Strangeness and Charm by elvntari

Strangeness and Charm

Read Strangeness and Charm

Of all the bad ideas I ever had, the worst was to speak to him. Mysterious man cloaked in navy and magenta, with warm eyes like the glowing embers of a dying flame, and elegant hands, calloused from the strings they plucked-- a musician, I reckoned.

“Are you here for the feast?” I asked, then he turned to look at me, and I swear my heart stopped; he had the distinct look of someone who had seen war, and who still thirsted for a fight; he had the appearance of some high noble, but the expression of a street urchin, and the grin of some terrifyingly powerful trickster spirit; straight white teeth, and the tiniest scar on his bottom lip, likely from some common injury. The sparse spattering of freckles across his nose reminded me of the stars peeking through the clouds on an imperfect night. I caught myself staring. He was attractive.

“What else would I be here for?” He spoke with a clear, smooth voice-- the kind that could talk you into sticking your hand into a blazing fireplace. He shook his head in apology, then held out his hand to me-- I noted the star insignia he wore on a chain around his wrist: a Feanorian. Of course he seemed dangerous. I took it anyway.

“I’m Daeron-- loremaster of his majesty king Thingol, and Minstrel of Doriath.”

He raised his eyebrows, and his smile appeared to grow slyer-- whatever that meant. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Daeron.”

There was a pointed silence in which he didn’t offer up his own name in return, so I could only guess what kind of reputation he must’ve had. Possibly he was some general of Curufin, or one of Celegorm’s host-- someone with infamy, or their servant. I wondered if he would relax should I have let him know that I didn’t find the importance in knowing the names of Feanorians-- at least, most of them-- but he did not know I knew him to be one. After all, most do not search those they meet for symbols of the enemy of their people.

“I seem to have--”

“Will you be playing tonight,” his voice was so soothing I barely minded the interruption, “Daeron?” I liked the way he said my name.

“Yes.”

“Hm,” his voice was some purr of delight, “So will I. I'm excited to see your skill in action-- how it compares to mine.”

“How about a competition?” I almost laughed, no one had ever come close to my skill level-- well, aside from the second son of Feanor, but I was almost certain this was not he. Almost. Almost certain, until I looked back at him, and again saw the burning embers in his eyes-- molten bronze like hot metal in a forge, and the insignia he wore around his wrist, and the command of his elegant voice.

“I must ask--” I was always taught to test my theories before I made judgement on them-- “what is your name? You never gave it to me.”

“A name is a dangerous thing to give away,” he said, “but I shall tell you mine, if you so desire: I am Maglor Feanorion, second son of Feanor, Lord of Maglor’s gap.”

“Oh.”

 

-

 

I had heard that the Feanorions were brutal, savage people; that the blood never truly washed out from under their fingernails, and that the fire in their eyes was never extinguished. Of those rumours, I found one to be false, because Maglor’s hands were perfectly clean and soft everywhere but the fingertips; he had perfect motor control; they didn’t shake one bit. I just-- couldn’t stop looking at his hands, with those long, elegant fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Of course they’d look pretty-- what was I thinking? He was a prince, after all.

He drummed them against the polished mahogany of the table as he watched his uncle speak, frowned as he told his story, smiled at his jokes-- and his smile was something else. Ever-so-slightly crooked, as if Eru himself had decided that he must have at least one flaw, and had chosen it to be that. Somehow it made him more handsome, and he was handsome enough as it was.

I hadn’t expected him to handsome, either. I suppose-- I thought-- I heard that it was his older brother, Maedhros, who was known for being handsome , and his younger brother Celegorm that was fair. Possibly, in a way, he bridged the gap between them, with long eyelashes and strong, high cheekbones-- and that smile, Eru , that smile. A grin as if mischief was a person.

“Daeron-” I looked up at the mention of my name- “Says that he wants to compete with me. Musically.”

“Did you accept his challenge?” The high king, the epitome of nobility in silver and royal blue, nodded towards me.

“I elected to consult with you first, uncle,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “after all, it is no secret that competition between our peoples is rarely friendly, and I know how dear this budding friendship is to you.” He shifted in his seat to face me more fully. I found that any possible interjection of my own became lost in the cavern of my throat.

Fingolfin appeared to think for a minute, before offering his solution: “Then why not work together on something? The two greatest musicians of all time… I’d love to see what you come up with.”

“That sounds like a brilliant idea! Daeron?” Maglor smiled at me again with narrowed eyes, and I tried not to look too deeply into them. Some, more cautious side of me chastised: he’s toying with you, Daeron. Can’t you see? Maybe I didn’t mind that idea so much.

