed wall without reaction, without elation.
Within his spirit, fire blazed, refusing to go out. Stoked, it radiated heat into his very blood and chased away the lingering coldness. Bringing back sweet breath and the strong beat of his heart until the young elf knew he was wholly and completely alive.
But within his mind, Thranduil had never felt more... dead.
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You can blame Kuroshitsuji for most of this. I'm going through another phase, and Ciel and Thranduil have begun to sharply remind me of one another, though Thranduil is a little less spoiled rotten and clearly doesn't have a red-eyed demon butler to cater to his every whim. In any case, it just ended up writing itself like this.
I didn't touch on the pregnancy bit. I'm saving that for later. In fact, I have an idea at the moment already for later this week, not that most of you care enough to even read this, let alone bother to comprehend what I'm saying. But that's fine, ne~ Anyway, it's been ages since I continued this branch of the Cheat arc, and I think I shall enjoy picking it back up again after so long without.
Once again, blame Kuroshitsuji. The song for this story is SID's Monochrome Kiss, the opening theme of Kuroshitsuji Season 1 (the only season worth mentioning in my personal opinion--I would have preferred that Ciel just get eaten at the end of episode 24, but clearly that didn't work out as planned). In any case, look up the lyrics if you're curious. They didn't influence the piece a lot, but their general tone certainly resonates. And I just happen to like the song, as well, which always helps a lot.
Hope you enjoyed. Now, I've got to sleep. Lab tomorrow! Yay!
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