The Ways of Paradox by Narya

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The Croaking Chorus

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“Claire! Claire, get up!”

Theo. Unusual for him to be the first one awake, and chivvying everyone else out of bed. I blinked, my brain still fuzzy, and rolled over inside my cocoon of covers. The light slanting in through the curtains was oddly bright for the time of day and year. “What?” My voice was a useless croak. I cleared my throat and tried again. “What's up?”

“The snow's settled!”

That explained the light's odd, glittering quality.

“And results are in.”

He sounded less enthused by that. I smiled and reached for my hoodie, figuring tea and sympathy might be in order. It was early for results, I thought, checking the clock; the weekly university briefing email had said to expect them in the evening. Perhaps they hadn't wanted everyone logging on at once and crashing the system.

Theo was the only one looking disappointed; Harrison gave me a grin and a thumbs up, and Rosie was bouncing excitedly on the big sofa.

“I got a First!” she squealed.

“Nice! Harrison?”

“Solid Two-one. I'll take it.”

“Well done.” I hesitated. “Theo?”

He shrugged. “I passed.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, then flipped open my laptop lid and logged into the portal, not quite dreading the news but not anticipating brilliance either.

“What's the damage?” Harrison asked.

“Merit.” I exhaled. Right at the top of the grading bracket, too; I could build on that.

“Come again?” Theo frowned.

“Mlitt gradings are different; basically I'm in the top part of the middle cohort.” I coughed. “Do we have any throat sweets?”

“I'll go to Boots for you later.” Harrison went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of cold water. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

Theo was flicking through his phone. “Byrdie got a First too, jammy sod. I don't know how, he never does any work.”

“What's he studying?” I asked curiously.

“Medicine.” Theo grinned. “Should I get him over here to examine your cold?”

“No, thank you. If I need a doctor I'll see a proper one.”

“Oh, ouch!” His eyes flashed. “Shall I tell him you said that?”

“If you like.” I found the brash, rugby-playing, hard-partying Byrdie difficult to reconcile with my idea of a would-be medic.

“Gosh, you're not even fighting back; you must be ill.”

“Leave her alone.” Rosie slid off the sofa. “I'll make you a hot water and lemon – and then I'll pop out and get the bits for French toast. We can celebrate all safely getting through to this semester.”

“Speaking of celebrating.” Theo looked up. “Snowball fight in the cathedral? Seb and Byrdie are organising it.”

“Then Winter War Games is probably a more accurate description.” Harrison smiled and shrugged. “Sure; why not?”

“Rosie?” Theo called over the rising chatter of the kettle. 

“I'll stay with Claire,” she shouted back.

“Actually I might go too. Just to watch,” I added as Harrison raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “The fresh air will probably do me good. And I'm not missing my first St Andrews snowfall. We never got proper snow in London; it always turned to grey sludge in about five minutes flat.”

“What about Mark?” Theo asked. “Would he be up for it?”

I considered, picturing him with his large family, and remembering the deep river of affection in his voice when he spoke of them. They must have had some joyful times together, before and in between the bad ones. “Maybe.”

“I'll drop by on the way to the shops and ask him.” Rosie popped her head back around the door. “Any more orders for tea and coffee?”

By ten o'clock we were all fed, caffeine-fuelled and wrapped in so many layers we looked like snow people. The commuters and secondary school students had disturbed the first fall on the main streets, but it clung fresh to the stones and grounds of the cathedral, thick and fluffy and dense, catching the usual echoes of exuberant chatter and the roll of the sea and muffling them in its frozen embrace. A seagull landed on the archway at the top of the Pends as we approached, and it cried out, the edges of its mournful wail softened. The early morning sun had huddled away behind mounds of charcoal clouds, and fat, frozen flakes continued to fall.

“Brr.” Rosie shivered as we slipped through the iron gate.

“What's the matter?” Theo sneaked up behind her and ran a finger down her neck. “Scared of the ghosts?”

Rosie was about to retort when a large clod of snow came flying through the air and smacked Theo in the side of the head, and instead she snorted and began to giggle. Whooping and cheering echoed from behind a nearby tombstone. “I don't think it's the ghosts we need to worry about.”

