God, I Pity the Violins by StarSpray

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Chapter 4

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Once all of the intruders were asleep and tied up, and he had all the answers he was going to get, Maglor went to wake Copley and Quynh. Things would go faster if there were three of them dragging unconscious bodies through the weeds, instead of just one. It took a few tries—the enchantment had caught them up and held them fast, for they had not been forewarned. Copley woke slowly; Quynh woke with a start and a gasp, like she was desperate for air. She scrambled down the ladder after Maglor, and he suspected she might have run all the way outside to the nearest field, but she stopped short when he flipped the hall light on. "What happened to no blood?" she demanded.

"Things did not go quite as planned," Maglor replied. He sounded as though he had a bad cold, he thought as Copley descended more slowly, and Norindo appeared at the opening to whine until Copley carefully scooped him up under an arm. It was something of a miracle that he'd managed to appear as threatening to the intruder as he had. "I'll be fine. I just need help moving them before we leave."

Copley looked around sharply. "Did you kill them all?" he asked, incredulous.

"Of course not! I sang them to sleep—and you as well, I'm afraid. I'm sorry." This he added to Quynh, who was trembling and pale. "You dreamed of the sea, didn't you?"

"How did you know?" Copley asked, even more incredulous if that were possible. Quynh only nodded.

"I've spent so many years beside the sea that its music has wound itself into my own in ways I can no longer quite control," Maglor said, ignoring Copley. "I didn't mean to distress you."

She hesitated, and then nodded. "Where are the bodies?" she asked.

"They're alive," Maglor said, "and they're in the living room." At his direction, the three of them dragged the men out, none-too-gently, into a field not far from his house but a decent distance from the village, and where there were no popular walking paths, so no one would stumble on the men by accident come morning. Maglor gave Copley the keys he'd taken off the leader, and Copley disappeared into the sleeping village, returning some twenty minutes later to report that the van they'd come in had been disabled and the keys disposed of. They would have quite a task before them just to leave the area, let alone follow Maglor.

"Now what?" Copley asked Maglor, once they were back inside. "Do you need a doctor…?"

"No." Maglor had washed his face more thoroughly and taken stock of the damage. It looked—and felt—worse than it was. It would heal before very long. "Are you going to insist on coming along, or will we part ways now?" he asked, though he didn't wait for an answer before going to find his own car keys.

"I don't know," Copley said, trailing along behind. "You know they're probably going to try again…?"

"Not if they can't find me," said Maglor.

"Where are you going to go?"

Maglor found his keys were he usually kept them, and eyed Norindo, wondering if he would be willing to get into the car. Norindo looked back at him, and then scratched himself behind an ear. Well, if he ran off when the door opened, there wasn't really anything to be done about it except hope that he would find someone else willing to put out food. To Copley he said, "I'm not sure I can describe it to you—not how to get there. It cannot be found unless you already know where it is, or are particularly keen-eyed—and few nowadays are." Copley frowned and opened his mouth to protest, but Maglor was already headed out the door. "You need to decide now, Mr. Copley, if you are coming or if we are parting."

"If I don't come I feel like I'm going to lose track of you entirely," Copley said. "And even if you don't think that's a bad thing—"

The next few seconds passed both very quickly and very slowly. Maglor opened the front door, and Norindo darted outside between his legs, and for the first time since Maglor had known him was growling. He opened his mouth to call Norindo back, but at that moment a sharp pinprick of pain blossomed just where his neck met his shoulder. Copley appeared at his side with his gun raised, as Maglor lifted his hand to find a dart sticking out of his skin. As he plucked it out he could feel the drug speeding its way through his veins, as his vision started to darken at the edges. Only vaguely was he aware of a figure darting away into the darkness, and of Quynh shouting something—and then there was nothing.

.

He woke with a start on an unfamiliar sofa in an unfamiliar room, to golden afternoon sunlight slanting in through the gaps in the blinds. Norindo lay sprawled across his chest, a comforting weight. His mouth tasted like blood and also of the disgusting dry-mouth aftertaste he usually associated with hangovers. Only he hadn't had a hangover in decades, not since he'd made the mistake of spending a year in New York in 1925 with Daeron, who knew all the best speakeasies, where they paid for their drinks with music.