“Agreed,” I said, because what would be the point of arguing. Why would I even argue? I already couldn’t keep my damned eyes off of him, so we might as well get to know each other.

It was hubris, I think.

He was a mystery; I wanted to solve him.

 

-

 

He insisted that we get to work immediately.

“I need to rest. I have travelled a long way.” I protested.

“Then I shall rest with you, and we shall work at the crack of dawn,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if he was just teasing me or not. I decided I’d rather not find out.

“On second thought, I’ll stay up.”

He laughed, then he reached out and took my arm; his grasp was firm, but not forceful, as if rather than guiding me, he was supporting my own motion. I think-- I liked it, though I was certain that was almost definitely bad. It was a dangerous thing to enjoy the touch of a Feanorian, son or not, but he was tender in all of the ways I didn’t expect.

“You really suit your name, don’t you?”

“Considering you haven’t heard me play, I assume you mean my father name-” he graduated from the single hand round my arm, to his arm around my shoulder, as if we were friends, almost. “Funny that you would know it.”

“Stories of you piqued my interest, I shall admit.”

“I hope I live up to them, then.” There was something in his tone, in the way he raised his eyebrows, how he squeezed me a little tighter as we walked, that made me wonder.

Wonder about what, Daeron? Hm?

He turned me through a doorway leading to what was clearly some sort of music room. In the nook of one large window the height of the room itself, there was a seat, and laid on the back of that seat were flutes and lyres and instruments of classes I’d never seen before in my life. On one end of the room there was a great golden harp, carved with ornate imagery of scenes and of people I’d only ever heard of in mythology, but who were detailed enough that the maker must’ve known them.

“Do you play the harp?” He let go and turned to me.

“Not usually,” I said.

“Then I shall guide you-” he reached forward and took my hand in his- “you see, I have a vision-- or, well, the auditory version of that.” He laughed again. How could someone so deadly take so much joy in such small things?

I found it hard to focus on his speech and the sensation of my hand in his again; his skin was still soft, nails still clean; I didn’t suppose I had expected anything different, but there was something remarkable in his touch, because I was overcome with the crushing desire to reach into it, to wind my fingers between his and clasp tight. Thankfully I was no stranger to ignoring crushing desires.

But then we was behind me-- pressing his body into my back, both of his hands on mine, really guiding, and I couldn’t hear the notes for all of the willpower I had to use not to lean back against him. I hadn’t been aware that I had been so touch starved that a Noldo could find it in himself to make me swoon. He used my hands to pluck out a sweet, soft tune-- gentle and slow and terribly mournful; he seemed to lose any sense of me at all as he dropped my hands to play the tune himself, reaching around my body, lost in it. I recognised this trance.

And the music was beautiful-- of course it was beautiful.

Then, as the last note rang out clearly around the room, he cleared his throat.

“That was astounding,” I said, “I really liked the...notes.”

He snorted, “oh, which ones?”

And then, for the first time that cursed evening, I found myself cracking a grin. “Oh, shut up, you stunned me; I’m lost for words.”

“Then I succeeded?”

“Truly,” I said, as he dipped into a low bow in front of me, and I was tempted to reach out and brush my fingers against the mass of curls that cascaded over his shoulders. I wondered why he kept hair that thick and that voluminous loose and long, did it not get in the way of his craft? I wondered if it was really in my best interests to wonder that; if he was this good with that inhibition, then how good would he be without?

“I hear your specialty is in song,” he said as he straightened himself back out, “will you sing for me?”

“Only if you play for me again.” I smiled at him; I would probably do anything to hear that heavenly tune once more. He looked at me for a moment, and there was something in his gaze-- as if I was something to be mourned from afar, like the tragedy of a dead bird found beneath its nest. “I will improvise something.”

He nodded, and we traded places; he took his seat at the harp, and went to stand in the centre of the room. Then he began to play, and I waited for the tune to set into place. Then I sung. And I kept singing, and it was only when my song reached its crescendo that I noticed that he had stopped playing, and was staring at me, mouth ever-so-slightly open.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Your vocal range is amazing-- that must be, what, four octaves at least.”

“How much is yours?”

“Three and a bit,” he answered, “though I’m a lot fuller at each end than you are-- sorry, not to criticise--”

“No, no, I understand.” I’d always had trouble with maintaining the power of my voice, but I’d never met anyone who actually believed me when I told them I was dissatisfied.

“I think we can work with it.” We. He really did want us to work together, then.

