The Ways of Paradox by Narya

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Though the Moments Quickly Die

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The weather warmed; the greying snow melted into sludge, and Mark moved out as the cold virus slowly relinquished its grip on our house. My cough, however, lingered – unfairly, I thought, since I'd come down with it first.

“It's because you're getting old,” Theo smirked, adjusting his bow tie.

“Shut up.”

“Fact of life,” he said sagely. “Your immune system goes downhill after twenty-five. As does your capacity for drinking.”

“Well, you're screwed,” Harrison grinned. “You can't hold your alcohol to start with. Anyway, what's up with the penguin suit?”

“Rifle Club dinners are always black tie.”

“Of course they are,” I muttered, wriggling under the blanket and returning to Carol Ann Duffy.

“Meaning what?” Theo's tone was unusually cool.

I wasn't in the mood for an argument – and I knew I was being unfair. In my years as a lawyer I'd spent plenty of Friday nights wandering Canary Wharf in cocktail dresses or floor-length gowns, smiling and laughing with strangers at charity functions or client dinners. “Nothing. What time will you be back?”

He shrugged. “I expect we'll go to Aikman's afterwards, and then to Byrdie and Seb's.”

I exchanged a glance with Harrison.

“What?” Theo demanded.

“Nothing,” I said again. “Just...be sensible.”

But he didn't come home that night, or the morning after. By three in the afternoon Harrison was on the verge of going out to Hope Street to look for him – and then we heard his key in the door.

“Finally,” I sighed.

“Don't give him a hard time.” Harrison widened his eyes appealingly. “It won't help, and he'll only sulk.”

Theo, though, did look a mess. Purple-grey shadows sat in his eye sockets like bruises. His face was pale, and his eyes were oddly bright.

I resisted the urge to ask him what he'd been up to. “Cup of tea?”

The relief and gratitude on his face made me smile, despite the state of him. “Please.”

And so I boiled the kettle, and said nothing.

With the three of us back on our feet, rehearsals began in earnest. I wasn't in many of the same scenes as the others, but Rosie and I went to most of the early sing-throughs as moral support – and because we were curious about some of the new cast members.

“Who's the guy playing Javert?” I asked Mark, eyeing the tall, lean figure with tightly braided hair. I'd assumed that Aaron, as our best lower range male voice, would get the part, but he'd been cast as the Bishop of Digne.

“Luc Donadieu.” Marc gave him a nod as he passed us. “He's very good.”

“And good-looking.” Rosie smiled winningly in his direction. “Is he French?”

Theo rolled his eyes. “With a name like that, he's not going to be from the East Fife coast.”

“Well, you never know!” said Rosie defensively.

“Please move back in,” I murmured to Mark as they squabbled. “I'm losing my mind already.”

Mark laughed. “He's from Toulouse,” he informed Rosie. “He's doing a semester abroad.”

“So he's very new.” Rosie's smile took on a mischievous curl. “Maybe we should offer to show him the town.”

“What, all five streets of it?” Theo hunched into one of the plastic chairs and began flicking through his score.

I glanced at Harrison, who shrugged – and then Xander strode past, pencil already jiggling away between finger and thumb.

“Uh oh,” I sighed and picked up my tote full of library books. “Good luck, Mark.”

He arched an eyebrow in response. “I may well need it.”

Rosie, Harrison and I retreated to the back of the auditorium while Mark, Luc and the chorus of prisoners gathered around the piano to run through 'Look Down.' Whatever had Xander so wound up, the ominous introductory chords did nothing to ease it; his glasses were rammed into his eye sockets before any of the singers had opened their mouths, and by the first solo he was slouched so far down in his seat that I half-expected him to slide to the floor.

“How long before he blows up?” Harrison whispered.

I looked up from my notepad, considering. “If we get as far as Mark's solo, I'll buy you a whisky.”

“Done.”

But I'd reckoned without Luc Donadieu. He'd been waiting quietly at the back of the group, watching with chilly disdain as the gang of convicts lamented the heat of the sun and begged for mercy from their God, and now he flung his shoulders back and the chorus parted to make way for him.

“Now bring me prisoner 24601
Your time is up
And your parole's begun...”

Xander sat up and stopped jiggling his pencil.

“Crikey, he is good.” Harrison leaned forward, admiring.

