God, I Pity the Violins by StarSpray

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Chapter 6

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Maglor dreamed of his mother. He sat in her studio—the huge wide building with vaulted ceilings and more windows than walls that was attached to their home outside of Tirion by a walkway hung with light and billowing curtains, so that going to or leaving the studio felt like walking through clouds. But inside there was nothing billowing, nothing that might get in the way of an artist at work—except perhaps Maglor himself, which was why he was perched atop one of the many workbenches with a small knife and a piece of scrap wood, whittling at it idly while he watched Nerdanel up to her elbows in white clay, carefully molding a sculpture that might have been one of the Valar or might have been something entirely nameless. It was the most peaceful he had felt in a very long time.

Then a shadow passed over the sun, throwing the whole studio into shade. Maglor looked out of the window, and instead of the apple orchard on one side of the hill and the pear trees on the other, he saw the plains of Lothlann and Ard-galen stretching out before him. But they seemed strange, and he could see clearer and farther than he should have, though he stood atop the hill of Himring. Thangorodrim was belching forth foul smoke and rivers of fire. He blinked and Ard-galen was suddenly no longer green, the whole of the Dagor Bragollach happening in a moment, and all was blackened and burning. The smell of acrid smoke was stronger and when he turned from the window he saw that the studio itself was burning. "Mother!" He lurched forward, stumbling over a statue that had been knocked over, its head broken off in the process. It was a statue of his father. "Mother! We have to—" Maglor turned and found himself no longer in Nerdanel's studio but on the field, a sword in his hand; he had lost his horse somehow. An orc rose up out of the smoke and flames and pointed a gun at his head. Maglor dove out of the way as it went off, and he ran—and ran, and ran, seeking for his brothers, for his cousins, for anyone else who might have survived the battle. Was it the Bragollach or the Nirnaeth? He could not remember any longer.

He woke with a start, on one of the two beds. Norindo curled up in the crook of his neck. Pale light came through the window in the far wall, and rain drummed on the glass and on the roof. Quynh sat on the other bed, watching him. "That was very stupid," she informed him once she saw his eyes open. For a moment, still caught up in the dream, Maglor had no idea what she was talking about. Surely it was not stupid to run from orcs? He blinked at her, and then sank back onto the pillow with a groan, closing his eyes. "Are you in any pain?"

"Everything hurts," he said. "Where are we?"

Quynh didn't answer immediately. He heard the faucet in the bathroom, and opened his eyes to find her holding out a cup of water. She helped him drink without spilling any. "Near Ypres," she said. "The landlady owes Andromache a favor. She's very sweet."

It was unclear if Quynh meant the landlady or Andromache. Maglor pushed himself up to lean against the headboard, and when his hand shook too much he accepted Quynh's help in sipping the water. It was cool and tasted nothing of salt. "Belgium?" he said, once Quynh had determined that he'd had enough to drink.

"We killed rather a lot of people in Calais," Quynh said. "On the ferry, I mean," she added quickly, when Maglor frowned. "And then we lingered to search for you. Andromache was not happy about it."

Maglor was half-afraid to imagine what that argument had looked like. "Oh," he said. "Thank you."

Quynh set the cup down and looked Maglor up and down. "Do you think you can get up?" she asked. "We should wash all that blood off." Maglor looked down at himself. Someone had removed his shirt, but he was still covered with salt and blood and whatever other muck he'd been lying in for hours. He reached up to feel his hair and grimaced; it was stiff with dirt. Quynh held out her hand, and Maglor allowed her to pull him up and keep him on his feet until they reached the bathroom. It was something of a production, managing to bathe without getting his shoulder or the bandages wet, but Quynh was brisk and surprisingly gentle even as she continued to berate Maglor for his choices on the ferry. She scrubbed his hair and scalp and then braided it back out of his face with quick, practiced fingers.

As she finished fumbling with the elastic band to tie off the braid, a quiet knock sounded on the door before Nile poked her head in. "Oh, good," she said. "You're awake. God, you look like hell."

"Thank you," said Maglor.

"Breakfast is downstairs, and then Andy wants to get moving. Where are we supposed to be going?"

Maglor sighed. "Fumay is the nearest town. I can find the place from there. Nile, what's happened to my phone?"

"It wasn't on you when you washed up. My guess is it's at the bottom of the Channel, or washed up somewhere else—but either way it's done for. Do you need to call the Elvenking or whoever?"

"Or whoever, yes."

"There's a phone downstairs you can use." Nile disappeared, and Quynh helped Maglor out of bed again, and to get dressed properly. The clothes he had been wearing were fit only to burn, but fortunately his other things had survived, though getting into a new shirt took some doing, with his shoulder bandaged up and still painful.

