God, I Pity the Violins by StarSpray

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Chapter 7

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On the way inside Maglor caught sight of Andromache down another path. Their eyes met briefly, before she vanished around a bit of shrubbery. Maglor excused himself from Thranduil and followed her. Norindo followed Thranduil, doubtless enticed by the thought of breakfast. This path wound through wild tangles of roses climbing up over cleverly shaped trellises, where they mingled with ivy, deep reds and greens interspersed with pale pinks and whites and occasionally a splash of yellow. The air was heavy with their sweet perfume.

He found Andromache inspecting another statue, this one slightly more weather-worn but still recognizable—it was Yavanna, her arms up and outstretched and half-carved as tree branches, and her gown twisting together toward the base of the statue into the shape of tree roots. Fittingly there was a small bird's nest between her shoulder and head, which was tilted up, her eyes closed and a small smile on her face as though she were a flower drinking in the sun. Andromache was a small and slender figure before her, head tilted, dark hair falling into her eyes as she frowned at an inscription carefully chiseled into the line of one of the gown's long and draping sleeves. "It is asking Kementári to bless this garden with health and abundance," Maglor said.

"Who's Kementári?" Andromache replied as she squinted at the runes. "I used to be able to read runes."

"These are not quite the runes you would know," said Maglor. "They are the forerunners. And I would not expect you to read the Sindarin anyway. Kementári is the Earth Queen, who is also called Yavanna, the Giver of Fruits. She is one of the Valier, and the wife of Aulë the Maker."

"Oh, so an old goddess." Andromache turned away from the statue.

"Do not dismiss what you do not understand," Maglor said, the words coming out sharp and clipped. "Even you, Andromache of Scythia, do not know all there is to know of the world." He spoke in the old tongue of Scythia, which made her spin around to stare at him, either enraged or astonished or both. "You walk among the Elder Children of Ilúvatar today, and in this house you would be accounted among the very youngest. I was born a prince of the House of Finwë in the Uttermost West beneath the Light of the Trees and was full grown and battle tested long before the sun first rose in the west to wake the fathers of Men. I walked with Yavanna in her fields and pastures and worked in the forges of Aulë, of whose students my own father was the greatest, and rode with Oromë the Hunter and danced with Nessa and Vána in the flowered glades of Valinor. I have sung in the courts of Manwë King of Arda and Varda Elentári his Queen upon Taniquetil, and I have seen the horrors wrought by Morgoth Bauglir and Sauron after him—you have known war but you have not known that. I witnessed the sinking of Beleriand into the Great Sea, and later the destruction of Númenor and the bending of the world. The world has changed again and again since that time. The time of the Elves ended long ago, and the time of Men arose, and those of us who remain dwindle with each passing decade. We keep to our forests and our little seaside cottages, but do not mistake us for diminutive fairies or mere figures of fantasy."

Andromache looked like she didn't even know where to start. "Half of that didn't even make sense," she snapped, her voice shaking ever so slightly with the language of her youth on her tongue.

"Of course the true names of things you know only as myth and legend would be unknown to you," said Maglor more softly, and he had pity on her and abandoned Scythian in favor of English, simple and modern and so much younger than the things they were speaking of. "Oromë's rides and hunts in the twilight of the world where he sought the dark creatures of Morgoth is remembered now as the Wild Hunt of the Fairy King. Taniquetil the Holy Mountain where dwell the Powers is glimpsed again in the tales of Mount Olympus—the true history is so old that it has been forgotten, but never wholly. Sometimes names linger, or parts of them. Atalantë. Avallónë."

They stood for several moments in silence, the only sound the wind in the roses. Finally, Andromache said, "I thought you people didn't die."

"We don't. Unless we are killed."

"Then how are you dwindling?"

"Oh. We are sailing away, over the Sea."

Andromache arched an eyebrow. "So America's full of Elves?"

Maglor smiled. "No. The seas were bent when Númenor sank, and Valinor was removed beyond the world, out of reach of Men—but there is a Straight Road that Elven ships can still find, if they wish. Though by this time I think nearly all the Elves who still remain in the world have no desire or plan to take ship." He looked back at the statue of Yavanna. A robin alighted on one of her outstretched and branching hands, regarding them with bright sharp eyes. "Shall we go in?" he said, looking back at Andromache. "Breakfast will be served soon, and then Thranduil wishes to have you show off for him."