Luc was talented, I had to admit. He had a deep, echoing baritone – not, I thought with a little bias, as warm or nuanced as Harrison's, and nothing close to Mark's astonishing tenor, but I knew now that was hardly a fair contest. It was his presence, though, that was startling; straight-backed and hard-eyed, he confronted Mark, only a flicker of the brows showing that the convict's story affected him at all.

“Five years for what you did
The rest because you tried to run
Yes, 24601!”

Mark's head snapped up at that, white fire in his eyes. “My name is Jean Valjean,” he snarled.

Luc took a step back that I was certain wasn't feigned. My arms prickled and my breath chilled in my lungs. I was supposed to be working, but this was electric.

The chorus evidently agreed; half of them didn't come in for their next line, causing Xander to shriek in frustration – and the spell was broken.

Harrison leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “Bloody hell.”

“Bit of a change from Pirates.” Ariana's light, good-humoured tones were appreciative as she dropped into the seat beside Rosie. To exactly no-one's surprise, she had been cast as Cosette. “Although I still think he's too pretty for Valjean.”

“Oh, give me fifteen minutes with the stage makeup and he won't be,” Rosie smiled.

I said nothing, watching Mark, who was studying his score and making notes, the now-familiar furrow between his brows.

***

A return to rehearsals also meant a return to studying. Even though I'd missed my first couple of tutorials, I'd done the reading and wasn't too far behind, so I was surprised when Dr. Moorfield asked me to stay behind after class one wet Tuesday afternoon.

“There's no need to look so worried.” He rubbed his glasses on his jumper, then sat them on top of his head. “I only wanted to ask you if you're still interested in mythology.”

My throat closed; my arms felt suddenly cold and light, and my palms and feet stung like I'd had an electric shock. Had he seen – heard – me with Mark? “I'm sorry?”

He flipped around the iPad he'd been using through the tutorial. It showed a copy of an article in an online journal, about feminism and mythic tropes in contemporary literature – my article, I realised, my heart skittering with relief. My only publication credit – not that it really counted. The website was selective but not peer-reviewed, and I'd still been an undergraduate at the time. “Oh. How did you find that?”

“I try to get a feel for my students' research interests before I start teaching them. I'd have asked you before, but you missed the first couple of classes.”

“I was ill,” I said defensively.

He put up a placatory hand. “I wasn't accusing you of anything. I only wondered whether this is something you might like to pursue further.”

“Oh,” I said again. My ears burned. “I...actually don't know. I mean, I am still interested in mythology, but that paper's seven years old, and I do a lot of theatre now – well, I did then – anyway, I wondered about something to do with textual transformation in performance, but that's been done to death...” I paused, realising I was babbling. “I need to think about it a bit more,” I admitted.

He nodded, his green eyes considering. “This is good, you know.” He tapped the iPad. “It's well-written – although your analysis might have been deeper, in places. And I think perhaps you could have looked beyond Carter and Le Guin.”

“Probably.” My blush deepened. “I was twenty.”

He laid the iPad on the table. “Why did you never publish anything else?”

“I took some time away from academia.”

He waited, as though expecting more, then shrugged and scribbled some bullet points on a piece of lined paper. “Here. A few reading suggestions – if you have problems accessing any of the journals, let me know. I'll find you a copy.”

Rosie, of course, took this as a sign that he was pining with unrequited love for me, and hunted through the School of English website until she found his profile.

“Oh, look at him!” she squealed. “He's so cute!”

Harrison rubbed his temples. “Rosie, he's a teacher, not a baby rabbit.”

“He looks like a grown up Harry Potter.” She grinned at me, face full of mischief. “Dr. Robert Moorfield...are you going to ask him out?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want to. Anyway, he's my tutor; it would be grossly inappropriate.”

“He can't be much older than you,” she protested.

“That isn't the point. It's the way it looks – nobody would ever believe I'd done my own coursework or written my dissertation independently.” I curled a strand of hair around my finger and scrolled through what felt like the tenth online article that day. “Not that I have anything to write a dissertation about. It sounds so easy when they tell you that you can research anything you like, but it's actually a complete pain...I'm too used to having structure.”

“Just pick something you're interested in,” Harrison said pragmatically. He and Theo were sitting at one end of the table, trying to work out the rules of a new board game (they had accidentally ordered the German edition). Outside, rain flung itself onto the cobblestones in diagonal rods and spattered onto the window.

“It isn't as straightforward as that.” I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “I really need something I can build out into a PhD thesis – 'a significant contribution to knowledge in my field.'”

“Ask Dr. Moorfield for some help.” Rosie grinned at me impishly. “I'm sure he wouldn't mind.”

