God, I Pity the Violins by StarSpray

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Chapter 3

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Maglor did not accept the offered hand. "I'm not interested in making any purchases at this time, and I am quite content with my religion, thanks very much," he said, and began to close the door.

"I'm not here to sell you anything, Mr. Smithson," said Mr. Copley, dropping his hand, and placing both inside the pockets of his jacket.

"Then why are you here?" Maglor asked him.

"To talk about immortality."

Movement behind Maglor told him that Quynh was nearby and listening in, and a glance over his shoulder showed him that she was standing poised on the balls of her feet, ready for fight or flight—most likely fight, he thought. He shot her a warning look before turning back to Copley. "I'm not interested in that, either," he said.

"I mean yours," Copley said. "You have very distinctive features, Mr. Smithson." From one of his pockets, he pulled a small handful of photographs, which he held out. Maglor took them automatically. The first was a photo of a bust, Roman—it was his own face, of course, though the nose had a chip in the bridge and the rest of the statue was missing. It had once stood in the courtyard of a villa in Pompeii. Maglor had thought it destroyed with the rest of the city. He looked at the other photographs. One was an old black and white photo of a symphony orchestra in which his figure had been circled, though little of his face was visible in the back row. The next was an image of a painting, which he had never seen before but which did, indeed, show his face, although it was not attached to any sort of figure that he would have willingly posed for, or that even really resembled his own body. He could not remember ever meeting Raphael properly, but he'd seen him at a distance—and it seemed that Raphael had seen him, too. The last photograph was a still from a security camera, and he recognized both himself and Quynh leaving the ice cream shop in Dover.

The old images were one thing—he could explain them away if he had to, for historical doppelgängers were not uncommon. But the most recent image was more disturbing. "How long have you been following me?" he asked Copley, looking up at him with a frown.

"I've been aware of you for some time," Copley said, not at all apologetic. "But I am not the only one who's good at finding patterns—which is why I am here. May I come in?"

"What do you mean, you aren't the only one?" Maglor demanded, making no move to open the door wider. He shoved the photos back at Copley, who fumbled with them before returning them to their pocket.

"There is a private security company, Turralba, based in America that has similar interests to Merrick Pharmaceutical Industries." Copley paused, as though expecting Maglor to know what those interests were, or even to recognize the name of Merrick. When he did not reply Copley went on, "There is a team on its way as we speak to abduct you and take you back to their headquarters in America. They landed in Heathrow this morning." There were many curses in the tongues of Men and Elves that ran through Maglor's head as he stared at Copley. There was little use in denying the accusations of immortality now; whether or not Copley believed him meant nothing, if there were people coming to try to take him.

"And where do you come into it?" he asked at last.

"I'm…associated…with a small group of people like you. Immortals. They're soldiers—they do good work—"

"Are you here to recruit me?"

"I'm here to offer you protection. There is a safe house—"

"I don't need your safe houses." Maglor shifted his weight and looked Copley in the eyes. He was not as skilled at perceiving the minds of others as had been his cousin Galadriel, but he was good enough to be able to sift through Copley's unsuspecting thoughts. The man had not always been so keen on protecting immortals from those who would exploit them. Maglor wondered if his pivot from trying to capture to trying to protect the immortals he had mentioned—who must be Quynh's old companions—was the action of a man seeing the wind changing and adjusting his actions accordingly, or if it was borne of genuine regret. He had at least some regret, though it was buried deep in the way such things were by those skilled at compartmentalization. Maglor himself, once upon a time, had been very good at it.

The important thing, though, was that Copley wasn't lying—not about his current intentions, or about the others coming from America to snatch Maglor up.

As Maglor withdrew from his mind Copley blinked a few times, having felt the intrusion, but unable to recognize it for what it was. "What about your own friends?" Maglor asked him. "Where are they?"

"They are also on their way to England," Copley said, "but on a different mission. They're flying in from São Paulo."

"Nile has been dreaming, too," Quynh said in a low voice, behind Maglor.

Maglor left the doorway, leaving the door open for Copley to come or go as he wished. "I think perhaps we are not going to have lasagna tonight," he told Quynh.

