The Ways of Paradox by Narya

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Our Mythic History

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As I turned the corner on to his street he was locking his door, satchel slung over his shoulder, clearly about to leave. Maybe he hadn't been making excuses when he said he had things to do. I opened my mouth to call out to him, but I couldn't decide which name to use, and I stood gaping for a moment like a tree-frog – and then common sense reasserted itself. Of course I couldn't use...the other name. Not out here, in the middle of town. I swallowed. “Mark.”

He looked up, and lifted a puzzled eyebrow. “Hi.”

“Sorry. I know we said seven.” The sea breeze hissed down the wynd and stung my ears. I approached the bottom of the stairs, then stopped, suddenly lacking any idea of what to say. “You're busy.”

He tilted his head, watching me, those silver-grey eyes noting everything. My arms prickled under my coat sleeves, and I wondered how much of my mind he could see or feel. Maybe my thoughts in the Whey Pat that night, when I'd felt like he was seeing parts of me even I didn't know existed, hadn't been so wild and fanciful after all. I shivered and crossed my arms across my stomach, deliberately thinking of blank notepaper, white paint, still water. Cold, empty, neutral things. Although if he really was who I thought, it probably wouldn't help much.

Surprise and something like resignation flickered across his face. He straightened, and lifted one hand to the latch. “Do you want to come in?”

The phrasing, I could tell, was careful and deliberate. He hadn't worded it as a command, or even a request – he was making it clear that the choice was mine, handing me control. Other questions echoed in the spaces around the one he had asked. Was it something I was still comfortable doing, going into his house alone? Did I trust him? “Yes. If that's OK.”

His shoulders relaxed, though his eyes were still watchful. “Of course.”

I picked my way up the mossy steps, slippery with rain, as he unlocked the door. “You were going out.” It was unnecessary – such an obvious statement, a weak pretence at normality – but it filled the silence.

“Only to the library.” He held the door open for me. “After you.”

The neutral smell of carpet and warm radiators pervaded the hall. It struck me again how empty and impersonal his house was – almost like the set for a play. Which, if I was right, wasn't far from the truth. 

“Can I make you a drink?”

I didn't really need caffeine, but I liked the idea of something warm and solid to hold on to. “Sure. Thank you.”

“Hot water and peppermint?”

“That's perfect.” I tried to ignore the feeling, like pinpricks inside my skin, that he'd read my mind - again.

Perched at a tiny table tucked behind the door, I watched him as he moved around the galley kitchen. The surfaces were grey speckled plastic, and the table wobbled like a school exam desk. I suspected it was from a set of camping furniture; its legs were hinged to fold neatly away. There were no chairs, only cheap perspex stools, and the mugs and glasses I glimpsed as he opened the cupboards were standard issue Ikea. I tried not to think about exactly who it was boiling the kettle, plucking delicate mint leaves from the pot of herbs on the windowsill, gently warming the teapot and stirring the contents. Giggles threatened, and I bit the inside of my cheek, reminding myself why I'd needed to speak to him so urgently – although it was harder now to feel afraid of him, whatever he might have been once.

He set down one of the mugs in front of me and settled himself on the stool opposite. 

“Thanks.” I curled my fingers around the smooth porcelain, feeling the heat of the liquid warm it through, still watching him. 

His grey eyes, as soft as I'd ever seen them, returned my gaze. In your own time, they seemed to say.

I blew across the top of my mug, thinking. “I know you said you can't tell me any more about who you are, and what you've done, and what happened to you,” I said eventually. “But if I thought I'd guessed it – or some of it – would you tell me if I was right?”

He nodded, the expression on his face a mixture of – what? Curiosity? Pride? Regret? I couldn't tell.

“OK.” I met his eyes. “Your name isn't Mark Lowry.”

“No.” 

That was the easy part. If I'd had no information beyond the vague allusions of last night, I'd have been able to guess so much. I slipped my hand into my pocket, caressed the lightly furred corners of the book, still not quite daring. “At first I thought you might be a spy – a secret agent, in deep cover.” I tilted my head, assessing him. “I think that was what you wanted me to believe; am I right?”

“I knew it was a conclusion you might draw.”

I took a sip of the mint infusion. “Rosie thought you might be a prince.”

A shadow of a smile flickered across his face. 

“I laughed at her. And at Harrison. Before Christmas he wondered if you were an alien. I don't think he was being serious – but neither of them were completely wrong. Were they?”

A strange noise, something between a laugh and a snort, and for the first time he looked slightly offended. “I'm not an alien.”