Seb and Byrdie emerged from their hiding place, cheeks flushed with the cold, eyes glittering, both wearing sleek woollen overcoats. 

“I hate both of you,” called Theo, dusting snow from his hair.

“Bloody good shot, though, admit it.” Byrdie squeezed his old schoolmate's shoulders. “Good morning, all; how goes it?”

I replied without much enthusiasm – although Theo did look comical, carefully combing out his messy mop with his fingers.

“Give it up, bud,” Harrison advised, laughing. “It's melted now. Anyway, we'll all be wet and cold in a minute.”

“Some of us will, at any rate.” Seb, taller than either Theo or Byrdie and built like a willow wand, knelt to gather more snow. 

“Hang on, we can't have two rugby players on the same team,” Rosie objected. “That's definitely not fair...”

After some debate – during which more of Seb and Byrdie's rugby friends arrived, as well as some of the theatre crew, invited by Theo – they sorted themselves into teams and agreed on a loose set of rules.

“No snow down necks, no tackling above the waist, no tripping,” Theo repeated. “Got it.”

I settled myself on a bench in the cloisters, deciding it was as good a spot as any to watch the action from, and huddled into my scarf while the others limbered up. The rugby players in particular seemed to be taking it very seriously; some of the theatre lot, notably Xander and Rob, looked nervous – as did the curator peeping through the glass walls of the ticket office for St Rule's Tower.

“Well. This may be more dangerous than I thought.”

There was laughter in the familiar musical tones; I grinned, and shuffled along the bench to make space for Mark. “Hi.”

He raised an eyebrow as he slid in next to me. “Harrison's right; you do sound awful.”

“Thanks.” I didn't have the energy to be as indignant as I'd have liked. “Where did you come from?”

“I've been having a look around; I've never seen it in the snow.”

“Me neither. It's beautiful.” My eyes travelled over the familiar crumbled walls, the wild grasses and fiercely determined weeds that clung to its crevices now sprouting through the snow. The cries and taunts of the snowball fighters echoed through the ruins. “And...eerie.” I coughed. 

“Yes.” He gazed up at the tower, and the shadows sat sharply in his cheeks. “You know the stories, of course.”

“The mutilated nun on the Pends, and the friendly abbot on the stairs, and the White Lady that walks along the walls during full moons?” I kept my tone light, but more than once I'd hurried past the hulking stone skeleton in the dark, not quite daring to look inside. “Yeah, I've heard.” I looked at him again, and a chill crept through me that had nothing to do with the drifting snow or the frozen air. “Wait...you're not telling me that's all true?”

He laughed. “No, but this is a strange place. Thin. Liminal. More so even than the castle.”

“Like you might accidentally wander into the wrong bit of history.”

“Yes, exactly.” He closed his eyes. “The feel of it shifts with the time of day and year.”

I watched him, following the expressions chasing across his sculpted face. Somewhere behind me I heard Rosie shriek with laughter. “There's an old story that the relics of Saint Andrew are buried in here somewhere.”

“Brought out of Constantinople and gifted to the Pictish kings. I remember.” He opened his eyes. “Perhaps that's it.”

Again I felt that unearthly prickling of the air. “So there is something here? I don't mean malevolent nuns, but...”

“No.” He gave me a reassuring smile, and then returned his gaze to the tower. “Or at least – if there ever was, it has been asleep for a long, long time.”

“You can tell that?”

He nodded.

“How?”

“Listening. Feeling.”

I shivered, thinking of fog on the Barrow-downs and knives in the dark.

Mark glanced back at me, the far-away look fading into concern. “Are you sure you shouldn't be in bed?”

I folded my arms. “If you start behaving like my grandmother, we're going to fall out.”

“Grandmother?” His eyes flared, though he was laughing. “I'll get my own back for that one, just you wait.”

Cold, salt-tasting air tickled my face, and I nestled deeper into my scarf. “And you say Harrison and Theo have corrupted me.”

He looped one arm over the back of the bench. “I don't think I can fairly blame Harrison and Theo.”

As if on cue, the pair in question sprinted across the cloisters, yelling and laughing as Rosie and Ariana chased after them, pelting them with snow. 

“Are you going to join in?” I asked.

“Hmm.” He tilted his hand back and forth, a lazy smile on his lips. “I told Rosie I might, but...”