I walked back over to where he sat at the harp, and drew up another chair from the corner of the room (heavy oak, and they littered the room-- whoever usually used this room probably held lots of concerts there). He shifted his seat so that one of his knees was touching mine, and his shoulder was pressed up against me.

Thankfully, I found what dignity I needed to speak in full sentences. “Let’s get to work.”

 

-

 

We worked through the night, and then through the day, while I sustained myself on coffee beans and the electric shocks he kept giving me whenever he reached out to touch my hand. He sustained himself on sheer force of will-- I’d never seen someone so good at staying awake unaided.

Regardless, I must’ve slept at some point, because I woke up on the window seat under his cloak to the sound of the finishing touches of his contribution to our collaboration. He’d made a few changes while I slept-- possibly because I slept-- a few note shifts here and there, and the tempo was slower, more akin to a lullaby than to what it had been before.

“I’m sorry,” he said, when he noticed me watching, “I hope you can still sing to it well enough.”

I nodded. “Thank you for letting me sleep, by the way.”

He chuckled. “You looked like you needed it-- besides, you’ve already done more than enough.”

Another thing: over those two nights he had been flirting less and less. I wasn’t sure if I was grateful or disappointed. Though, I hadn’t even been sure that it was flirting in the first place. “I am thankful nonetheless.”

“By the way, after I first moved you, I was afraid to wake you, so I entertained myself translating your lyrics.”

“Translating them? Into what?”

He gave me a look, and with a feeling like I’d just drunk a litre of ice cold milk I realised that it was Quenya-- of course it was Quenya. The language that my king decided so cruelly despised, and the language that had intrigued me since I first laid eyes on it’s alphabet, which, I then noted, his father devised.

“May I see?” I asked, because even with every bone in my body screaming danger , there was no way I wouldn’t take one of the few opportunities I may get to look-- just to see what it looked like.

He nodded, and I laid his cloak neatly on the seat as I stood. It looked expensive, but everything of Noldor origin I’d seen looked expensive. I peered over his shoulder, scanning the page.

“I had some trouble choosing which words to use,” he said, voice barely loud enough to make out against the heavy silence, “Quenya tends to have more words, and Sindarin doesn’t capture the nuance-- no offence, of course--”

“None taken--”

“A good example, is that Quenya has eight forms of the word ‘mother’, and, well, you know how many more that is.”

“Why is that?” I ask, “why so many?”

“Well, you know the story--” he waved his hand-- “my father had two mothers, so some differentiation was needed.”

“I assumed he just called her ‘Indis’.”

“That was only after things got really bad,” he murmured, “it wasn’t always bad. Indis taught me to sing. She really was my grandmother.”

“Oh.”

He chuckled, “It was a different time.”

“I never knew my grandparents,” I said, not knowing entirely why, “I don’t even know if I had grandparents.”

“Why is that?” He asked, turning to look me in the eyes.

“My parents were taken by Morgoth’s riders when I was still an infant. Scouts found me just outside the girdle.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” He reached out and squeezed my hand.

Then came a knock on the door. He let go of me and stood up. “Enter.”

A woman with long, charcoal hair and silver-grey eyes, dressed in Maglor’s colours, took a bow. “The High King Fingolfin has summoned you.”

“Thank you, Canaethor, tell him we will be there shortly.”

She nodded, then called out as she left, “I will be back to ensure you haven’t become distracted. ”

 

-

 

All went well. Of course, why shouldn’t it? Spectators enjoyed the music, we received praise from the high king, and I even heard one of the Noldor admit that the Sindar may be talented at something, at least.

We waited in place as people left-- the conclusion of the feast a simple filing out of all its attendees through the high archways of the door to the building. It occured to me that this was a building , with a music room, and kitchens, and a feast hall. When I was told the Noldor were builders, it never really struck me how literally I should’ve taken that. Not until then.

We watched as even Fingolfin departed, as he bid goodbye to his brothers, and as I instructed Mablung to wait for me outside. I don’t know why I stayed-- maybe I could tell Maglor had something to say-- maybe I was just stupid, but I stayed regardless.

“I have something for you,” he said, at last.

“Is it dangerous?”

“That is for you do decide.” He sounded amused. I had heard somewhere that the Feanorions liked to gift knives, as ornate as any other Noldor item, to those they were fond of. I supposed it must be that.

I did not expect him to stand, to place his palms on my cheeks, and to kiss me square on the lips. Then to turn heel and walk away, to leave me standing alone in a hall that was far too big to have been built in one year, wondering exactly how big our cultural differences were.