“Not human, then.”

“I should hope I am...but you're right that I'm not entirely like you.”

“No.” I tipped my drink around in its cup like it was whisky. “I think you were born and raised a long way from here – somewhere that none of the rest of us have ever been, or could go.”

He held my eyes. Go on.

“And when you say you're older than you look...you're not talking about a few years. Or even a few decades. Are you?”

Another ghosting smile. “No.”

No. I should have known the moment I saw him. Too beautiful to be real. “What are you?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

I swallowed. “An Elf.”

“Indeed.” The smile took on a teasing slant. “Although I prefer Quendi.”

“Quendi.” I rolled it around in my mouth, the ancient weight of it like a starlit pool. “OK.” I vaguely knew the word, I realised, thinking of the charts and family trees at the back of The Silmarillion. Again I brushed my fingers against it, still hesitating. “Wow.”

“Although I think you could go further than that, if you wished.” He shifted on his stool, and shadows sharpened his features. “I fancy you could even guess my true name.”

I nodded, licked my lips, shaping the two syllables in my mouth. Carefully, like he was a witness in court. “Maglor.”

He blinked, slowly, and nodded.

My throat shrank. I wasn't sure what I'd expected. I hadn't said the name aloud until now, but there was no darkening of the sky, no crash of drums, no rend in the fabric of the world. For a third time I closed my fingers around my black-bound book, and then drew it out and set it on the table between us. “How much of this is true?”

A small vertical line appeared between his brows. His scarred fingers traced the lines of his father's star. The air tingled; the taste of it sat on my tongue like earth after new-fallen rain – and when he looked up his eyes were full of a yearning so keen and deep that I gasped aloud. 

“In basic facts?” There was no humour now in the curl of his lips. “Almost all of it.”

I gripped the edge of the stool, as though I might float away if I didn't cling onto something. “How? No – wait.” There was only one possible explanation. “You – or someone like you – knew Tolkien. Told him the stories. Didn't they?”

He looked away, and his face softened. “If truth be told he was more interested in the languages.”

I gave a shaky laugh. “That I can believe.” A steadying breath, and I took another sip of the peppermint tea, savouring its warmth and the blessed, peculiar, cool tickle of it at the back of my throat. “It was you, then?”

“Yes – although I had no idea of him remembering. The first time I met him he was a young child; the second time he was very ill.” He gave an elegant half-shrug. “I don't know that I did the right thing.”

“You did,” I said with utter conviction.

“I wonder. It became an obsession for him. Obsessions are not healthy.”

Which you would know better than anyone. He still wasn't looking at me; he was staring over the top of my head, down the hall towards the door. “When you say true in the basic facts...”

He waved a hand. “Some things he left out. Some he misremembered, or misinterpreted. Some of it I only heard second or even third hand, so who now could attest to the truth? But that's not what you're asking me.” He pulled his eyes back and finally met mine. “Is it?”

I did my best to keep my own gaze level. “No.”

“You want to know if I slew my kin at Alqualondë. If I burned the ships that would have borne my family safely across the sea to join us. If I swore an Oath that would shatter a continent, if I hunted the Sindar through the halls of Menegroth, if I drove an innocent woman to leap to her death from Sirion's cliffs.”

The bitter scent of a gathering storm burned in my nose, and for the first time I was acutely aware of the terrible force of him, of his sheer ancient power, awful in its oldest sense – and still dangerous.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Yes, I did.”

On North Street the chapel bells rang. I swallowed, trying to reconcile the man I thought I knew – charismatic, sensitive, thoughtful – with a killer from an ancient legend. But then, was it any stranger than thinking he was an intelligence operative, or a ghost? Useless, of course, to ask if he'd killed again since; with all those years, and all those wars, I knew what the answer would be.

I realised I was digging my nails into the mug. They scraped and slid against the smooth glazing.

Murderer. Thief.

He pushed his stool away from the table and stood with his back to me, staring out of the window. 

I pulled the book towards me, inhaling the thin ink-and-vanilla smell. It had been years since I'd read it, but I remembered the passages he'd described. How could I not? They burned in my mind as brightly as the jewels the book was named for – that his brothers had died for. 

“But you threw it away in the end,” I said softly. “The Silmaril.”

“Yes.” His voice sounded older than I'd ever heard it – and hollow like a forgotten cave. He held up his burned hand. “It rejected me.” There was disbelief there still.

“And before that you wanted to go back. To – to ask for forgiveness.” I'd almost said “beg”, but the idea of this proud creature pleading for anything made me jerk back as though from an electric shock.