I didn't take the bait. “I feel like I should come up with the initial idea, at least.”

“Talk to Mark,” suggested Theo. “What have you been doing round at his house the last couple of evenings, anyway?”

“Er.” I paused. “Interdisciplinary research project.”

He snorted. “Bullshit.”

It was bullshit, although not in the way Theo meant. Now that we weren't constantly under the same roof as the others, Mark had started teaching me the basics of his father's Tengwar script, and finding and translating passages in his notes that he thought might interest me. I thought about the previous night's session, when he had tried very hard not to laugh at my mangled attempts to replicate the script. It didn't help that I was far more used to scribbling hasty notes with biros than carefully shaping letters with a real nibbed pen, or that my spiked, angular writing style didn't seem to want to adapt to the flowing curves and swirls inked into the yellowing pages of Mark's books.

My pronunciation wasn't much better.

“It's softer,” Mark tried to explain. “Roll it, but don't trill – think of caro in Italian.”

I tried again. “Cirya.”

“Better.”

“You're just being nice.”

He tilted his head, smiling. “You only found out it was real a few weeks ago. Give it time.”

We were sitting on his bed, surrounded by piles of leatherbound books. Up here, unlike in his living room, there were a few personal touches that at least made it feel as though the place belonged to him. A framed piece of hand-written sheet music hung on the wall; a flute case rested by a collapsible stand, and my eyes kept straying to the intricately carved hand harp in the corner nearest the bed. The décor, though, was just as bland as the downstairs rooms – the sheets were a plain, pale grey cotton, the furniture chipped flat-pack, the wallpaper patterned with faded sprigs of rosebud. Cheap Argos rugs adorned the polished floorboards. Cardboard crates were stacked against the white-lacquered wardrobe; it was from these that he had pulled the gorgeous old volumes, all of them carefully stored in polythylene bags or artefact boxes. Whichever one we had open, I leaned against a small pile of rolled blankets or towels so I didn't accidentally crack or bend the spine. Mark assured me I didn't need to worry, and of course I knew these weren't the originals, but even so it seemed almost heretical to throw them about as carelessly as a paperback textbook from short loan.

My hand drifted to another book – the indigo one I'd seen him with in The Central, when I'd bumped into him after the Christmas holidays. I glanced at him for permission before opening it and carefully turning its pages. “I suppose Tolkien was a much quicker learner.”

“He was exceptionally talented.”

I looked up again at the muted note of melancholy in his voice. “How well did you know him?”

“As a person, not all that well.”

It was an unusually brief answer; Mark rarely left cryptic statements hanging in the air like that these days. Something cold and bitter twisted in my stomach. “But...?”

Mark shrugged. “His single-mindedness, his dedication to his craft, his work...I admired that.”

“You said it was an obsession.”

“And so it was.” His eyes met mine and flared. Have you never admired something and yet known it to be flawed, even dangerous?

The raw energy of it seemed to lift the skin of my scalp from my head. It broke through me like a wave, and the words sounded deep in my bones and echoed there – and then, with a whisper, withdrew. I wrapped my arms around myself, as though that would ease the strange sensation swirling in my gut. I thought of sand churned up by a storm, and for the first time since I'd known him, a curl of anger rose in me like a rogue current. He'd never done this before, or at least not with such force. “You know I have,” I replied coolly.

He was silent for a few moments, and then he looked away and sighed. “I'm sorry.”

“Not the most subtle point you've ever made.” Carefully I took his hand in mine, tracing my thumb over the terrible scars. What did you want me to say?

I don't know. He lifted a curious eyebrow. “Although I don't think this is a habit we should get into.”

“No.” Slowly, like sea-foam on a beach, my resentment dissolved, and I was left feeling hollow and unmoored. I let go of his hand and went back to the book. “No, you're probably right.”

Outside, a crowd of squealing, chattering students emerged from the pub. Gently I turned the pages, breathing in the sweet, dusty smell that rose from each rustling leaf – and then paused when I came to a diagram that was startlingly familiar. “Did you know Charles Darwin?”

He laughed. I wasn't sure it was genuine, but it would do. “I haven't met every famous historical figure.”

“Feels like it sometimes.” I lifted the book up and turned it around so he could see why I'd asked. “So what's this about?”

“Ah.” He took it from me and cradled it gently, holding it so we could both see the image. “That was originally the work of a friend of my nephew's.”

“Celebrimbor?”

He nodded.

My stomach fluttered. “Wow.”