Daeron. Maglor had closed his eyes again, but now he opened them and tried to sit up. Norindo squirmed around and whined, but jumped to the floor. Maglor took quick stock of the room. It was comfortable and nicely decorated, but not at all homey—it had the slightly stale air of a place only rarely lived in. There was a thin film of dust over the art frames on the walls, though fresh tracks on the carpet suggested that Maglor had slept through a vacuuming. Just as he had the thought he spotted a little robot cleaner trundle along the hallway just beyond the door. Norindo watched it with his head cocked slightly to the side.

This must be Copley's safe house. Maglor gritted his teeth and got to his feet, staggering a little as he crossed the room. It was not hard to find the kitchen, which was empty but for a half-full coffee pot, still slightly warm. Maglor opened the cupboards and the fridge, not really expecting to find much and finding exactly that—only a handful of non-perishables in the cupboards, and nothing at all in the fridge. Someone had placed his small athelas plant on the window. He found a proper kettle and put it on the stove; there was no tea but he could feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders, like harp strings wound too tightly.

"You're awake." Quynh had appeared behind him soundlessly, and Maglor started. "Sorry."

"How long was I asleep?" he asked, and grimaced as his voice sounded both raspy and stuffed up. His whole face hurt.

"Nearly all day," she replied. "Copley went out to get food."

"Where are we?"

"Canterbury." Quynh glanced out of the window at the small back garden, neatly fenced in, sparse but well-tended. Nearly the opposite of Maglor's own cottage garden. "It's very different from what I remember."

"Mm." Maglor filled a glass with cold water and drank it down. His hands trembled only very slightly. "Did you catch whoever it was that shot the dart?"

"No. Copley wasn't sure who it was. It didn't make much sense to be a member of the same group, or something. I thought they'd poisoned you."

Maglor hummed again. Then he asked, "Is my harp still in the car?"

"No. It's near the front door. Copley didn't want to drive around with it. I think he thinks bringing it at all was stupid."

"I don't particularly care what Copley thinks," said Maglor. "We can't all be spies. I made that harp with my own hands. Where I go it goes." He refilled the glass, but only sipped it. The kettle was nearly ready to sing. He plucked a leaf from the athelas plant and bruised it in his palm as he searched for a bowl. In moments the fresh smell of wind on grass filled the small kitchen, managing to filter through even Maglor's broken and stuffed-up nose. He leaned against the table and sighed, closing his eyes for a moment.

He opened them at the sound of the front door opening. Copley appeared a moment later with his arms full of grocery bags. "Oh, good," he said, "you're awake. I was starting to worry we'd have to find a doctor."

"I suppose this is the safe house you wanted to bring me to in the first place," Maglor said.

"It is."

"Well, thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I haven't had time to discover who else figured out who—or what—you are."

"You don't think that last person was from—what did you call it, Turralba?"

"None of the others had darts or drugs on them," said Copley as he set the bags on the table. He looked at the bowl. "What's that?"

"Kingsfoil. But surely it can't be coincidence that another party arrived on the same evening."

"No. That's why I need to do some digging. And speaking of finding you, I took the battery out of your phone."

That was probably for the best. "Does this house have a land line?" he asked.

"You need to make some calls?" Copley's eyebrow arched.

"As a matter of fact, I do. I am not the only Elf still dwelling on these shores—and one other has already been caught. I need to warn the others that I know, so they can spread the word among our people. Oh, don't look at me like that," he added. "It was what your people would call elvish magic that you experienced last night—that kept those men deep in slumber as we dragged them through the dirt and grass of the fields, that put you to sleep in the attic, unless you believe you would have dozed off otherwise. If immortality that brings a mortal man or woman back from death in a few moments, and heals wounds in even less time is not so hard to believe in, why not Elves?"

Copley opened his mouth to reply, perhaps to argue, but was interrupted by his own cell phone ringing. "Excuse me," he said, setting down a small bag of tomatoes as he fished it out of his pocket. "Hello, Nile," he said, and broke off as rapid speech came through on the other end, tinny and too faint for the words to be made out. Maglor thought the voice sounded distressed. "I—yes, there's a woman with me named Quynh," Copley said after a moment, "but I don't—no?—no, she's not—I'm fine, of course—"

Quynh looked up from her inspection of a package of microwave popcorn. Her mouth quirked wryly. "They're afraid of me," she murmured, for Maglor's ears only.