“I wanted an end to it. All those deaths, all that blood...the waste, and the grief...I knew we could not win, not with one of the jewels so far beyond our reach, but Maedhros would not hear of surrender. And I would have followed him anywhere.”

And Maedhros had died, I knew, had flung himself into the breaking earth with the Silmaril he had taken, and Maglor had been left alone. Alone for...I swallowed. I had no idea how long. And it hardly seemed the right time to ask him his age. Nervous laughter bubbled inside me again at the thought, and I lowered my eyes to my mug, staring at the fragments of mint trailing through the water.

“Make no mistake, Claire, it was not penitence.” I looked up; he had turned back to face me, and the white fire I had glimpsed in his eyes once or twice burned there again. “It was not even regret, though I will never cease to grieve for the blood that was spilt.”

“Then why do it?” I spread my hand over the book's cover, like I was taking an oath in court. “What does this not say?”

Like fireworks, his eyes flared. 

“Tell me.” I was the one begging now. “Please. Help me understand.”

A prickling thrum crept through the air.

Petrichor and lightning...

“The Silmarils were not mere trinkets – and nor did they house the light of the Trees.” The hairs on my arms stood on end, as they had in The Central when I'd touched the indigo book. The air thickened and grew heavy, as though thunderclouds gathered in the small galley kitchen. “The Silmarils each hold a piece of Fëanor's soul.”

I breathed in and tasted fire – not the smoky burn of Guy Fawkes's November pyres, but something more essential, something that roared at the heart of the world itself.

“Do you see now? How could we let another touch them, keep them?” He drew his gaze back to the window. “Perhaps it does not justify our deeds. There may have been other ways, other choices – but it was as though an animal slumbered inside us all, some fallen thing with a will of its own, a creature born of grief and fury and hate. If it woke again from sleep then I cannot say what I would do, or whom I would hurt, and if I had my time over I would take the same path. We all would. Even knowing what would come.”

I breathed out slowly. “No.” For a moment I hesitated, then went to join him by the window. “No, you wouldn't.”

A shadow of a smile passed across his lips. “You think that because you want it to be true.”

“You say it rejected you, but didn't you reject it – take away its power over you?” I paused. “Why, though? If it was your father's soul in there. Even though -” I glanced down at his hand. “Even though it burned you. Why did you throw it away?”

A slow shake of the head. “By then I was beyond reason. But I believe I thought only to keep it from them.”

I swallowed. “The Valar?” The word tasted strange on my tongue, like a bitter foreign fruit.

“They are not as the stories would have you believe.”

I turned this over in my mind, cataloguing the implications with a cool detachment that surprised me. Gods had once walked the world. There was one God, somewhere, beyond our perception, who had created all of this...but then what did that mean for science, for evolution, for centuries of cosmic theory, for the complex mathematical models that Rosie scribbled on post-it notes and stuck to the walls of her room when she was writing a paper, for our ideas of known history, for philosophy and religious studies, for the idea of free will itself?

“Of course,” he continued, half to himself, “Ossë or Uinen or even Ulmo could have retrieved it, were they so inclined. And they did not. And they have not. I wonder why?”

Hearing these names drop from his lips as easily as I might name the Queen or the Prime Minister sent an odd, hollow feeling through my legs and hips, and my head buzzed – and then his hand was under my elbow, supporting, steadying.

“Don't worry.” I forced a smile, and covered his fingers with mine. “I'm not a fainter.”

“No.” Something like admiration flickered in his eyes.

I turned back to the window, leaning against the wall so he wouldn't see me shake. I laid aside the Valar and the idea of a God, filing them under “complex; not immediately relevant; investigate later”, and made myself think over what he'd said about the Oath.

I cannot say what I would do, or whom I would hurt...

It frightened me far less than I expected. Even supposing one was found, he wouldn't hurt me because I would never keep it from him...although, I realised, that was hardly the issue. I wouldn't keep one, but the chances of me being the one to find it were almost non-existent. It would be taken and studied, or placed in a museum, or kept secret in a government vault – and perhaps he would be compelled to go after it, to obtain it by any means necessary, if it was true that the Oath held such power over him, and wasn't simply a vow of misguided honour that he could choose to forswear. I knew, or I hoped, that I would try to stop him from harming anyone – and what would he do to me then? Would that count as keeping one of the jewels from him, if I didn't possess it but stood in his way? The enormous impossibility of the situation swelled inside me; my blood ran hot and a clammy chill crept over my skin. 