“She was a mortal woman – a member of one of the research guilds of Ost-in-Edhil in the Second Age.”

I resisted the urge to say “wow” yet again. “What was her name?”

“Hirwen.”

Reverently, I ran the tip of my finger over the outline of the drawing. “She must have been amazing – to be chosen to work with all those Elves...”

“She came to them seeking knowledge, and understanding.” Mark glanced at me, his half-smile almost hesitant. “How could they turn her away? And here – look.” He reached for another book and opened it near the back. I couldn't read what he showed me, but it was clearly a list of some kind. “She wasn't the only one.”

The list wasn't long, but there were more names than I could count at a glance. I thought of Hirwen and her kin, working side by side with Celebrimbor and his craftspeople, the flames of the forges lighting their eyes. “Did you ever meet her?”

“Sadly not.” He closed the book and stroked its spine, then passed it to me. “Celebrimbor wrote that she burned like the fires of the sun.”

I thumbed through the thick, soft-edged pages, and stared longingly at the script I couldn't yet read. “Did she keep a diary?” I asked, suspecting with regret that I knew the answer. “Or papers, or research notes?”

“I don't know. I have nothing beyond what is written in these books, and very little of it is hers.” He smiled, and turned his face to the window. “I wish that were not the case, but Ost-in-Edhil was destroyed before the end of the Second Age. The knowledge we lost is...unfathomable.”

I closed my eyes, imagining that over the bustle of the town I heard a voice singing a lament, deep as night and as cool as the mountain air.

“Claire.” Lightly, he touched the back of my hand.

“Sorry.” I wondered how he bore it, how he continued to walk through all the Ages of the world, and felt my cheeks turn scarlet as I remembered that most likely he could see – or hear – everything that went through my mind. More to make myself think about something else than out of any real desire to know, I asked, “Which Age are we in now?”

“Since the end of the Fourth, I've stopped trying to delineate.”

“Why? What happened at the end of the Fourth?”

“Well, you must have heard stories of the Great Flood.”

“What – Noah's Ark?”

“That's one of them.”

“That was real?”

Another laugh – genuine, this time. “The animals going in two by two, and the extinction of the unicorns? No.” The mirth faded. “But the flood was real enough.”

I nodded, and looked down again at Hirwen's diagram of the ape gradually rising up to walk on two legs. “How did Darwin get hold of this?”

“He didn't. He studied, and hypothesised, and eventually reached the correct conclusion.” Mark gazed at the picture, an admiring smile on his lips. “Much as she did.”

I thought back to our conversation in the music room, about the myth of the flat world. “We weren't created, then. We did evolve.”

“Well.” The curve of his mouth grew bitter. “I suspect that you did.”

I looked at him carefully. The disdain in his voice, I knew, was not for me, or for the race of mortal Men. “But not the Elves. Sorry – Quendi.”

Slowly, he shook his head, his eyes distant and cool. “Where else in the world does one find immortal beings? No, we were made, I am certain of that. By whom, I could not say – although my father had his suspicions.”

I bit my lip, linking the resentment rolling off him with his tone when we'd touched on this before. “The Valar?”

“The Valar, Eru, who knows, and what does it matter?” He drew one knee upwards and draped his arm across it. “It is not natural,” he added, “for anyone – or anything – to last forever.”

There was nothing I could say to that. I closed the book and laid my hand on his arm, and sat quietly with him until the chapel bells told me it was past time for me to head home.

***

Now that I knew the truth of him I'd assumed the dreams would stop, but that night I woke up chilled with sweat. Fire and blood burned in the strange mental borderland between memory and sleep. I'd been trapped – bound with flaming cords – and then...

I shuddered, feeling sick. Snatches of it returned to me. Blue cloth trodden into the mud and gore. Scarlet eyes in a face black as Hell. A terrible scream, a sound no human voice should be able to make. And grief – not mine – as sharp as the blade of a sword, and as wild and dangerous as a wolf torn from its pack.

It was still dark outside, although at this time of year that didn't mean much. My phone informed me that it was quarter past four. I curled up on my side, tucked my duvet under my chin and breathed in the familiar lavender scent of my pillow. Of course, I knew what I'd seen. Maybe I should have even expected it, after what Mark had told me. I toyed with texting him before remembering he didn't have a phone of his own – and why would I, anyway? To tell him I'd had a nightmare? The idea was almost funny. I wasn't a child who needed to go crying for comfort after dreaming of monsters under the bed.