Downstairs the landlady turned out to be an elderly woman who fussed at Maglor in Dutch and refused to let him make a phone call until he had drunk at least one cup of tea into which she stirred so much sugar that Maglor was surprised to find it still liquid when he sipped at it. She also tried to convince him to see a doctor, but Andy appeared and politely shut that idea down much more quickly than Maglor would have managed. This soft and polite side of Andromache was new—for the first time Maglor saw how one could think of here as merely Andy, instead of fierce Andromache the Scythian. But eventually he drank enough tea to satisfy the landlady, whose name was strangely elusive, and was permitted to use the phone at the front desk. He dialed Linnoriel's number, and it rang so long that he thought it would go to voice mail before she answered with a brusque and wary tone, in French.

"It's me, Linnoriel," he said in Sindarin.

"Where are you?" she demanded. "We have been waiting—it's been two days!"

Had it really? "I'm sorry. There was trouble on the ferry."

"You sound strange. What happened? What sort of trouble?"

"It has been dealt with. I am in Belgium at the moment—I think I should not say more than that. And I should make no promises regarding our arrival at your father's court, since that seems to do nothing but invite trouble."

"Well, see that you get here soon. The longer we tarry the more danger Lumorn is in."

"Have you heard from him?"

"He's managed to flee the city, into the mountains somewhere. But it is the mountains where this Turralba has their headquarters. We'll explain more when you arrive."

"Of course." Maglor hung up and rubbed at his face before remembering that his nose was still broken—and aggravated by his swim. He cursed and lowered his hand. Hopefully someone at Thranduil's court would take pity on him and tend to his wounds. He was in no state to sing his own songs of healing.

They had a new car, a minivan this time, with Maglor's harp tucked in neatly among the other various bags and pieces of weaponry. Andromache, of course, drove, and Maglor was placed in the front passenger seat so that he could give directions once they were needed. Quynh and Nile took the middle row, and Joe and Nicky seemed very content to have the back to themselves. Maglor leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes as they pulled out of Ypres and onto the freeway. The car radio was on quietly, and behind him Nile made awkward conversation with Quynh, who was either enjoying Nile's discomfort or was distracted by her own thoughts. It was impossible to tell. Behind them Maglor could hear any speech, but he had a feeling that Joe and Nicky didn't need to speak to have full conversations.

He felt Andromache's gaze on him from time to time, keen and calculating, but he said nothing. She was used to being the oldest and wisest and perhaps the most weary person in the room—or the minivan—and he could bring all of that crashing down for good with a few choice words, but the middle of a three hour drive was not the best time or place for it. Maglor also suspected she was just as happy as Quynh to stab her problems away, and he had enough injuries to be getting on with for the moment. So he did not open his eyes, and after a while he really did fall asleep again, lulled by the soft classical music on the radio and by Nile's quiet voice behind him.

When he woke again it was to a hand on his arm and Andromache saying, "Hey. We're coming up on Fumay. Where am I going?"

Maglor blinked heavy eyelids open and yawned. "Um," he said, looking around. They had passed out of the rain and the sky was bright and blue overhead, with only the occasional fluffy white cloud drifting along on the high winds.

"You do know where we're going, right?" Andromache said.

"I do, I just haven't come from this direction before. Have you a map?"

"Here." Nile's hand appeared holding a phone with a map on it, their location a helpful little dot traveling along a road. Maglor studied it for a moment. "Take the next right," he said finally.

Thus they went, with Maglor growing more exasperated every time they missed a turn because Andromache seemed unable to drive as though she were not being pursued. But eventually they left the major roads and found themselves on a narrow but well-tended road heading into a forest of thick, dark trees growing close together. It was not a forest that began gradually with bushes and trees that only slowly grew thicker—it was a wall that loomed up ahead of them with a lush green canopy and pillar-like trunks. Two particularly large trees with gnarled roots and branches outstretched toward one another like reaching hands stood on either side of the road. Andromache did not need to be told to slow down, and in fact she came to a stop a hundred yards or so from the trees.

"Well, that definitely looks like a fairy tale forest," Nile remarked.

"It isn't dangerous, so long as you stay on the path," said Maglor.

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Good advice in any wood, really," Maglor added. "But particularly in this one."

"Are there giant spiders?" Quynh asked. Andromache rolled her eyes.

"There may be," said Maglor. "This wood is very old, and old and dangerous things still lurk in the shadowy places of the world. They are drawn to such places for similar reasons to the Elves. Or perhaps the Elves come here to keep them in check—I have never asked." He looked at Andromache expectantly, and saw her jaw clench as she eased the car forward. The road was more than wide enough to allow them through without branches scraping distressingly along the sides, or crowding too close together ahead of them and obscuring the way, and for the most part it was straight. They passed over a swiftly running stream, and out of his window Maglor caught a glimpse of a hart stopping by to take a drink. It raised an antlered head to regard them, before turning and bounding away into the trees. There was little underbrush, except for the occasional blackberry bramble or cluster of honeysuckle around a ferny glade just visible in a green-tinted slant of sunshine from the road.