He was watching me. “You do see, then.”

“But how likely is it?” I argued. “After all these years...”

A shrug. “The legends say that they cannot now be found or brought together until the ending and remaking of the world.”

“Well, that's not going to happen tomorrow, is it?”

His answering laugh was humourless. “Do you believe everything from the myths and tales you grew up with? The Garden of Eden, the Binding of Fenrir, the Fall of Troy?”

At that moment I honestly didn't know. 

“I cannot say whether the Silmarils will be found tomorrow, or in a thousand years, or ever – although if they were found, I know that they would not be used to remake the Trees.” The window was closed, no breeze stirred the air, but the atmosphere lifted somehow, as though past and future were both present in the room, watching, listening. “Legends may be concerned with Truth, and yet not tell it in full.”

I let out a slow breath. I still doubted that he'd harm me – or any of the others. I thought of Rosie's words earlier. If you were in trouble, he'd walk through fire and blood to get you out of it. And who was I to judge what he'd done thousands of years ago, when the footsteps of Power echoed across the Earth, and Oaths lived inside one like demons? How could I apply the moral codes of the world I knew? I thought of the shades of grey I'd seen and studied through my long years training for the bar – the frightened eighteen year old boy, giving his drunk friend a lift home, slightly over the limit but unable to afford a taxi and unwilling to consign her to public transport. He had knocked down an elderly woman leaving the theatre. Death by careless driving. Fourteen years imprisonment – the most exciting time of his life, gone. The hacker facing extradition for exposing the secrets of a company that by all accounts had bullied and harassed him to the point of suicide. This...what would I have made of this? It was useless even to try and draw parallels. Our legal system, our ethical framework, were not designed for this or anything like it.

His right hand rested on the windowsill, near the pot of herbs. Lightly I rested my fingertips against it, then took it in a gentle grip when he did not object. “May I?”

He met my eyes, and nodded.

Carefully, as though handling a precious relic, I turned his hand over in mine so the palm faced upwards. With my thumb I traced the strange, perfect pattern that I'd only seen in stolen glimpses. “It's beautiful.” I knew the words were inadequate, but I had to try. “So beautiful.” Tears rose in my throat again, and I squeezed his hand and released it. “We need to think of something to tell the others. They can't know the truth, not all of it – or not yet – but they deserve to know something.”

“Claire...”

“Otherwise they'll only come up with rubbish, like the alien theory. Or say something we'd rather they didn't, or accidentally tip off someone they shouldn't -” 

“Oh, God, Claire.”

I heard the uneven edge in his voice, and suddenly it struck me how very close I'd come to losing him. If I'd turned away, or shown even a fraction more doubt... “Don't. Please don't.” I slid my arms around his waist; for a fraction of a moment he tensed, and then the taut muscles relaxed and he folded me against him, one hand between my shoulder blades, the other wound into my hair. My cheek pressed against his ribcage, and I breathed in the faintest scent of leather and thyme and listened to the steady thud of his heart. “I nearly didn't come at all. I thought about not turning up for dinner, avoiding you...” 

“I wouldn't have blamed you. I still wouldn't.” 

“Well, too late now.” I closed my eyes, laughing a little. “It was too late last night, too late weeks ago. Months, even, I think.”

“And for me.”

I looked up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He loosed his grip and rested his hands lightly on my shoulders. “Claire, what do you see when you hear me play?”

“The forgotten.” The answer rose to my lips as though someone had placed it there. “I think...I think I've seen your brothers.”

He breathed two soft syllables - “Eru” - though they sounded strangely unlike the way the written word looked. Gently, his right hand squeezed the top of my arm. “Long ago I was able to tell stories with my music – paint pictures in my listeners' minds – but few among the Atani can hear it now.”

“Atani?” I tried out the unfamiliar word.

“It means Second People. The Aftercomers. Men.” He shrugged. “Although for many years now I have doubted that what we were told about you was true.”

I stored this away for later. “OK. And what don't they – we – hear?”

“The memories and history behind the songs.” He lifted his hands away. “The first time you walked in on me practising I knew you felt, or saw, something.” 

I remembered. Silver moonlight on his sharp, beautiful features. Visions of a white ship and a far-off harbour hung with jewels – and a lonely figure on a clifftop, unable to follow. “Mark – Maglor.” His head snapped up, and I wondered how long it was since anyone had called him by his true name. “Am I right, then? Can you read my mind?”