I rolled onto my back and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

***

Rehearsals, tutorials and research continued as the temperature slowly rose – although the sky still scowled darkly and spat rain from thick, heavy clouds. Rosie, however, was cheerful; it was her birthday at the end of the month, and she was starting to plan her party.

“Do you think I should invite Luc?” she asked one Saturday. The four of us and Mark were gathered at the back of the auditorium in Venue One, waiting for Xander to finish giving notes to the sailors and whores.

“Who?” Theo asked.

I looked up sharply. He might have been going for nonchalance, but he sounded more like a child in a pettish sulk.

“The French guy playing Javert.” Rosie gave a wicked smile. “The hot one.”

I exchanged a look with Mark, who shrugged one shoulder. What can we do?

“I can't decide if it would be super-obvious to invite him, or whether it would be rude not to,” she continued. “I mean, I'm asking most of the people who were in Pirates last semester...”

“Hold up, how many people are coming to this?” I laughed.

“Well, you four, I hope.” She batted her lashes. “And the theatre gang, and some Physics people. Maybe some of the girls from Halls last year, and...”

“I think we're going to need a bigger flat,” grinned Harrison. He glanced at the front of the auditorium, where Luc was laughing and joking with a few of the student revolutionaries. “Ask him. With that many people, it shouldn't be too obvious.”

She widened her eyes. “Sure?”

“Yes,” he laughed. “Look, I'll ask him for you, if you're that bothered...”

Rosie squealed and flung her arms around his waist.

“Alright, enough.” Xander's voice, suddenly sharp and raised, echoed from the piano near the stage. “Fantine, sailors, whores, you guys can go...” He consulted something on his clipboard. “Harrison. Theo. Students of the ABC café. Get up here and stir my soul.”

Rosie gave another squeal, softer this time, and drummed her feet on the floor. “I love this song!” Then she remembered who she was sitting next to, and she glanced across, biting her lip.

Mark, though, seemed fairly collected. “Good luck,” he smiled to Harrison.

“Thanks.” Harrison, uncharacteristically, was blushing.

“Come on.” Theo cuffed his shoulder. “Before Xander has an apoplexy.”

I sneaked a sideways look at Mark as the would-be revolutionaries made their way to the piano. I was trying hard to be subtle – although evidently not hard enough. He caught my eye and tilted his head as though to say “Yes? What?”

I smiled guiltily. Nothing. Although we both knew it wasn't.

He flickered a single eyelid. It's alright. He still smiled, although steel crept into the familiar silver. Don't worry.

Xander played the introductory chords, hopeful like a heartbeat, bold like a march. Harrison lifted his head and fixed his gaze on the back wall, as though staring at a distant dream that felt suddenly nearer.

“Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again...”

I breathed in, pride blossoming inside me. Harrison had a horrible tendency to mess about in rehearsals and not take it seriously, but I knew he'd practised hard for this – and he sounded far better than he ever had as the Pirate King. Earnest, fiery Enjolras suited him perfectly. With a pang I realised he no longer looked like the gangly, clownish boy I was used to teasing and bossing gently around; he looked like a leading man. Even Mark seemed impressed, though his eyes had darkened and his burned hand was tucked tightly in the crook of his left elbow.

Theo put one hand on Harrison's shoulder, and with his free arm he gestured expansively to an imagined audience, his face the picture of innocent fervour.

“Will you join in our crusade?
Who will be strong and stand with me?
Beyond the barricade
Is there a world you long to see?”

I looked at Mark again, images of torchlit Tirion burning in my mind, and a circle of faces wild with fury and grief.

“Then join in the fight
That will give you the right to be free!”

The others came in for the refrain, although not with enough power or passion for Xander; he slammed his hands onto the piano keys in a clashing chromatic chord and shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Wake the fuck up, guys; you're starting a revolution, not announcing a bake sale!”

I snorted.

“Actually I don't think that sounded bad.” Mark's voice was thoughtful, distant; shadows curled behind his eyes. “It isn't a decision, after all; it's an idea, that catches and spreads and eventually takes hold.”

“I wouldn't start arguing with Xander about it.” Rosie had been sketching costume ideas on a pad of blank paper; now she turned it around to show us what she'd been working on. “What do you think of this for Theo?”

“I like it!” I nodded approvingly at the cravat and jacket. “Very dapper.”

“Mark?”

He had been eyeing Harrison with a considering frown; now he glanced down at the paper, and smiled briefly at Rosie. “Perfect.”