Finally they came to a smaller road turning off from the main one, and after a glance at Maglor, Andromache turned to follow it. "This place is spooky," Nicky said in the back.

"You should have seen Mirkwood," Maglor murmured, too softly for anyone to hear. The new path led them up to a high stone wall grown over with ivy, but for wrought-iron gates depicting the elaborately twisted branches of two Trees, one with fruits of sunbursts and the other with moonbeam flowers, their branches entwining where the gates met, not unlike the trees at the beginning of the wood. Andromache came to a stop before them.

"So is there a way to call in, or…" she began, only for a wicket gate to open just off to the side, revealing five figures, four of whom ranged around the minivan with bows at the ready. "Bows, really?"

"You'll be dead before you can so much as reach for a gun," Maglor said. He rolled down his window as the fifth figure came up to it. "Well met, Galion."

"Maglor," Galion said. "What in the world happened to you?"

"I fell off of the ferry," said Maglor.

Galion's eyebrow arched, but he didn't press for details, instead casting his gaze around the others in the van. "These are the friends you spoke of to Princess Linnoriel?"

"They are. I will vouch for them."

"Very good." Galion stepped back and waved at the gate, which swung open on silent hinges. The bowmen retreated, and Andromache rolled through the gates and up a winding drive to a large chateau. On the steps in front of the doors stood Thranduil himself, with his wife Aeramath by his side, her dark hair a stark contrast to the bright gold of his.
Quynh leaned forward. "Is this the Elvenking from the book?"

"His name is Thranduil," said Maglor. "Yes, he is the same."

"Goodness," said Aeramath when Maglor emerged from the car; Norindo jumped down and raced off into the gardens. "You look terrible. What happened?"

"I fell off the ferry," Maglor repeated.

"He also got shot," Joe supplied from where he was still in the minivan helping Quynh untangle herself from her seatbelt.

"I did also get shot," Maglor agreed. "It's been a rather interesting few days."

"So I see." Aeramath descended from the steps and greeted everyone properly. Maglor made introductions, and they were led inside where lunch was waiting. But Maglor was accosted by Princess Hathellas before he could reach the dining room, and she dragged him off to a large and open, airy room that smelled of herbs and fresh air, with windows open on the lush, blooming gardens, filled with birdsong and the lazy hum of bees going about their honey-making. There were a few beds, and more chairs, and a combination of modern medical and laboratory equipment mingled with more old fashioned jars and dried herbs.

"Sit," Hathellas ordered, pointing to a stool. Maglor sat. She helped him remove his shirt, and set about unwinding the bandages on his shoulder with brisk but gentle fingers. "Is the bullet out?" she asked as she peeled back the bloody gauze to survey the damage.

"I think so," said Maglor. "I was not fully conscious at the time, but I believe Nicky dug it out."

"Mm." Hathellas gently poked and prodded, at his shoulder and at his ribs, and carefully examined his nose. "This happened before you fell off the ferry."

"That happened at my house," Maglor said.

"You are not having a very good week, are you?"

"I've had better." He had also had worse, of course. "Has anyone heard anything more from Lumorn?"

"He's found a very quaint little cabin to rent for a while, though it happens to be close to the Turralba headquarters, which is—well, it's a military compound, isn't it? I don't know if my brother meant to stay so close, but Linnoriel is ready to throttle him when he finally comes home. Now, I can fix you up in time to leave with the rest, but you'll be sleeping the rest of the day and tonight. You should eat something light, first. When was the last time you had a proper meal?"

"Before we left Canterbury. I had some sugar this morning with a bit of tea." This made Hathellas laugh a little, before she left, coming back a few minutes later with a bowl of soup.

"It's just chicken soup. Drink that and lie down in a bed—any one you like—and we'll get started."

Maglor accepted the bowl and sipped at the broth. It was very good. "If I am asleep the rest of the day…"

"You'll miss most of the planning, I'm sure," Hathellas said cheerfully, "but don't worry, my father won't send you off entirely unprepared."

"I need to speak with him—"

"After you rest. Here." Hathellas gave him another, bitter-tasting concoction once he was finished with the soup. She had a sweet voice, like summer birds, and Maglor drifted off to sleep mere minutes after she began to sing her songs of healing, of wholeness and health and strength.

When he woke it was morning again, and Norindo had made his way back and was curled up at his side. No one else was in the room, and the morning light was still dim and pale, the stars only just fading with the coming dawn. Maglor yawned, and reached up to gently prod at his nose. It felt a little tender, but the swelling had gone down and it felt as though it was more or less the same shape it had been before. He sat up and moved his other arm experimentally. It was also stiff and sore, but the sort of stiff soreness that came at the end of a recovery, rather than the sharp pain of new wounds. The bullet wound was a livid scar and there were still yellow bruises around it.