A low, soft, melodic laugh. “I could if I wished. I try not to. It is not considered polite, not without permission.” A shade of apology crossed his face. “Although from time to time I cannot help it. You keep your emotions close to the surface; you have a tendency to...” He made a looping gesture with his hand. “I suppose the closest word is broadcast. If you feel something strongly, or ask a silent question...”

I thought of the times he'd seemed to know exactly what passed through my mind, responded to an unspoken need, answered my thoughts and not my words. “Can you speak silently? You know. Telepathy. That sort of thing.”

His mouth curled into an amused smile, and I blushed. “It is properly called ósanwe - but yes.”

“Ósanwe.” It felt both familiar and as strange as a spell. “Could I learn to do it?”

“It's unlikely – unless with me, or another like me.”

“There are others like you?”

“For a while there were, although I did not try to go among them.” A look of deep loneliness settled in his eyes. “I would not have been welcome.”

For a while... “And now?”

“The world is a very different place now. Broken, changed. There is almost nowhere for them to hide, and their power is much diminished.” 

“Yours isn't, though.” He hadn't said so, but I knew it was true.

A sad smile. “I have not faded, no. I have not allowed it.”

My breath warmed in my chest like a solid weight. The idea that he had hung on, defiant, enduring through willpower alone...I thought of the strange aura that surrounded him from time to time, the seductive whisper of a lost world. “Can I ask you something?”

This time the laugh was genuine. “I imagine there are many things you would like to ask – and having told you so much, I can hardly refuse to answer now.”

I chewed my lip, the flush in my cheeks deepening. “Is that what you really look like?”

His eyebrows flew up. “What's the matter with how I look?”

I knew he was teasing, but the blush spread up to my ears. “Nothing! Only...well, you don't fit in, not exactly, but at the same time you don't look...I don't know. Impossible? Stop it!” I added as he laughed again. “It's just that sometimes I get the sense that there's more ofyou than we can see. Not like that, I'm not talking about size, or height!” He was leaning against the wall now, shoulders shaking with mirth. “I know I'm putting this really badly, but you're not helping me.”

“I'm sorry. I do understand what you're asking.” He composed himself. “The answer is yes, more or less, but...” He hesitated, and looked out of the window. “Turn off the lights.”

I gave him a strange look, but crossed the room and flicked the switch. It was still morning, but placed where it was between two main streets and their tall stone buildings, the tiny house was almost devoid of natural daylight. Without the aid of electricity the place was bluish and shadowed. 

The hairs on my arms lifted and I turned back.

He was limned in soft, luminescent silver – and yet when I tried to fix my eyes on the shimmering outline, really look at it, it somehow wasn't there. His face, always beautiful, was suddenly, unnaturally perfect, his skin so flawless that it seemed an illusion. And his eyes...the familiar silver burned, fierce, unflinching, like a pair of wondrous lamps...and then I remembered that Tolkien had also described Gollum's eyes as lamp-like, and laughter bubbled up in me again and this time there was no swallowing it. It gripped me in the same way it did when Harrison or Theo said something stupid, and my belly was cramping and I was gasping for air, and with horror I realised I was crying as well – and then he was across the room and had steered me back to the table and the perspex stool, and pressed a tissue into my hand.

“You must think I'm crazy,” I managed to squeeze out as the hysterics subsided.

“No.” His voice was gentle, understanding.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” My hair had fallen across my face and was sticking to the corner of my mouth. Hesitantly, as though he expected me to pull away, he brushed it back behind my ears. “Forgive me. I should have known that would frighten you.”

“I'm not frightened.” I took a sip of the peppermint infusion I'd left on the table, but it was cold now, and made my throat clench. I forced myself to swallow it anyway. “How are you doing that? The glowing?”

“For once I'm not doing anything. This is my natural state – but when my kind went West and were eventually forgotten, I learned to suppress it. It tends to unnerve people,” he added unnecessarily. With a gentle pulse and a soft sighing of the air, the light vanished. He looked exceptionally, extraordinarily beautiful – but not supernatural. “Better?”

I didn't want to say yes, although it was certainly less unsettling.

He retreated to the other side of the table, putting distance between us again. “I have to ask, though – how did you know?” He gestured at the book, still lying between the two half-empty mugs. “It's somewhat far-fetched, even if it is the truth.”

I gripped the newly-cooled mug. “I think...I've known for a while. I just didn't realise I knew. Not from the first time I saw you – not even the first time I heard you play, although looking back maybe part of me did realise there was something strange about you. I think, though, it was when we sang Paradox together in Younger Hall, you, me and Theo. And that night, I had this dream...a white light under the sea...” I smiled a little. “My sleep-brain had it all worked out pretty quickly. It took a bit longer for the rest of me to catch up, but there were little things all through last semester, and this. The comments you kept making about your age and your family, the way you'd answer questions I hadn't even asked, your hand, your name, the book...”