He frowned at her. "Should they be?"

"Maybe." She set the package down. "I am still angry with Andromache."

"For what? It was not her fault, what happened to you." Quynh looked away. "I cannot believe that they did not find you for lack of trying."

"Such things are easy for you to say," she said. "And you don't need to worry about the carpets. They aren't yours to clean up."

Copley finished his conversation after giving Nile an address, presumably theirs. He looked at Quynh thoughtfully for a moment, before he said, "You should know before they arrive that Andy—Andromache—isn't immortal anymore."

"What?" Quynh looked up. "But—"

"She lost it about six months ago."

Quynh's shock turned into a scowl, and she turned and left the room without another word. Maglor watched her go, and then looked at Copley. "When will they be here?" he asked.

"About two hours. They just landed in London, and evidently no one thought to reserve a rental car." Copley sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked suddenly very weary. "This is not how I thought any of this was going to go. Did you know who Quynh was?"

"Yes. I found her washed up on the beach a few days ago—she was dead, and then suddenly she wasn't. It was rather a shock."

"And you—you aren't actually one of them. You're something else."

"I am what you would call an Elf," Maglor said. "My people do not grow old and die as Men do, and in some ways we are hardier. But I can be slain—and I won't get back up again afterward. But don't worry about Quynh. I don't think she bears any real ill will toward Andromache or the others—but how can she not be troubled, after so many centuries of suffering at the bottom of the sea?"

"Troubled is one word for it," Copley said. "Nile thinks she's completely insane."

"I would not say so. The kingsfoil helps to sooth distress minds and spirits." Maglor rubbed at one of the leaves on the plant as it sat on the windowsill. "Did you say whether this house has a phone?"

"Yeah, it does." Copley retrieved a cordless phone from a charging port. "I'll be in the garden with my laptop if you need me—oh, and I took your things up to the first bedroom on the left at the top of the stairs."

"Thank you."

Maglor retrieved his harp from the front hall and took it back to the little living room where he'd woken up. Norindo had returned to the sofa and was curled up fast asleep. Before he set it up, however, he sat down and dialed a number on the phone. It rang for so long that he feared it would not even go to voice mail, but then a woman answered with a pleasant, musical voice, in French. "Yes, hello?" In the background Maglor could hear voices and traffic, and someone playing a guitar very badly.

"Linnoriel?" Maglor asked.

She switched immediately to Sindarin. "Who is this?"

"Maglor." He waited for the call to drop, but though the silence between them stretched uncomfortably, she did not hang up.

"I didn't realize you had this number," she said finally. The background noises changed, growing fainter.

"Your mother gave it to me when I last saw her," Maglor said. "I am glad it still works."

"What do you need?" Linnoriel asked, brisk now that she was over her surprise. "You sound strange."

"A group of men came to my home last night," Maglor told her, "and tried to abduct me. I was warned beforehand, and was ready for them—but they knew who I am." Again the silence stretched between them. He went on after giving the information a moment to sink in. "Word needs to be spread that we are being hunted. Daeron has already been taken."

At this Linnoriel hissed a curse. "My father will want to hear all of this, and more," she said. "Where are you? Can you come to France?"

"I had intended to go to America. That is where they are holding Daeron."

"You are—no. We should not speak of this over the phone. Come to France. My father's court has not moved since you last visited us. We may all take counsel there."

Maglor bit his lip. He hated to delay. But there was little choice—and it wasn't as though he had any definite plans already in place. "All right," he said. "I will come as soon as I can. You can reach me at this number the rest of today."

"Very good," Linnoriel said. "We will await your arrival."