"We aren't dancing bears here to put on a show."

"But you are here offering your services in the rescue of the greatest minstrel of the Eldar," said Maglor as they fell into step beside one another. "I believe this is more for Thranduil's peace of mind than to really prove anything—no one doubts your abilities."

"What about you?" asked Andromache. "Quynh says you don't like weapons."

"I don't. I'll borrow some from Thranduil's folk, I suppose, but my strength lies mostly in my voice these days."

Andromache stepped ahead of Maglor and turned to face him, halting them before they entered the chateau. "What did you do in all those old stories?" she asked. "Nile downloaded a copy of The Lord of the Rings but she couldn't find your name in a search."

"I took no part at all in the War of the Ring," said Maglor. "I was only vaguely aware that it was happening at all."

"Nile also downloaded a copy of The Silmarillion," Andromache said.

"She won't find anything if she searches for Max," Maglor said, amused.

"It's Maglor, right? Your real name?"

Maglor opened his mouth, but then closed it again. "Yes," he said. The nature of Noldorin naming traditions and the rendering of Quenya names into Sindarin after the Exile wasn't particularly worth getting into. "But it was my brother who did deeds of surpassing valor, and my cousins who were heroes. I only followed Maedhros into darkness, and survived to write a song about it." His palm twinged, and he flexed his fingers without thinking. Andromache, of course, noticed. But by then someone had noticed them standing outside, and they were called in to breakfast.

Breakfast was an informal affair, though it took place in the large dining hall. There were many smaller tables scattered about the room, and Maglor found himself at the one claimed by Quynh and Joe and Nicky. Nile was sitting with Hathellas and some of the archers from the evening before, and it seemed to Maglor that they were all great friends already. "Wow," Joe said as Maglor sat down beside Quynh, "you look better."

"Lady Hathellas is very skilled," said Maglor. The table was piled with fruits and sweet white breads and jugs of juices and a carafe of tea and another of coffee, and many other things besides. Maglor picked up one of the jugs and poured himself a glass of orange juice.

"Sure, but it's like, magic or something." Joe reached over Quynh to poke at the bridge of Maglor's nose. Maglor leaned back, so Joe nearly overbalanced and put his elbow in th abutter.

"They're Elves," Nicky said. "Of course it's magic. Like this food." He gestured with a strawberry speared on the end of his fork, drizzled with cream.

"What did I miss yesterday?" Maglor asked before the group could start bickering over whether or not a particularly good strawberry was the result of magic or merely excellent gardening (he did not know why it couldn't be both, which would not be a satisfying answer to either side).

"It was mostly just going over all the intel that's been gathered so far," said Nicky. Joe produced a tablet from somewhere and handed it to Maglor. He turned it on to find satellite images of the compound in the Catskills, and blueprints of the corporate office space located in New York City, alongside dossiers on the most high ranking employees, including an extensive one on the owner and CEO, Dennis Newman. Thranduil had been right—aside from his career as a SEAL and the fact that he ran a small private army there was little to distinguish him from any other rich white American businessman, albeit one with delusions of grandeur that included claims of descent from a surprising number of the American Founding Fathers. Including one extremely bold statement from the '90s that he was descended from George Washington. Apparently, in spite of his illustrious claims, the man had never actually paid attention in his history classes.

What was most interesting was what was missing from the dossiers. Nowhere was there a mention of any interest in immortality or longevity, though it did appear that Turralba, and Newman himself, had invested some funds in Merrick Pharmaceutical several years ago, and other companies undergoing similar research endeavors. But whether or not Newman had a closer relationship with the late Steven Merrick, or knew more of what he was planning and doing, was unknown.

Andromache was peering over Maglor's shoulder, evidently refreshing herself on the information. She looked up at Joe and Nicky. "Where do you think Merrick's bodyguards went after?" she asked.

"Hell," Joe said.

"I thought we killed them all," Nicky added after a moment's thought.

"But maybe we didn't." Andromache pulled out her phone and typed something into it. A second later it pinged. "Oh, we did. But one of the scientists just signed a contract with Turralba last month. That can't be a coincidence."