“Book?”

“The big leather-bound one. Covered in stars.”

“Ah.”

“There was your music, of course – and sometimes this sense of something else, like the air around you was alive.” I lowered my eyes. “And yesterday when we were out at the castle and the wind blew back your hair, I saw the tips of your ears.”

“And you realised.”

“Not until this morning. I was trying to make it all fit with what you told me last night, and then Rosie called you an exiled minstrel prince, and suddenly it all just slotted together. It was like that line in Sherlock Holmes. I'd eliminated everything that didn't make sense; it was the only thing left, so it must be the truth.” I blushed again, worrying that I sounded like a precocious literary show-off.

But Mark – Maglor – only looked impressed. He shook his head. “It's my fault, of course. I haven't been nearly careful enough around you. Perhaps it was half on purpose,” he added softly. “Perhaps part of me hoped you would guess. After all, you would not have believed the truth if I'd told it to you.”

“No. I don't expect I would.” 

“What about Harrison and Rosie and Theo? Do you think they might guess?”

“I doubt it. Luckily for you, there's no film of The Silmarillion - and I don't think any of them have ever got round to reading it.” 

He grimaced. I wondered whether he'd seen the films, but resisted the urge to ask. 

“Has anyone ever got near the truth before?” I said instead.

“Not since this was published.” He touched the book with the tip of one finger. “A few before Tolkien knew – or guessed at – my true nature, but...” He paused, silver eyes thoughtful, a curl of regret at his mouth. “Claire, my power is not limited to painting pretty pictures in people's minds. My kind can avoid notice at need, and I have always been able to influence others with my voice.”

“Influence?”

“Sway emotions. Change opinions. Colour, ever so slightly. the way they perceive the world.” A furrow appeared between his brows again. “You are right; Tolkien's work is popular enough that there is a danger I could be recognised, and that is something I wish to avoid. I – how to put this? - I encourage people not to see.”

I bit my lip again, nipping the skin between my teeth until blood broke through the surface. “You've been...” I didn't even know what the word was. His past deeds had been a shock, but in a way this was harder to accept – the idea that he could manipulate the course of my thoughts, however slightly. I remembered the times I'd almost got there, almost realised, and it had slipped away from me like fog.

“Forgive me. It is not something I do lightly – and, as you know, it is not infallible. Strength and determination can knock it away like a scab from a wound.”

“Could you make me forget?”

“No. No, a healthy adult mind would throw off such an enchantment in a heartbeat.”

I sucked the coppery blood into my mouth and felt it spread across the back of my teeth. I thought about when he said he'd met Tolkien, and held his eyes. “What about an unhealthy mind? Or a child?”

“That depends. I could make them forget a passing fancy, or something to which they attached no special significance.”

“But not something they cared about.”

He nodded slowly. I knew he understood. “No. A person they loved, a dear memory, a deep passion...I could not entirely make them forget that. However hard I might try.” 

I crossed my arms over my stomach and took a deep breath. I'd accepted the rest of it, or begun to – and was this any worse than thinking he was a secret agent in deep over, using sleight of hand instead of old magic to misdirect us and protect himself? And he needed to, I knew that; what would the government, or an international security body, do to him if they found out? The air chilled in my lungs as I understood what he'd risked by telling me, by letting me see. “Would you ever use it to do anything other than hide your identity, or keep yourself safe?”

“No.” The answer was immediate and sincere.

“OK. And...” I looked into his eyes again. “I know you said I broadcast. But do you promise not to look inside my head?”

“Of course. If you wish I can even teach you techniques to protect your mind from others, though you're unlikely to encounter anyone who would want to invade it, or indeed would even be capable of such a thing.”

“Unlikely?”

He gave a strange smile. “Well, anything is possible.”

I shivered. The bells had fallen quiet. “I had so many questions when I came in here, and now they've all gone out of my head.”

“I know it's a lot to take in.”

“How do you exist like this, hiding yourself all the time?”

“It isn't easy.” His tone was light enough, but darkness like a deep ravine ran beneath it. “And I do grow careless from time to time. Once I was almost burned as a witch.”

He said it so calmly, as though he'd narrowly avoided being knocked down by a bus. Different times, different dangers. A sob rose in my chest like a great bubble; I pressed my lips together, not wanting to cry in front of him again. “What else have you seen?”