She crinkled her eyebrows as though about to ask a question, then appeared to change her mind. “I figured it can get scruffier as the show goes on – so by the time he's down in the sewers with Valjean, it's more like this.” She showed me another sketch, without cravat or jacket, shirt tattered and filthy. “We'll need a different shirt each night, though. I don't know if Xander will sign that off, it isn't in the budget.”

“I'm sure we'll manage.” I refrained from saying that Theo had enough money to buy his own shirts. “What about me?”

“Here.” She flipped back a couple of pages. “Low cut, like you said – and a really deep, rich red.”

“Nice!” I grinned. “Let's just hope Xander doesn't make me wear a wig this time...”

“I have heard about this wig,” laughed deep, rich voice with a light French sway. “Your cousin told me it was hideous.”

I rolled my eyes as Luc Donadieu spun around the chair next to Rosie and straddled it. “I'll kill him,” I muttered.

“You looked very fetching,” Mark assured me.

“That's a complete lie – but thank you anyway.”

He smiled softly, and reached for his jacket. “Rosie, we're not needed again today, are we?”

“No, you guys are all done.”

“Wonderful. Walk, Claire?”

I hid my grin as Rosie realised what he was doing and mouthed a delighted, silent thank you. “Sure.” I wriggled into my coat. “As long as it isn't raining.”

It wasn't – although it clearly had been. The cobbles were slippery underfoot, and the town smelled of damp and salt and stone.

“That was nice of you,” I said as we made our way along Market street. Harsh white light spilled from the shop fronts and bled into the smoky blue of dusk.

His lips quirked. “I confess it was selfish – at least in part.”

I nodded. “I did wonder.”

We walked in silence for a while, meandering towards the point where the three main streets merged and ringed the cathedral. The ruins huddled in the twilight, and as we turned through the crumbled archway and onto the Pends, I shivered at the kiss of the wind.

“Cold?”

“No.” It wasn't entirely a lie; the late winter air was still bitter at night, but even with company, walking past the gutted cathedral in the dark sent phantom fingertips walking down my spine. I hesitated and glanced around before adding, “You didn't have to stay for that song. They'd have understood.”

“Oh, I couldn't miss Harrison's big moment.”

I smiled a little as we emerged into the harbour, inhaling the faint fishy smell of the lobster pots, the verdant damp of the seaweed, the fresh paint from one of the boats. “Where are we going?”

“Would you mind walking out along the pier?”

There was just enough light to see by. The lamps were lit along the Shorehead, and they glowed in the light mist that hung in the air. The wash of the sea against the walls was warm and welcoming, but the pier stretched out past the end of the harbour like a spindled finger pointing into the North Sea, exposed to the slightest breath of wind. I eyed the two walkways out to its tip. The lower one was wider and more sheltered – but from the narrower, higher one, we'd be able to see anyone approaching long before they were in earshot. There was nowhere else in the town so open, and yet so isolated. “Of course not.”

The wind picked up even before we'd passed the harbour entrance, snatching at my coat and hair and blowing an aching, heavy cold into my unprotected ears. I followed Mark with my arms spread either side of me for balance, placing my feet carefully onto the flatter pieces of stone.. At its narrowest point, the structure was barely a foot across; students doing the pier walk on Sundays had no choice but to take the last section in single file.

When we reached the end, Mark rested his forearms on the railings and stared out to sea. A pale orange light flashed in the distance. A fishing boat? I couldn't tell.

“It isn't a problem with the song – or not precisely,” he said. “You know, of course, what the song reminds me of.”

“Yes.” Colour crept through my cheeks.

He smiled, and when he spoke his voice was gentle. “I wouldn't last long in any musical community if I couldn't cope with hearing it, Claire. There's no need to feel guilty – although I'm sure you see now why I didn't want to sing it.” He curled his left hand over his right. “But it isn't only that. You know what happened afterwards, and the Doom placed upon my family and those who followed us. Even on those who swore no Oath. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well.” His smile twisted bitterly.

As the sea rushed against the stonework I thought of my dream, and the blue banner trodden into mud and gore.

“And we did not heed it,” he went on. “Even after Alqualondë, and Losgar, we came to Middle-earth with hearts full of hope. Hells, even after we lost my father...” The wind lifted; absently he brushed his hair from his face. “Well, we learned in the end. Everything and everyone we dared to care for was taken from us, and it has been the same for me ever since, over and over again through the years.