Maglor hung up and stared at the phone for a while, trying to think through logistics, and how to juggle this summons from the last remaining Elven Princess in the world with whatever was going on with Quynh and the others. But soon he gave up and took out his harp. If he couldn't think, he could play, and perhaps the plans would come later. Once he had the blinds raised and the window cracked, so he could feel the sun and the breeze, he sat at his harp and closed his eyes as he put his fingers to the strings. The music that came to him was Daeron's, that famous music for the breaking of the heart that he had piped and sang and strummed in the glades of Neldoreth when the world was young and Doom had not yet pierced the Girdle. He could see it in his mind's eye, the bright young sunshine shining green through the canopy of beech leaves far overhead that rustled gently in the breeze, and the sparkling Esgalduin that gleamed with starlight even at high noon, and echoed the voice of Melian and her nightingales, and the white niphredil flowers like snowdrifts everywhere.

At some point he heard the sound of a car, and then the slamming of car doors, four of them. He opened his eyes to find that several hours had passed. He did not stop his playing, but changed the tune to one of peace and calm that was often played in Lórien—or at least, that had often been played there when he was very young and just learning what music could do. As he did he watched the foursome as they gathered on the sidewalk. They moved in tandem, three of them with the ease and familiarity of long centuries, though also as though something or someone was missing. He wondered if that were Quynh or Booker, who was presumably still getting drunk in Paris. He watched them as they paused; the two men looked up and down the street as though they half-expected some enemy to leap out from behind the neighbor's hydrangea bushes, before they all looked toward the window where he sat. He inclined his head slightly, never faltering in his playing.

He heard Quynh on the stairs as they walked up the short path to the door; Copley came in from the back garden to open it, and Norindo jumped down from the sofa to go sniff at Quynh's foot and jump up to ask fo

r a good scratch behind the ears. Quynh had come into the living room but stood rigid near the coffee table, eyes on the doorway. Her eyes were red, but for the moment dry.

Three of the four crowded into the living room, sparing Maglor not a single glance, and after a few seconds of awkward staring Quynh burst into tears, and then so did one of the men, and then all four of them were jumbled together in a tangle of limbs, with Norindo barking and prancing around their feet. The younger woman, who must be Nile, peered into the room and then retreated toward the kitchen after Copley, who left the house a few minutes later.

At last, emotions began to ebb, and Nile was drawn into the room to be introduced to Quynh. And then Quynh pulled Maglor away from the harp to be introduced in turn. He was a little surprised to be embraced as though he were already one of their own. Nile was pulled into the room a moment later, and for some time the talk was all a jumble of names and introductions. It was a joyful scene, and in seeing them all together, Maglor at last understood at least one small part of why they were the way they were. It was in their eyes, a light that he had not noticed before in Quynh but shone brighter now that she was reunited with her old companions.

The Wise had said long ago that the line of Lúthien would never fail. And here before him was proof, five of her children brought together by some strange fate, in all of them most strongly flowing the blood of Melian. And now that he was seeing her in person, Maglor thought that he had seen Andromache before—at a distance, a very very long time ago in her own youth. He doubted she had seen him, or that she would remember if she had. He'd been curious and a little worried about tales of a young woman who did not die, who was worshiped as a goddess because of it. As far as he could tell at the time, she had only been a very skilled warrior with more than her share of luck.

Copley returned with take out, and they all crowded into the kitchen to eat dinner. Even Norindo had a special meal of his own. Maglor remained quiet throughout the meal, satisfied that now that the initial meeting was over the awkwardness was minimal, as Joe and Nicky took turns telling Quynh some of the more interesting things that she had missed—including Nile's joining them, which had taken place surprisingly recently. It also made some of Copley's remarks about Merrick Pharmaceuticals more clear, and impressed Quynh, and embarrassed Nile herself.

As the meal came to an end, everyone was startled by the house phone ringing. Everyone but Maglor looked at one another in alarm, and before he could rise Joe got up and answered. "Hello?" He listened for a moment, brow furrowing, and then said to the room at large, "Someone wants to talk to…Maglor?"

"That's me," said Maglor as he rose.

"I thought you went by Max these days," Copley remarked.

"Yes, I do." Maglor accepted the phone from Joe, and slipped into Sindarin, since Quynh and Copley knew what he was and it didn't seem worth hiding from the others—it wasn't like they would understand the language anyway. "Linnoriel?"

"No, it's Lumorn." It was Linnoriel's brother, and he sounded breathless and half-panicked. "Yours was the first number when I opened my phone—I cannot speak long. Daeron's home in New York is being watched and now I am being followed, and I fear I do not know the city well enough to lose them. You must tell my father, if I am unable to escape and speak with him myself."