“DUCK!”

I did, but not quite in time. A fistful of snow hit me squarely in the curve between neck and shoulder, exploding into a frozen powder that sprinkled down my collar and under my scarf. I yelped, inhaled cold air and started coughing.

“Seb, you absolute twat,” laughed Theo, emerging from his hiding place. 

“I wasn't aiming for her.” Seb, lounging in a half-fallen archway, didn't look particularly apologetic. 

Harrison peered around the pillar he'd ducked behind. “Are you OK, Claire?”

“Fine.” I wriggled, trying to reposition my scarf so the chilly, damp part wasn't pressing against my neck. 

“I think we need a penalty for hitting non-combatants.” He bent to scoop up more snow, gazing coolly at Seb. “What do you reckon?”

Seb shrugged. “Suit yourself. We're wiping the floor with you anyway.”

Members of both teams had gathered to watch the exchange, wondering what had caused the lull in the action, and now a low, challenging murmur of “ooohhhhhh” ran through the onlookers and echoed around the snowy cloister. 

Harrison, though, just laughed. “Come on, Mark, get off the sidelines and help us win.”

This was met with encouraging whistles and cheers from the theatre crew. A slow smile spread across Mark's face, and he looked at me. “Will you be alright?”

“Yes.” I elbowed him gently. “Go on – I'm going back to the flat anyway. I'll have hot drinks ready for you all when you get in.”

The smile brightened into the mischievous grin I'd glimpsed in the practice room last semester, and again backstage before Pirates, when he'd shown me that ridiculous tattoo. He got to his feet amid excited whoops, and took his place on Harrison and Theo's side of the cloister. 

I made my exit before the snow started flying again.

***

The weather front remained stuck in the bay for almost a week. Each day tramping feet and car wheels packed the old snow hard, and then every night it froze into a treacherous ice rink, hidden by morning beneath the fresh powdery fluff on top. Like the snow, my cold lingered, and I coughed and spluttered my way through my Les Mis callback – although the others very sweetly assured me that it was in character, and that Xander knew I could sing better than that.

“Anyway, he knows he has to cast you; if he doesn't, three of his leads will refuse to perform,” Theo grinned.

I didn't have the energy to point out to him that neither he, Mark nor Harrison had officially been cast yet, and that the real world didn't – or at least, shouldn't – work like that.

The grey cat moved into the stairwell on a semi-permanent basis. Rosie bought it a bed and a litterbox, and left it food and water in the tiny ramekin dishes we never used.

“He still won't let me touch him, though,” she sighed.

“You don't know what's happened to him,” Harrison replied, not looking up from his computer game. “He might have been abused or something; he's probably just scared.”

“But he likes Mark...”

“He doesn't run away from him. I'm not sure that's the same thing.”

Rosie shrugged and went back to her knitting. It was looking a little less boggly these days – at least, she had managed to make something that vaguely resembled a scarf. “Anyway, he still needs a name.”

“We aren't keeping it,” I called from the sofa – as best I could without a functioning voice.

Mark, who had been staring out of the window, turned his head and smiled at this point. “I think it may be a little late for that.”

“Come on, Claire.” Theo nudged me with his knee. “There must be some good cat names in one of your books.”

Most of my suggestions from the Practical Cats were rejected (Rosie shrieked with outrage at the idea of calling our new lodger 'Skimbleshanks'), and in the end we settled on Jeoffry.

“But he goes back outside again as soon as the snow's melted,” I said firmly.

“Whatever you say,” Theo smirked.

I sighed. The battle was lost.

After a few days my cold shifted down into my chest and stubbornly stayed there – and, unfortunately, started spreading through the rest of the household. Even the casting confirmation email telling us we'd all got the parts we'd auditioned for did nothing to buck us up. We filled hot water bottles, excused ourselves from tutorials and rehearsals, and huddled at home with a stash of cough medicine and ibuprofen. 

Xander was furious.

“How can I put on a show when half my cast is sick?” he demanded over the phone one evening.

I rolled my eyes, even though I knew he couldn't see. “Don't exaggerate.” I coughed, and it grated painfully in my lungs. “Anyway, the show is months off.”

“Well, for Christ's sake, don't infect Mark. Without him, we're really screwed.”