"We are leaving?" she asked.

"It seems so. But not yet." Maglor went to the bedroom and pulled out a few bags. One was empty, and he handed it to Quynh, who had trailed after him. Another empty one he tossed onto the bed; the third was something Copley might recognize, or anyone who had seen a film about spies. It was filled with cash in multiple currencies, and various identities, mostly old or expired, that Maglor hadn't gotten around to disposing of yet. But best not leave it for this Turralba to find. He threw clothes into the other bag, and carefully packed his driftwood harp away into its case—it was the only instrument he could not easily replace, and he would hate to lose it or see it damaged. Carefully also he drew his ancient copy of the Red Book from its chest, and murmured a few extra words of protection over it as he tucked it in among his socks and t-shirts. The bags and the harp went into his car.

It took less time than he had expected. Now it was time to wait, and to consider that perhaps there was time for dinner after all. Copley was incredulous. "You did hear me say they'd be here tonight, didn't you?" he asked.

"I did," said Maglor, as he rummaged in a cabinet. He needed something stronger than tea. "But I have questions you cannot answer, Mr. Copley. You're welcome to stay, of course, but when night falls you must do as I say." He glanced up at Quynh. "You as well."

"Are you going to fight them?" she asked, eyes glittering.

"No." Maglor straightened with a bottle of brandy. "There will be no blood shed in this house." He met her gaze as he said it, and after a moment she nodded, though clearly reluctant.

"These men are ex-Special Forces," Copley pointed out. He leaned on the door frame, arms crossed, frowning. "Navy SEALs, Green Berets—you understand what that means?"

"I would expect no less," Maglor replied. He poured three small glasses of brandy, leaving two for Quynh and Copley to take if they wished—Quynh took hers and sniffed at it curiously—and put the bottle away. "Do you doubt that I, also, am highly trained?"

"Honestly?" Copley's eyebrow rose. "There's nothing in your file to suggest that you are."

Maglor laughed. "Child, your files could never stretch back far enough to see the whole of me." He knocked back the last of his brandy and went to the music room, where he drowned out any other questions or protestations from either guest with the loudest piano concerto he could recall at a moment's notice. It was tempting to curse the morning that washed Quynh onto the shore in his path—but that was not fair. The Americans seeking immortality or magic or whatever it was they thought to find in him would have come whether Quynh had been there or not. But her old friends were coming, too, and Maglor did not know if he would find in them allies or obstacles. He supposed it depended on what they expected of him.

When the concerto was ended, silence fell over the small house. Quynh was staring out of a window, chewing her thumbnail absently. Copley was browsing Maglor's bookshelves, a picture of casual curiosity that hid whatever analysis of Maglor was going on in his head. Maglor ignored them both, staring at the piano keys and feeling oddly out of breath, as though he had just run a long distance.

A scratching at the door had Copley reaching for a gun and Quynh tensing for a fight, but Maglor recognized the sound. "Ai, I nearly forgot Norindo." He rose and went to the door. The little dog sat on the porch, tail thumping the boards as he grinned up at Maglor, tongue lolling. "Hello, little friend," Maglor said, crouching to give him a good scratch behind the ears. "Are you at last going to come inside, hm?"

The answer, alas, was no. Norindo tugged at the hem of Maglor's jeans and then darted off down the footpath, stopping at the gate and looking back expectantly. "Ah, I see," Maglor said. He looked at the sky. The sun was still high. Hours stretched before him, before his would-be kidnappers came. He sighed, and left Quynh and Copley to their own thoughts and walked with Norindo to the top of the path that led down to the beach. There was a figure lolling in the waves, practically one of the waves himself—and to anyone else that is how he would have appeared. "Ah," Maglor said again, with a sigh, looking down at Norindo, who was again tugging at his jeans. "Even you are more than you seem, aren't you?"