“Yet in spite of that, here and there I find pockets of relief. Happiness, even.” Warmth touched his smile. “Pirates was one of those, in no small part thanks to you.”

My blush deepened.

“To be caught by memory again so soon after the high of the performance was startling – frightening.” He flexed his scarred hand. “I thought of leaving. I spent days wandering the coastal routes – the wilder parts, where in December I was unlikely to meet anyone – and more than once I almost kept going. I have done it before; it is easier, sometimes,” he added, catching sight of my face. “To walk away, to remain...detached. But one cannot simply vanish, in this day and age.” He shrugged. “Ironically, it attracts too much attention.”

I wondered what I'd have done if he'd left – whether I'd have tried to solve the mystery, whether I'd have been able to. “I'm glad you didn't.”

He smiled. “So am I – although I can't help feeling it was somewhat selfish to stay.”

“Why?”

“Claire...I know that this hasn't been easy for you.” He linked his fingers through mine – and his eyebrows flew upwards. “Good grief, you're frozen!”

“I'm fine. And it wasn't selfish.” I let him pull me towards him and slip my hands inside his jacket. “If you'd just disappeared into the air, I'd have spent the rest of my life wondering if I was crazy, if I'd imagined all that stuff about you – what I see when you play, and the dreams...” I hesitated. “I had another one. The other night. I...I dreamed about Fingon.”

I felt him tense. “What did you see?”

There was no soft or easy way to say it, but a heartbeat of silence was answer enough.

He exhaled slowly. “Claire, I'm so sorry.”

“It doesn't mean anything, does it?”

“No. Only that you're trying to process concepts that most would not be capable of even contemplating.” Gently he squeezed my shoulder. “We should go back. We've lost the light.”

I pressed the backlight function on my watch. “And the others will be finished in Venue One; they'll start eating their own fingers if we don't feed them soon.”

When we got back to the flat Jeoffry the cat was sitting on the bins, and we could hear raised voices echoing down the stairwell – Rosie, I realised, who sounded somewhat tearful, and a deep Scottish brogue that sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn't place. I glanced at Mark; he shrugged and I pushed open the door.

The noisy exchange stopped as I stepped into the hallway. The boiler room door was propped ajar with a toolbox, and a tall, rangy man in his late fifties leaned against the frame, his face cold with anger. Rosie was sniffling, and the boys stood behind her, Harrison red-faced and looking at his shoes, Theo the colour of day-old snow.

My stomach turned inwards as I put two and two together. “What's going on?”

“You're Claire James, aren't you?” the older man asked. “The lead tenant?”

It was the landlord, then. I ferreted in my memory for his name. Duncan. Duncan Aysgarth. “I am, yes. We've spoken on the phone.”

Mark slid in behind me.

Duncan Aysgarth flicked him a cool glance before fixing me with a sharp, blue-eyed stare. “So perhaps you can explain why you think it's acceptable to keep a cat on the stairwell, in clear breach of your tenancy agreement?”

I kept my back straight and held his gaze, but I felt like a bucket of freezing water was tumbling from my chest down to my feet. My neck grew hot and itched under my jumper. Unfortunately, he was right. “I'm very sorry.” I hated the way I sounded – like a naughty little school girl. London me would have been furious; she'd have eaten this frightened mouse for breakfast. “It won't be there tomorrow.”

“It shouldn't be there now.” He looked down his nose at the younger three. “You realise I could terminate your lease for this?”

Rosie sobbed; Harrison's head snapped up, and Theo turned faintly green.

“No, you couldn't,” I heard myself say

Mark inhaled sharply.

The landlord turned back to me. His nostrils flared. “Oh, yes, I bloody well could.”

“No,” I repeated, a familiar adrenaline rushing through my limbs – not the ice of guilty fear, or the giddy joy of a theatrical performance, but the fierce steel of court, on the days when I'd had to rely on sheer nerve and a memory bank full of obscure nuggets to get myself through a borderline case. “According to our lease agreement, you have to give at least twenty-four hours' notice in writing to the lead tenant if you want to enter the property. And I haven't received anything.”

“Excuse me, missy, it's my fucking house!”

“Which you have a legal obligation to keep in a safe and habitable condition for your tenants.” My heart was flinging itself against my ribcage, but I took a steadying breath and kept going. “You're required to respond to concerns relating to basic utilities such as heating and water within twenty-four hours. I contacted you about the boiler back in January and there have been multiple emails and voicemails since then. You're in breach of contract on two points; if we took you to an accommodation tribunal, they'd find in our favour.”