Maglor's blood ran cold. "Try to leave the city," he said, "or to make your way to Central Park. It is not any great wood but there are places enough to hide until you can form a better plan or someone can make their way to you. I will leave for your father's house now—best not call here again."

"Central Park. Yes. I can do that—thank you." Lumorn ended the call. For a moment Maglor stared at the wall, mind racing. If only there were not a whole ocean in the way!

"Max?" Quynh said after a moment.

"I must go." Maglor set the phone down carefully, for his hands were shaking.

"What, now?" Nile said, as Joe asked, "What happened?"

"Hopefully nothing." Maglor took the stairs two at a time and grabbed his bag off the bed, his mind racing. Norindo must be corralled into the car, and his harp packed away—if he was to leave it anywhere it would be with Thranduil's folk, not this unfamiliar house in Canterbury. When he turned he found Quynh in the doorway, scowling at him. "Quynh."

"You can't just go off by yourself," she said. "There are people hunting you."

"Not only me, and that is why I must go. I intended to rest here tonight and leave in the morning, but there is no time now to waste." Maglor hoisted his bag over his shoulder. "And you are again with your own family. I cannot ask you to come with me."

"I'm coming anyway. And they can help. We will all come with you. They're already preparing to leave."

Maglor hesitated. "I go to France," he said. "And the quickest way will be by the channel tunnel. That goes beneath the sea." Quynh's face went ashen, but she did not waver. "And I do not know that you will all be welcome. I go to the court of the last Elvenking remaining in Middle-earth."

"Then you will have to convince him we can help," Quynh said, as though it were that simple.

"I have never been able to convince Thranduil of anything," Maglor said wryly. "I myself am only barely tolerated in his court. But very well; it's not like I can very well stop you." He paused, and then smiled at Quynh, placing a hand on her shoulder; he was pleased in spite of himself that he was not going to be traveling alone. "Thank you. For your stubbornness I name you elf-friend." She grinned.

In the end only Copley stayed behind, and they did not take the tunnel, arriving in Dover in time to catch a ferry. Maglor retreated to the deck once they were underway, letting Quynh explain something of what was going on to the others, and eager to feel the sea wind and spray on his face, though it galled him, a little, for more reasons than one, to be going east instead of west. He stared down over the railing at the water as he fiddled with the chain around his neck. The warmth of the gem against his heart was a comfort, but also a source of homesickness that kept welling up like blood out of a newly-opened wound.

"Are you okay?" Maglor didn't jump at the sound of Nile's voice, but it was a near thing. Careless of him to get so lost in thought, even on a ship out in the middle of the English Channel.

"As much as can be expected." He offered her a smile, which she returned. "Though I'm afraid I am not very good company."

"You're worried about your friend. Friends?"

"Daeron is a friend. I know Lumorn less well."

Nile leaned on the railing, peering over into the water. "So," she said, "Quynh was talking about The Hobbit like it's a history book. Nicky's trying very gently to explain the concept of modern fantasy fiction, but I can't tell if she's really not getting it or if she's messing with him."

"The history is so ancient it may as well be fantasy, nowadays," Maglor said. "The world has changed a great deal. If there are still Dwarves in the world they have retreated deep into their mountain halls, and if there are hobbits they have grown small and silent indeed." Nile frowned at him. "Are you so surprised? You cannot die, and have been traveling these past months with two soldiers of the Crusades and a woman of ancient Scythia."

"You have to draw the line somewhere," Nile said. "I feel like if Elves and Dwarves were real Andy at least would've met one, you know? I already asked about vampires."
"Fortunately for us all, Thuringwethil and her ilk no longer wander the earth."

"Now you're just fucking with me."

"Child, I am too tired to fuck with anyone." Maglor straightened and rolled his neck, sighing as tense muscles loosened. He turned his face to the sky; it was not long past sunset now, and a single bright star shone on the eastern horizon. "Aiya Eärendil, elenion ancalima," he murmured.

Nile looked at him, and then at the star. "That's Venus," she said.

"It is the Star of High Hope," he said. "And I for one am greatly in need of it."