Mark, sitting across from me, gave a low, melodic laugh. He had moved in almost full time since the rest of us got ill, making sure we got at least once decent meal a day, restocking tissues and medication, and keeping us supplied with tea. I was surprised, but secretly thrilled – and the younger three seemed intent on adopting him in much the same way they had done with me last semester.

“Claire? You still there?”

“Goodnight, Xander,” I sighed, and hung up.

Mark took the phone from me and placed it back in its holster on the book case. “I admire your patience.”

“Isn't he right, though?” Rosie frowned. “Should you be spending so much time here? We don't want to make you ill as well.”

“Don't worry about me.” Mark shot me a teasing look. “I have an excellent immune system.” 

I glared. There's no need to get careless.

His eyes widened; he gave the briefest nod of acknowledgement and changed the subject. “In any case, you might not all be ill to begin with if we could keep the flat at a sensible temperature. Has your landlord sent anyone to look at the boiler?”

“Has he fuck,” coughed Theo. 

“I did leave him a voicemail.” 

Harrison looked up from the table, where he was wearing one of the blankets around his shoulders like a superhero's cape. “Can you get him to take a look at the doors onto the balcony as well? They've swollen shut with the damp.”

Mark lifted an eyebrow. “Does anything work in this house?”

“Claire,” the boys chorused.

In spite of the pain in my chest, I laughed. “The balcony's not a disaster; it's too small for more than two of us at a time, and it's too cold to sit out anyway.” I swallowed another cough. “But you're right; we could do without the boiler turning itself off every five minutes.” I reached for my laptop. “I'll email him again.”

***

One advantage of being temporarily housebound was being able to leaf back through The Silmarillion in the peace of my bedroom, with no nagging guilt in my mind about tutorial work or cleaning or errands. I texted Ariana and asked her to bring me The History of Middle-earth from the library; Mark had offered to get us any books we needed, but it seemed strange to ask him to help me research his past, and anyway I didn't want the other three seeing him with anything Tolkien-related. I kept the books in my room, preferring them not to notice my sudden resurgent interest in Middle-earth, and especially not wanting them making any connection between Mark and the Elves of the legendarium. Harrison, certainly, was capable of making the leap in logic, even if he couldn't pinpoint a name – and if Rosie's flights of fancy had managed to cast Mark as a member of a fallen royal house, it wasn't a stretch to imagine her deciding he belonged to a mythical race of immortals. I suspected we were fairly safe with Theo, but as I'd pointed out to Mark, it was silly to get careless. We would, though, need to tell them something eventually. They might have stopped their curious speculations while he was practically living under their roof, but I was willing to bet it would pick up again as soon as we'd all recovered and things were back to normal.

The earliest chapters didn't tell me much, although I made notes as I worked through the Ainulindalë and the Valaquenta, reminding myself of points to cross-check against the books Mark had promised to show me. Fëanor's notes. I smiled, pausing with my pen above the page. From time to time the utter strangeness, the otherness of what I was doing rocked through me like giddiness from a fever. It was mad. Maybe I was mad to believe it – but I hadn't hallucinated the ethereal silver light that had limned him in the dark galley kitchen, and there was no counterfeit in the magic and sorrow that flowed through his music like a riptide in the bay.

When I reached the Quenta Silmarillion, though, it became hard to maintain even a veneer of academic discipline. I nibbled my thumbnail to a ragged stump as I read over Finwë's death, thinking of the wise, kind-faced man that Maglor – Mark – had shown me in his music, and my stomach crumpled into a cold, nauseous rag as the Valar asked Fëanor to give them the Silmarils.

“We ask a greater thing than thou knowest...” 

“...if I must break them, I shall break my heart, and I shall be slain...”

And nearer, full of grief, Mark's voice - “The Silmarils each hold a piece of Fëanor's soul.”

I swallowed the beginnings of tears and read on, through the terrible Oath and the flight, and Fëanor's wild, defiant pronouncement that the Valar, in the end, would follow him – and then, Alqualondë. Sick heat needled through my limbs but I made myself keep going, forced myself to imagine it. Horror on both sides; disbelief; fey, fierce war-cries; murder in the dark; blood on armour, blood in the water, blood on the face of the friend I'd grown to love. The bones in my legs seemed to vanish, the way they always had before court. It isn't who he is now - but it was, because how could a thing like this ever leave you, and he'd told me himself he would do it again...