“I saw Vesuvius erupt and the Roman Empire fall. I was in Italy as Europe dragged itself once again out of the dark. I saw England cut off the head of one monarch and install another. I fought on the Somme, and came nearer to death than ever before.”

I remembered the tale of the German soldier. Time seemed to stop, history at once frozen like a pocket of air in an iceberg, and alive and breathing all around me. “Oh, God.” No wonder he carried scars. I remembered how Theo had described it before Christmas - like someone shot a cannon full of broken glass at him - and sobbed again. In part it was for his pain and suffering through all those long years, but mostly it was the enormity of it, the idea that someone could have walked the Earth for all that time, seen so many of its stories...I swallowed. “I'm sorry. I wish I could come up with something sensible to say. But this is...” I gestured vaguely. “I don't even know how much I believe it yet. I mean, yes, rationally I do; I hear what you're saying, I know you're not lying, but I can't...I can't settle it inside me, if that makes sense.”

“The heart is harder to persuade than the head, in some things.” He smiled. “I know.”

I was shaking again, I realised, distantly irritated but too caught in wonder and disbelief to care much. “I think I need a drink.”

It was half a joke, but he got up and pulled a bottle of Compass Box Hedonism from the top of one of the cupboards.

I laughed. “Weren't you the one telling me it was too early for whisky yesterday?”

He grinned as he poured. “Special circumstances. Anyway, this is what you might call a breakfast whisky.”

As if on cue my stomach began to growl. “I haven't actually eaten yet,” I confessed. “Whisky by itself may not be a great idea.”

Five minutes later I was eating hot buttered toast in his living room, curled up in one of the wicker chairs. My whisky sat in a pretty, tulip-shaped nosing glass on the floor.

“If it helps at all,” he said, “I can barely believe I've told you the truth. The idea that someone knows is...hard to accept.” His silver eyes grew grave. “That you still sit here, even more so.”

I nibbled a crust, not wanting to delve too closely into the ethical gymnastics of it yet. “I don't know what to call you now. What would you prefer?”

He stared out of the bay window onto the little wynd, his features still. “I think, unfortunately, what I would prefer and what is sensible are not the same thing. When you spoke my name aloud it was like the call of home – but if you mean what you say, and you're happy for me to spend time with the others, it may be best to keep to Mark.”

“Of course I mean it.” I put down my plate and picked up my whisky, breathing in the scent of sponge cake and pink pepper. “And I suppose you're right. If I accidentally slipped in front of them...unless we tell them too? But no, we still couldn't use it when we're out. And I think it's best that they don't know everything.”

“As fond as I am beginning to grow of them, I have to agree. They would not understand.” 

I took a sip of my drink and closed my eyes for a moment as it slipped down, warming me. “Well, then. What now?”

He looked back at me. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” I answered honestly. “Wiped out. There's so much I want to know, but everything's just a jumble in my head.”

Another gentle smile. “There is one more thing I'd like you to see, and then perhaps we should leave the subject for the time being.” He slid his hand under the collar of his shirt and drew out a ring on black leather cord. For one wild second I thought of the One Ring, and then, don't be silly, it was destroyed, and after that laughter threatened again, because already I was thinking of it as history, as real as Hastings or Agincourt or Henry the Eighth's six wives – and then I realised what he held in his hand.

“Oh.” It was battered and tarnished, but recognisable – and surprisingly like its counterpart from the films. “That's not...is it?”

His smile widened. “Yes, it is.”

“But where did you get it? And how?”

“Chance only. I stumbled across it at an auction, after the Second World War.”

“Wow.” Colour crept into my cheeks again. “Sorry, I know what I sound like, but...how is there anything left?”

“It was forged in Valinor. There is a power bound up in this ring that the finest craftsman working today could not hope to replicate.” He held it out to me. “Here.”

“Wow,” I breathed again, taking it reverently in my hand. Gently I traced the two carved serpents, one devouring the other, the golden crown that rested upon them, and the glowing emerald that sat at its heart. I wondered what else might be out there, gathering dust in attics and museums and galleries, handed down as heirlooms, their origins misattributed or unknown. Scenes from the Indiana Jones films echoed in my head, and my breath fluttered. If something fell into the wrong hands...

I looked at Mark, who gave one of his graceful half-shrugs. “It has crossed my mind too – but there are no treasure maps leading the way to the Arkenstone, or the Rings, or the lost Palantíri. Or the Silmarils. And few truly believe in such things now. I think the risk is small.”