"I cannot believe that Turralba identified both Daeron and me and arranged to have us kidnapped in under a month," said Maglor. "Newman has had an interest and a belief in Elves for a long time—he must, to have been so certain of who he was going after."

"Did he know who?" Quynh asked. "Or only what?"

"The men who came to my home knew who I was," said Maglor. "The one who broke my nose tried to use the knowledge to taunt me." Quynh tilted her head, looking at him curiously. "So they must also have known who Daeron was," he went on, looking away from her in favor of slathering a thick slice of bread with raspberry jam. "One does not begin believing in Elves—or searching for them—immediately upon reading a widely acclaimed fantasy book." He wondered how Newman had gotten started on this path. Perhaps he had discovered an old copy of the Red Book. But then how would he have known what it was? Or…

His thoughts were interrupted by Linnoriel's approach. She was like her sister in face and stature, but was more grim. It was not always so—Maglor remembered her dancing and laughing as merrily as any Wood Elf in summertime—but the recent strain showed around her eyes and the set of her mouth. Maglor rose to greet her properly. "Lady Linnoriel, good morning."

"I am glad that you could join us this morning," she replied. "I hope you are well enough to join us on the training grounds."

He was, just barely. Thranduil's idea of testing the mortals' skills had really been a disguise for the Woodelves' desire to pit themselves against new opponents in what they called games but which resulted in nearly everyone retreating back to the chateau in the afternoon bruised and weary, some more satisfied than others. Maglor's shoulder had stiffened, and he had discovered that he was rustier with a blade than he'd thought. But not so rusty that he would slow anyone down—and in any case he had no plans to be at the forefront of whatever assault was being planned.

He could drop opponents into a deep sleep with a single word—a crude cudgel compared to the song he had employed at his cottage, but just as effective—and once the games were through he had many a Woodelf come up to him and laughingly accuse him of cheating. "Just like a Noldo! Now come sing us something prettier."

"I shall sing whatever you like," said Maglor, laughing as he rubbed his sore shoulder. "What would you hear first?"

Drinking songs and dancing songs were demanded, and so of course he was happy to oblige then and there, as they entered the chateau and food and drink were brought out for them. It was not long before he was joined by a chorus of merry voices, and by supper time a party was in full swing. No one had forgotten the danger posed to the Quendi by Turralba, or the fact that Daeron of Doriath was being held captive, but for that evening there was nothing to do but celebrate new friends and the hope that the threat would be taken care of.

After supper Maglor found Quynh sitting off to the side watching Nicky and Joe, both of whom had made the mistake of accepting glasses of very strong elven wine, stumble through a wild and ancient dance. "Someone should haul them off to bed soon," he remarked. "They'll have terrible hangovers tomorrow."

"It won't be the first time," said Quynh. "And they can sleep it off on the plane, I suppose. If one can sleep on a plane."

"That depends on how one feels about flying," said Maglor. It wasn't his favorite way to travel, but it was much faster than sailing.

As the night drew on and the stars shone in through the open windows, the fervor for dancing faded a bit and someone called to Maglor for another song, a proper performance since he was going to be sailing away and leaving them soon. "Give us the Lay of Leithian!" someone said.

"Oh, no," Maglor replied, laughing, "I shall leave that for Daeron. He knows it better. I shall sing for you the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers instead!" This was met with equal cheer, for their beloved Prince Legolas played a small but important role in the tale, and many of them had borne witness to the defeat of Sauron and the end of the Third Age. Maglor had met Legolas once, when his wanderings had taken him into Ithilien after the War of the Ring, and he had liked him a great deal. Whether Legolas would have liked him so well if he'd known who his bedraggled and musical visitor was, was hard to say.

His harp was brought and a hush fell over the hall as Maglor put his fingers to the strings. The evening was already too far gone and the lay too long for him to sing it in full, but he sang of the Three Hunters racing across Rohan in pursuit of the Uruk-hai of Isengard, and then of Frodo and Sam's last desperate trek across Gorgoroth and up the slopes of Mount Doom. There were few dry eyes in the hall by the time Maglor finished, with the coming of the Eagles to the battle before the Black Gate and then on to the mountain to rescue the halflings. As the last notes faded from Maglor's song, someone else took up a hymn to Elbereth and the bright stars, a song so old that it was thought to have first been sung at Cuiviénen, in an ancient dialect from a time before even Melkor had been aware of the Quendi dwelling by the waters.