First Uinen, now Ossë. Maglor wondered what message the storm-lord had for him. But better find out now. He glanced over his shoulder once more at the cottage, and then followed Norindo down the path. Norindo ran ahead, barking joyfully and kicking up sand as he went, heedless of the waves and Ossë now that his errand was accomplished. Maglor went more slowly, pausing to pick up a shell here and there, and skirting the waves and wet, until he drew even with Ossë, who rose up to a man's height. He took a more solidly human-seeming shape than his lady wife, though his hair remained flowing and white with foam. "Hail, Macalaurë Canafinwë!" he said, his grin wide and pearly.

"Ossë," Maglor replied, putting his hands into his pockets. "I spoke with your lady wife only recently. To what do I owe the honor of two Maiar coming to me like this?"

"Uinen's errands are her own," Ossë said, waving a hand. A wave leaped up out of the water, splashing Maglor up to the knee. He sighed. "But she brought back to Eldamar word of you, and caused something of a stir among your kindred. So it was that Master Elrond sought me out where I was sojourning along the southern coasts of Valinor, where the waves crash against the jagged rocks with delightful music, and he asked me to bear a message to you, for I am one of very few who still cross the Straight Road to and from the West."

Maglor felt like someone had punched him square in the chest, driving all the air out of his lungs. He gaped, and then, when he found his tongue again, he said, faintly, "Elrond sent you?"

"Are you surprised, son of Fëanáro?"

He was. Of course he was. "What is the message?" he asked.

"A plea. Come home, says Elrond. And says Nerdanel, and Fëanáro and Maitimo and all of your other brothers, and—"

"Says Fëanáro?" Maglor's voice broke on the name. "But I thought—"

"You have been away a very long time," said Ossë, and his voice was surprisingly gentle, like the smallest wash of a wave up soft sand, to cool one's toes. "Much has changed, in these hither lands, and in the West also. Fëanáro walks with his brothers under the sun, and with his wife and his sons—all but one. Master Elrond has charged me to remind you that the Ban on the Exiles was lifted long ago, after the War of the Ring, and that you have been free to return ever since."

Maglor supposed he had known this—that some part of him had known it, at least—but it felt as though he were learning it for the first time. He could find a small boat and sail away right then, heading west, and instead of the Americas he would find instead the Straight Road beyond the stars… He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Thank you," he said finally, opening his eyes. Ossë was watching him, his eyes, like Uinen's, keen as stars. "Please, tell Elrond…when you next see him…I will come. But not yet. I have business here that needs finishing."

Ossë's smile was sudden and bright. "I will tell him!" he said. "And when you choose to set forth, Macalaurë son of Fëanáro, you will find steady winds and fair seas!" He tossed something to Maglor, who caught it reflexively, and then melted back into the surf much as Uinen had on that morning that seemed somehow so long ago and yet just yesterday. Maglor looked down at his palm, and found a white gem set in silver, with a small loop for a chain. It gleamed like a star in his hand, emitting its own light. The work was painfully familiar—it was the work of his father, down to the way the light had been caught in the gem, and the delicate, tiny lettering along the silver setting that spelled out his name. There was virtue in the gem; it felt warm in his hand, a comforting warmth like a hearth side on a cold day, or a mug of tea on a rainy morning. He had not held an Elven-work in his hands that was not his own in more years than he could count, least of all a work of his father, and the mere sight of it made him want to weep with some unnamed emotion that was not joy or sadness, and was yet both and more. He pressed a kiss to the gem and turned to walk back up the hill. Norindo followed, and this time he trotted into the house after Maglor.

Quynh and Copley both looked at him in some confusion as he passed by, though neither remarked on the state of his jeans or the look on his face. Norindo trotted over to give Copley a good sniff before greeting Quynh with a lick to her hand and a roll onto his belly for scratches. Maglor left them to change into dry pants, and to find a chain for the gem. He slipped it over his head and tucked it beneath his shirt, against his skin, where it remained a warm and comforting presence.