I read on.

“On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also...”

Cold, clammy fingers crept down my spine. 

“...slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief...And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after...”

I dashed my hand across my eyes, laid the book aside, and wriggled out from under the duvet.

“Mark?” I called, padding out into the corridor. My voice was a wavering croak – again.

“In the kitchen.”

I followed the spiced, rich, savoury smell along the hall. He was stirring a casserole dish on the hob, his hair caught in a loose knot at the base of his neck – although still covering his ears. He looked up as I slipped in and closed the door.

“What's this?” I asked, peering into the pot.

“Venetian bread soup. Wonderful for colds.” He smiled. “Not that I'd know first hand, of course.” 

“No.”

A gentle tilt of the head. “That isn't what you came to ask me, is it?”

I bit my lip. “I've...I've been reading.”

“Ah.” The smile faded, and he glanced at the door. 

“I know we can't talk about it here.” Not even with two closed doors between us and the others. “And it's nothing I didn't know already. It's just...I thought I got it, I thought I could handle it. And I can, I think, but...it's not like flicking a switch. It's not a case of learning the truth, and then just carrying on. Seeing it set out on the page...” I shivered. “Sorry. I'm not making a lot of sense.”

“I understand.”

I slipped my arm through his, not wanting him to think I was pushing him away. “Where did you learn all these Italian recipes?”

“It isn't as though I don't have time on my hands.” 

“Very funny.”

His mouth quirked. “I spend my summers on Torcello. I have a house there.”

“On the Venetian lagoon?” I sighed, imagining the sun setting over St Mark's Basilica, thinking of Hemingway and DuMaurier and deep turquoise waters and intricate bridges in pink and white stone. “Wow. Why there?”

“I never ceased to love Italy. Torcello is quiet, Venice is beautiful – and it's by the sea.”

Of course. “I think I'm jealous. I've never been to Venice. Actually I've never been abroad,” I confessed. “I did do Italian at school, but I've forgotten most of it now.”

“You'd be welcome to come out and practice it this summer.”

“Really?” My stomach and heart switched places. I hadn't expected that.

“If you have time, of course. And if you want to.”

I did want to. “I'm meant to hand in my dissertation in August.” I felt a twinge of guilt. “Although it might help if I decided what I was writing about.”

“There's plenty of time for that, surely?”

“Mm. I just don't want to be in a rush at the end.”

“You'll be fine.” He stirred the pot again, scraping the spoon along the bottom of the pan. “Have you really never been abroad?”

“Shocking in this day and age, I know.” I smiled. “We always went to Cornwall on holiday when I was little. When I was a student I was too busy to travel much, and once I started my job...well, you know what happened there.” 

He put his arm across my shoulders. “Tell me something else about yourself.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Something I don't know.”

I leaned against him, thinking. I didn't know what to say; my life was much like anyone else's. “I was Head Girl at school.”

He looked down, smiling. “That doesn't surprise me.”

“I nearly wasn't; a lot of the teachers didn't want me to be. I was...not badly behaved, but I'd read a lot of boarding school books growing up. Mallory Towers, The Chalet School Girls, that sort of thing. I loved all the pranks they played on the teachers – harmless stuff,” I added hurriedly. “Me and a couple of the other girls, Lucy and Puneet, would plan tricks and stunts for the lessons we didn't like. Our Maths classroom was two rooms knocked together, so there were two doors, and this one time we tried to sneak as many people out of the back door as we could before the teacher noticed. Somebody would drop a pen on the floor, go under the desk to get it, and then crawl out of the room. Somebody would go to the loo. Someone would say they needed something from their locker...nearly half of us were gone by the time Mr. Roberts realised anything was up.”

Mark laughed.

“And once we put cling film over the lab room doorway, so when the teacher tried to come in she just bounced back.”

“Oh, gods.” He shook his head. “You sound nearly as bad as my twin brothers.”

I hesitated, the mention of his family reminding me of our conversation we'd had that first night he stayed over. “You once said I was like one of your cousins...”

“Yes.” His smile grew soft with memory. “At times, you remind me very much of Fingon.”