Beside Maglor Quynh had dozed off, and on her other size Andromache leaned back in her seat, eyes hooded, though she was still awake. Maglor saw Joe and Nicky slip out of the hall, and Nile also dozing off across the room. He plucked at the strings of his harp in quiet harmony with the singer, whose voice was sweet as springtime, and thought of all that lay before them—crossing the Atlantic, finding the compound, finding a way into the compound…and then finding a way out once they had Daeron.

And there was also the mysterious other party—whoever it was that had drugged Maglor when he'd let his guard down after the first assault on his home. He wondered if Copley had learned anything more, or if he was in for another nasty surprise. He sighed, and stilled his harp strings. Quynh barely woke when he nudged her, though Andromache roused more quickly. She disappeared into the crowd to gather up Nile while Maglor levered Quynh to her feet. "Time to find a real bed," he said.

"Mm," Quynh said, swaying gently, bumping her shoulder into his. She said something in some garbled ancient dialect that Maglor did not know, and yawned widely. But she allowed him to lead her back out of the hall and to the stairs, where Andromache and a yawning Nile caught up with them. Norindo appeared from somewhere to jump up briefly on Maglor's leg, before trotting up the stairs.

"That's a real cute dog," Nile said as they followed. "Where'd you get him?"

"He was a stray," Maglor said.

"He's very smart."

"Yes, I think he's spent a great deal of time by the Sea." This earned him a strange look from Nile, and an eye roll from Andromache—though it lacked any real feeling. "Ossë and Uinen have both come to the shore by my home in recent days."

"Should we know those names?" Nile asked.

"You should, if you have read the Valaquenta."

"The Vala-what?"

"It is a chapter in The Silmarillion. Andromache says you've gotten a copy."

"Oh. Yeah. I haven't really looked at it yet, though."

"I know Uinen," Quynh said suddenly. She still looked half-asleep, and her speech was slightly slurred, but she spoke with certainty. "She came into the deep waters, and found the iron casket. Her eyes were like stars that had fallen into the sea, and her voice was like…" She trailed off, frowning.

"Yes," Maglor said. "She is the Lady of the Deeps and of calm waters. And here is your room. Good night."

"Good night," the three of them chorused, slightly out of sync. Maglor left them to find their beds, and followed Norindo down the hall to another guest room, where his bags were on the bed and a little dog bed had been set underneath the window for Norindo. This was ignored, of course, as Norindo whined until Maglor scooped him up onto the large bed, softer and more luxurious than any bed he'd gotten for himself in a very long time. He undressed and slid beneath the blankets with a sigh. Norindo curled up in the crook of his neck.

"It's going to be a long day tomorrow," Maglor said to him, as he huffed a sigh and stuck his cold wet nose against Maglor's shoulder. "Not for you, though. You get to stay here in safety, with more small creatures to chase than your little heart could desire." He scratched behind Norindo's ears, and sighed. At least they would be traveling courtesy of King Thranduil, and there was no danger of being attacked by strangers on a private jet.

It took longer than he'd hoped to fall asleep, and when he did his dreams were troubled, jumbles of memories and fears of which he recalled little when a knock on the door roused him just before dawn. It was one of the servants come to tell him that breakfast was being served in a parlor just next door to his room, and they would be departing in an hour. Maglor thanked them and rolled over to press his face into the pillow as the door closed. He allowed himself just a minute more before pushing himself up to stumble to the bathroom. His shoulder was still sore and stiff, though it loosened as he flexed his arm beneath the hot spray of the shower. The water helped to wake him, though he still felt unrested as he scooped Norindo out of the bed to take him to breakfast.

"You did say you're going to leave the dog here, right?" said Joe as Maglor entered the room.

"Yes, of course." Maglor dropped Norindo lightly to the floor. Only Joe and Nicky were present thus far. "But we aren't leaving just yet." He picked up a roll still warm from oven, and bit into it. It was sweet and light, and oh, how he had missed good Elvish fare without even realizing it. "Does your strange healing render you immune to hangovers?" he asked. "I saw you indulging heavily last night."