The bump at the bridge of his nose went white. I held his gaze; I wasn't actually sure on the specifics of Scottish property law and the various tiers of recourse for tenants, but half the battle in these situations was confidence – and I knew I was right on the details of the lease agreement, which was binding.

He knew it too. He bent and picked up the toolbox, his blue eyes still on mine. “The cat goes.”

“Absolutely,” I promised.

A curt nod. “The boiler's fixed. I'm away for two weeks from Monday; any more problems, you'll have to go through the letting agent.”

“Fine.” I couldn't bring myself to say thank you after that exchange; it seemed utterly absurd.

He gave us all another lingering look, eyes narrowed into flinty slits, then strode out.

I closed the door and flopped against it with a sigh. The adrenaline gone, I felt like a wet, limp rag.

“Bloody hell, Claire.” Theo gave a shaky grin. “You were terrifying!”

“You were brilliant,” Harrison added.

“I'm not sure about that.” I ran a hand through my hair, tugging out the knots and tangles from the pier.

“I am.” Theo shook his head. “You made him look like an idiot.”

“Mm.” If truth be told, I was regretting not keeping a grip on myself; it probably wasn't wise to piss off the person who owned the roof over our heads, but it was done now. I turned to Rosie, and gave her a smile. “You OK?”

She nodded.

I pulled her into a hug. “I'm afraid your little friend Jeoffry will have to move back outside.”

“I know. At least it isn't snowy any more.”

I squeezed her shoulders and released her. “Right. Dinner.”

“I'll put the oven on,” said Rosie, heading for the kitchen as I unzipped my coat.

“I'll get the wine open.” Harrison elbowed Theo. “Come on.”

“What do you mean, come on? Rosie's prepping the kitchen, you're sorting wine -”

“So you can set the table.”

Theo sighed. “I get all the good jobs.”

“Oh, shut up...”

The living room door closed and muffled their bickering. I shook my head and sank down onto the stairs to pull off my boots. Across the corridor, the boiler gave a healthy click instead of its usual sputtering clunk, and roared into life.

Mark sat beside me. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” I smiled wryly. “I didn't think I could still do that.”

“It was impressive.”

“It was stupid.”

“The two aren't mutually exclusive.”

I laughed. “I suppose not.”

The living room door open, and Harrison peered out into the hallway. “Red or white, Claire?”

“It's chilli con carne. Red.”

“Roger that.”

Over dinner we chattered about the show, laughed at Xander's foibles, complained about work and the never-ending wintry weather, and argued lazily about our next Throwback Thursday film. The boys gorged themselves on Eton Mess and then insisted they needed a whisky to help it go down, so we spread ourselves out over the seats and beanbags, cradling glasses of Oban (or, in Rosie's case, Irish cream). Harrison put The Proclaimers on the stereo; the radiators breathed a gentle, steady heat, and the evening passed in a haze of contentment.

“By the way, Harrison.” Mark looked up from his whisky glass. “You sounded really good today.”

Harrison leaned back into the beanbag. “Thanks.”

“Who's your teacher?”

For the second time that day, Harrison blushed. “I don't actually have one. I haven't since I left school; Mum said there was no point in paying for it, if I wasn't going to do it professionally.”

Thoughtfully, Mark nodded.

“Go on.” Harrison's face slid into resignation. “Tell me. What was I doing wrong?”

Theo sat up, glancing between the two of them. Rosie leaned forward, her expression curious and a little apprehensive.

Mark tilted his whisky back and forth in the glass. “I wouldn't say you were doing anything wrong.”

“But it could have been better.”

“I think you could plan your breathing more carefully; the right support makes a lot of difference.”

Harrison folded his arms, plucking at the sleeve of his jumper as though thinking, and then he looked up and smiled a challenge. “Would you teach me?”

Mark's eyes widened in surprise, and then he grinned, mischief and delight tucked in the corner of his beautiful mouth. “With pleasure.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Credit here to a couple of wonderful authors whose worldbuilding ideas I have shamelessly swiped - Spiced Wine, in whose 'verse I first came across the Great Flood representing the end of Middle-earth as we would recognise it, and pandemonium_213, whose 'verse got me thinking hard about Tolkien and evolution.

A note for the musical theatre nerds – I do know that Marius doesn't normally have a solo in 'Do You Hear the People Sing?' In amateur productions, if there aren't enough strong male voices, the verses given to Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Feuilly in the libretto are sometimes split between Marius and Enjolras.