In the end he did make the lasagna for dinner—they had the time, and it would be a shame to waste the ingredients he'd bought for the purpose. And it kept his mind and hands busy, at least until it was in the oven and he had nothing but the washing up to do afterward, which required no thought, and so his mind strayed to the West, conjuring images of a childhood so far in the past he'd nearly forgotten, in a white city shining on a hill filled with the sound of laughter and singing. To think that he might see it again…

Night fell. Clouds gathered, obscuring the stars. Maglor stood on his porch and listened to the waves on the shore, and to the wind in the grass. He then went to the garden and dug up a small athelas plant that had taken root near the larger one. He did not know when he would be able to return to this cottage, and the thought was melancholy. But even if he ever could, it would not be for long—only to tidy up in preparation for his final departure. And where he would go in the meantime, and for how long…that remained to be seen. It depended a great deal on what he might learn that night.

Once he had the small plant in a small pot nestled in the cup holder of his car, he returned to the house where Copley and Quynh were waiting, both of them growing impatient, though Copley was better at hiding it than Quynh. Norindo, on the other hand, was stretched out on the floor, fast asleep and twitching occasionally as he chased rabbits and squirrels through his dreams.

"What exactly are you planning to do tonight?" Copley asked.

"And what are we going to do?" Quynh added.

"The two of you will wait in the attic," Maglor said.

"You don't have an attic," Quynh said, narrowing her eyes at him.

He smiled. "Yes, I do. Come." He led them down the hall; the cottage was only one floor, except for a small attic that would only barely be big enough for two people to sit comfortably. It was accessed by a trap door that pulled down into a short ladder. Around the edges of it Maglor had placed very small runes, so that even someone like Quynh making a thorough search of the place would miss it, unless shown; he'd thought to keep valuables up there, once upon a time, but in the end there was little he had that he needed to hide. "Here. They will search the house but if you could not find this door, Quynh, then they will not either."

"How did you hide it?" she demanded.

He ignored the question. "The two of you—and Norindo, I will lift him up to you—must stay up there, and as silent as you can. Do not come down until I come for you." He met each of their gazes. Both of them were confused, of course, but it would take too long to explain—and he doubted Copley, at least, would accept the explanation. "Do I have your word?"

After a short hesitation, Quynh huffed a sigh. "Fine. But where will you be hiding?"

"Anywhere there is a shadow deep enough," Maglor replied. "Mr. Copley. Do I have your word that you will remain up there and silent until I come for you?"

Copley sighed, and held up his hands. "All right. I'm of the least use in a fight, I know."

The two retreated to the attic without anymore argument, and Norindo was lifted up with them. Maglor carried him up the ladder, and the little dog licked his face before curling up against Quynh's leg and, to all appearances, going straight back to sleep. "Stay quiet," Maglor said.

"What if you need help?" Quynh asked.

"I won't."

Maglor made something of a show in going about an evening routine, making tea and taking a few sips before leaving it to cool on the table. He washed the counters and swept the floors and tidied up some of the clutter. Then he turned on some music, soft piano music, and extinguished all the lights, leaving the house in darkness as though he had gone to bed as usual. He did not go to the bedroom, instead slipping into a dark corner, a driftwood-carved flute in his hands, and waited.

It was another few hours before, beneath the quiet music, he heard the crunch of boots on gravel outside, followed by boots treading carefully on his wooden porch, and then the quiet opening of the front door—and then the back door a moment later. Six men entered the house, guns drawn, wearing night-vision goggles. Even with that advantage they did not see Maglor, where he had wrapped the shadows around him. As they searched he brought the flute to his lips and began to play, and as he played he moved, slipping from corner to corner, shadow to shadow. Some spotted him out of the corner of their eye but when they turned he was gone, and the longer he played, the heavier their footsteps became, and the clumsier they grew. They fought the enchantment, of course, and one or two could very nearly throw it off entirely—and wasn't that interesting—but in the end all but one succumbed entirely, crumpling quietly into soft heaps on the floor. The last man stood in the hallway with his hands pressed over his ears and his jaw clenched against a yawn, fighting it harder than Maglor had ever seen anyone resist such a spell.

He stopped playing and stepped out of the shadows. The man dropped his hands and pulled out his gun. "Don't make another sound," he barked. "Don't move."