Norindo jumped up against him and shoved his nose in Maglor's ear. Maglor laughed and scratched him all around his ears and neck. "Good morning to you, too, little one. Shall we go outside?" There was a door leading directly out into the garden, and someone had kindly left a clean set of clothes on another bed. No socks or shoes, but he could figure that out later.

The morning was cool but not cold, and dew shimmered in gossamer strung between rose blooms and on the thick green grass that bordered the paths. The garden was half-cultivated, half-wild. The trees whispered to one another, waking slowly as the birds all at once burst into their morning chorus. There was a cold spring bubbling up with sweet, clear water, which flowed over the natural stone rim into a small rivulet that wound its way, guided by careful elven hands and thought, through the garden and eventually out into the wood to find a larger creek or river to join.

As he rounded a bend, ducking under a willow tree's trailing fronts that reached out over the path with the breeze, he came upon Thranduil sitting on a bench near a fountain, which was in the shape of a woman dancing, her up stretched hands making it seem as though she were flinging the sprays of water into the morning air.

"Good morning," said Thranduil. He seemed to be out merely to enjoy the morning, his legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles as he leaned back on the bench. "You look more like yourself."

"Thanks to Princess Hathellas," said Maglor. Norindo trotted forward to sniff at Thranduil's foot, and then to jump up onto the bench for further investigation. "I hope you don't mind that I brought a dog."

"The dog is the least troublesome thing you have brought me in the last few days," said Thranduil. He waved a hand upon seeing the look on Maglor's. "I mean the news of Daeron and Lumorn. Your other guests have been very polite. And we have heard of Andromache the Scythian—though not since she disappeared from Scythia. She seemed rather surprised to learn this."

"She's half-convinced still that we don't really exist, and this is some elaborate joke," said Maglor. "Who is the statue of?" He gestured at the fountain. "She seems familiar."

"Lúthien," said Thranduil, shortly.

"Ah, of course." That was it. She looked like Arwen. Like Elrond. Maglor put his hands into his pockets and stared at her face for a minute. The features were not quite like Arwen's. They were beginning to wear away, under the constant flow of water, and the weather. There were no more elven rings to keep time at bay—but even when there had been, Thranduil had wanted no part in them.

"You'll be flying out tomorrow," said Thranduil after a few moments of silence. "Hathellas and Radoriel are going with you. Hathellas just in case, and Radoriel because she thinks being a getaway driver will be exciting." Thranduil shrugged when Maglor looked back at him in surprise. "She's been driving cars faster than she should since the beginning."

"Do you know anything more about Turralba?"

"Very little. The…I'm not sure what you'd call him in this context. CEO? Owner? The one in charge, his name is Dennis Newman. He was a Navy SEAL in his youth, and that is the most interesting thing about him, as far as I can tell. There's a file that your other friend, Copley, sent."

"I have a favor to ask of you," Maglor said, after a moment in which they were both silent and still, listening to the water and the birds around them.

"What is it?"

"I cannot take Norindo. May he stay here?"

"Oh, is that all? Certainly. He's already a favorite." Thranduil scratched him behind the ears, setting his tail thumping on the bench.

"I've also brought my harp, and I would be obliged if you could keep it for me until my return. I made it myself and it is dear to me."

"These are very small favors," Thranduil remarked.

"And one more thing—not a favor, so much as a gift," Maglor said. "Do you have a copy of the Red Book?"

Thranduil looked up at him. "The Red Book? I did not think there were any copies left."

"I have one, and it needs a better home than I can give it. I would put that also into your keeping. I will be going into the West once we have recovered Daeron; the harp and perhaps Norindo I will take with me, but the book should stay here. I am sure they have copies enough in Valinor and Eressëa."

Thranduil sat up straight, staring at Maglor as though he'd grown another head. "You are going into the West?" he repeated. "You?"

"Yes," Maglor said.

Thranduil got to his feet, and Norindo jumped down to return to Maglor's side. "I would have expected you to sail long ago, if you were allowed. You never seemed to be staying in Middle-earth for any other reason."

"I had other reasons," said Maglor. "And I also was surprised by Ossë's summons. But it seems I am wanted in Valinor and my kin are growing tired of waiting. But in the meantime, Daeron also is waiting. Why do we tarry until tomorrow?"

"I want to see what your mortal friends are capable of."

"They are not fully mortal. Have they told you?"

"Yes; it is a very strange tale. I still want to see what they can do—don't worry, I don't plan to test that part of it. They are to be shown our training grounds after breakfast. Shall we?"

A nightingale alighted on the statue's shoulder as they turned back toward the chateau and trilled a cheerful morning song to follow them back along the garden paths.