"I didn't drink," said Joe.

"I didn't drink much," said Nicky, and now that Maglor looked closer he did look slightly worse for the wear than Joe did.

"That is relative, especially when we are speaking of Thranduil's cellars," said Maglor.

Nicky suddenly frowned at the sausages on his plate. "Should we be eating?" he asked. "Fairy tales always say not to eat fairy food."

Maglor laughed. "It isn't the food that unwary travelers in fairy realms need to worry about. Don't worry, no one is laying an enchantment on you through your breakfast sausages." He poured himself a generous cup of coffee and sat down. Andromache and Quynh appeared after a few minutes, both of them looking well-rested and alert. Nile looked less awake when she stumbled in after them, but perked up more quickly once she had a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll in hand.

"Okay, so," Andromache said as she sat down, "we need to start thinking about what we're actually going to do when we get to New York." She eyed Maglor. "What's your plan?"

"I would avoid fighting, for myself," he said. "I can and will if I must, but I want to focus my efforts on searching the place—top to bottom."

"You should have someone covering you," said Nile.

"I leave all tactical decisions to you," he said. "You know better than I how to raid a fortress like this. The last time I did any raiding—well. No one had guns, then, let alone cameras."

"We also need to figure out how big of a mess we want to make," Andromache said. She poured herself a second, large cup of coffee. "Do we burn the place to the ground or do we get in get Daeron and get out?"

"I can destroy the buildings," said Maglor.

"What, you can pitch your voice just so?" Nicky asked. Joe snorted. "Like breaking glass, only it's concrete and steel?"

"It isn't the pitch," Maglor said, "it is the words. And it has been done before. Notably, my own cousin laid bare the pits of Dol Guldur at the end of the War of the Ring."

Andromache narrowed her eyes at him. "Have you done it before?"

"Destroyed one of Sauron's strongholds? No. But this compound is no Dol Guldur and certainly no Tol Sirion; unless they are keeping some strange secrets indeed it will be as easy as toppling a sandcastle."

"God, it's too early for you to be dropping names like we're supposed to know what you're talking about," Nile grumbled as she pulled a tablet out of her bag. "I know Dol Guldur, I think."

"It was Sauron's stronghold in Mirkwood, when he was known as the Necromancer. And later the Nazgûl held it for a time. You can ask Thranduil about its downfall, if you like. He was there."

"Okay, we can get fantasy history lessons after we get back," Andromache said. "We're gonna be tipping our hand once we hit this place—if they don't know about us already they will once we get in and out."

"We just have to make sure they can't do anything about it," said Nicky. He sipped his coffee, looking quietly dangerous. "But what can we expect from Daeron?"

"He'll know me," said Maglor. "And I suppose he might sing the place to rubble of his own accord, if he is angry enough. He is accounted the mightiest singer among the Eldar."

"Where do you rank?" Quynh asked.

Maglor flashed her a smile. "Second."

"I call bullshit," Nile said.

"So the songs say," Maglor said, and he chanted, softly:

And when the stars began to shine
unseen but near a piping woke,
and in the branches of an oak,
or seated on the beech-leaves brown,
Daeron the dark with ferny crown
Played with bewildering wizard's art
music for the breaking of the heart.
Such players have there only been
thrice in all Elfinesse, I ween:
Tinfang Gelion who still the moon
enchants on summer nights of June
and kindles the pale firstling star;
And he who harps upon the far
forgotten beaches and dark shores
where western foam for ever roars,
Maglor whose voice is like the sea;
and Daeron, mightiest of the three.

"So says the Lay of Leithian. And so Daeron was playing and Lúthien dancing in the beech woods of Doriath when Beren came down through the Girdle with fate heavy upon him."

"I thought you didn't know that one," said Nile.

"Of course I know it. I am the second-greatest minstrel of the Eldar: I know all of the great songs of the Elder Days—but it is not mine to sing, especially not here at Thranduil's court." He peered over Nile's shoulder at the clock on her tablet. "And speaking of Thranduil, it is time for us to take leave of our hosts."