"Or you'll shoot me?" Maglor asked lightly. "And what happens when you miss? Or if you kill me? I'm sure your masters wouldn't like that."

"Get on your knees and put your hands in the air," the man ordered. His voice was rough, but hard as steel.

"No. I do not take orders from house-breakers and kidnappers."

"You're one yourself, aren't you?" the man asked, and this made Maglor pause. What did they know about him? "You did worse things than kidnap, too, if all the stories in those old books are true."

Maglor met his gaze and for the second time that day he delved into the mind of another. But this man had been prepared for it, and it was much harder to see what he knew or thought than it had been with Copley. That alone was alarming. Even more alarming was the single image of true importance that Maglor managed to glean—so unexpected that it nearly sent him reeling. He retreated from the man's mind, a headache building behind his eyes, taking a step backward as he did so. The man pressed his advantage and took aim with his pistol. The shot went side, but just barely. Maglor ducked, and the man lunged, sending them both crashing to the ground. The breath was driven momentarily from Maglor's lungs, but this moment was all the man needed to get in a blow to his face. He felt something crack in the bridge of his nose, and the taste of blood flooded his mouth and poured down the back of his throat.

But even out of practice, Maglor was faster and stronger. He twisted and used his legs as leverage and flipped the two of them so the man was the one on the floor, Maglor's blood dripping onto his face. Maglor spoke a word and the man's grip on his arm went slack—but just for a moment. He spoke another word, and then a third, and the enchantments that lay over all the house rose up to claim this last man, though he took another swing at the last, knocking Maglor back with a blow to the jaw, before his muscles went slack and his eyes rolled up and shut.

It was very quiet. Maglor sat up, and dabbed at the blood running down his chin, wincing. He retreated to the kitchen to wash up and find something to staunch the bleeding before returning to search the men's pockets. None carried a cell phone, and the leader had only a small notebook filled with chicken-scratch notes that revealed little except an apparently long-running game of hangman in the margins. He tossed it aside and set about binding the man with the flex-cuffs they had brought on their own belts, before dragging them outside. He took them to a field away from both his cottage and the village, all but the leader. That man he left where he lay in the doorway between the parlor and the kitchen. On one he found a set of keys, and that led him to their van parked well out of the way on the other side of the village. It was simple work to find the spare key beneath the mat and to let the air out of all the tires, before dumping the keys, along with all of their weapons, into the dumpster behind the pub, which was scheduled to be emptied come sunup. He was the only one moving about in the village. His song of sleep had not reached beyond his own house, but his neighbors did not need it. They remained safe and sound asleep in their beds, none the wiser as he slipped through the little streets on silent feet.

Back home, Maglor stood over the last intruder, propped up against the wall but still unconscious, his head lolling forward, and considered whether to rouse Quynh and Copley. In the end he decided against it. If this man's masters did not yet know of Quynh and the others, then he would not be the one to tell them.

He crouched in front of the man and spoke a word. After a moment he stirred, blinking slowly and lifting his head as though with considerable effort. Sleep still clung to him like cobwebs, falling away only slowly. He blinked at Maglor in the darkness, and then tried to lunge at him, only to find his ankles and wrists bound, so all that happened was that he fell over on his side. Maglor sat back on his heels. "It was a fool's errand your masters sent you on, this night," he said, and saw the man's eyes widen, white around the edges in the gloom, for now he could see Maglor as he truly was, with the light of Telperion and Laurelin blazing in his eyes. "You say you knew the tales of what I did, in the early morning of the world." Maglor leaned forward, and the man tried to back away, but he was up against the wall and could not move. "I say you know nothing of the power of the Elves."

The man swallowed hard, and rallied—Maglor had to give him credit for that. "We've got one of you already, and he didn't put up any fight at all," he said, though his voice trembled.

"Doubtless you caught him unawares," Maglor said. "Or else he would not have been so kind as I have been." He grabbed the edge of the man's vest and drew him close; he could smell the sour sweat of him, and feel him tremble beneath his hand. "Now tell me truly and tell me quickly, lest I forget to be merciful—where are you holding Daeron?"