I leaned over the arm of the chair and passed Barahir's ring back to him. “Have you ever tried to find them? The Silmarils?”

He paused as he looped the cord over his neck, his eyes far away. “I have called, and listened – but I have felt nothing. Perhaps the old stories are true, and they are not to be found until the very end.”

The old stories...I wondered which other tales long dismissed as fiction might have a whisper of truth about them. Beowulf...the Arthurian cycle...the Kalevala... “Why has nothing ever been found? Not objects; I mean the cities, the buildings.” I hesitated. “Remains.”

“Much perished as the land and sea moved through the years. And there is more that the Powers would prefer was never found.”

I frowned. “Are they evil, then? The Valar, the Maiar, and so on?”

“They are not evil, no – or not all – but the Valar are not of this world and do not understand it, or its inhabitants.”

I shook my head slowly, like I was trying to dislodge water from my ears. Any more new ideas, I thought, and my brain would need to shut down and reboot. “OK.” I swallowed. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For trusting me. For telling me the truth.”

He slid the leather cord back under his shirt. “Truth is more often a burden than a gift.”

“Well, either way, it's done now.”

“Yes.” He drew up his knees, and for a moment, in spite of the silver in his hair and the creases at the corners of his eyes, he looked impossibly young. “Yes, it is.” 

I swallowed the last of the whisky. “I should go. You had things to do.”

“Only books to return.”

“The joys of short loan?”

“Indeed.” He got to his feet. “You're welcome to stay, though – not that there's much here to amuse you, but I won't be long, and the bed's all yours if you need it.”

I glanced at my watch. “It's five to one!”

“You've had a shock.” There was nothing patronising in his voice, only a deep, quiet kindness. “Sleep helps. Believe me, I know.”

I thought of all the things he must have seen, terrible and wonderful and astounding, and wanted to cry again. My legs felt weirdly fluffy. “Are you sure you don't mind?”

“Of course not. I'd consider it a favour returned.” 

I smiled.

“The kitchen's easy enough to find your way around. There's tea and coffee in the cupboard above the kettle, sugar and honey in the one underneath.” He picked up his bag. “I'll leave the door unlocked, in case you need to leave before I get back.”

“Alright. Thanks.” I tucked my feet into the blanket draped over the chair. “I'll see you later.” 

The parting smile he gave me was like sunlight breaking through mist.

***

I did sleep, in the end, although not in his bed; that felt too close and personal. The wicker chairs weren't exactly comfortable, but I dozed with my head resting on my arm – much as he had done the night before on our sofa – and woke to the sound of the door handle turning, and the flood of electric light from the hall. 

I sat up and tugged my fingers through my hair. It was dark, I realised; I must have slept for hours. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He flicked on the lights in the living room. As well as his satchel, he carried a brown paper bag in each hand. “You stayed.”

“And you shopped.”

“Well, I did promise you dinner.”

I checked my watch again. Five o'clock. “Jesus.” I looked back at him, puzzled. “I thought you were only giving books back?”

“I went for coffee, and then a walk. I didn't want to disturb you.”

I arced my back and unfolded my legs. “I can't believe I've kept you out of your own house.”

“If that's the only thing from today you can't believe, I'd say we're doing well.” He shrugged off his satchel. “Hungry?”

So far that day I'd consumed toast, tea, mint infusion and whisky. My stomach growled at the thought of proper food. 

Mark grinned. “I'll make a start.”

I followed him through to the kitchen, watching him unpack fillets of salmon, a bulb of garlic, a bag of spinach. “What can I do to help?”

He lifted an eyebrow as he put white wine into the fridge to chill. “I thought I was cooking for you?”

“I know. But I'd like to do something. As long as I won't be in your way.”

Armed with the garlic, a chopping board, and a sharp knife, I settled myself at the small fold-down table, peeling and slicing, letting myself be anchored by the sweet smell and the papery skin peeling away from the glossy white cloves. Mark put H.M.S. Pinafore on the CD player, and we worked in companionable silence. Every so often I stole a glance at him and thought of our conversation, the strange hyper-reality of it, the inconceivable truths he'd shared. Sometimes he'd catch my eye and smile at me, Mark again, the friend I'd made last semester, handsome and eccentric – but now, too, an ancient being whose powers and history I could barely start to comprehend.

---

Chapter End Notes

I first encountered the idea of Fëanor's soul inside the Silmarils in Spiced Wine's wonderful Dark Prince 'verse. It's been canon to me ever since.