Upon these shores by Lyra

Prologue

Written for the B2MeM '09 prompt, If your character had a chance to start anew and with a clean slate, what would he or she do with such a chance? Write a story, poem or create an artwork where this is offered to them or how they execute such a chance.

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The last two clasps had been bent by a sword-blow: bent, but not broken. It took him a long time to force them open. They were hard to reach, situated just beneath his shoulder-blades. Some coward tried to stab me in the back, he realised with a kind of numb astonishment. Tried - but failed. The armour had done its work again. He found himself vaguely wondering whether it would have been better if the coward had succeeded. Better, perhaps, if someone had succeeded in killing him long ago. He had certainly expected it to happen long ago. They all had. Sometimes, gathered around their campfire, attempting to reassure each other – see, we are not afraid, we can talk about it openly – or perhaps to prove something to whoever might listen – see, we are not that arrogant, we have not forgotten that we are vulnerable – they had talked about who among them was most likely to be the next to fall.
"Macalaurë," Curufinwë had always said after some more or less friendly bantering. "No offense, Brother, but you’re not much of a fighter." And the others had, uneasily (for of course they were afraid, and of course they loved him), agreed. And it was true. Compared to them, he had never been a good fighter. Too defensive, too anxious to take necessary risks, too slow. He could not dance with a sword like Tyelkormo did, nor did he have Nelyo's deadly precision.
He had nodded, with a resigned grimace, facing the facts. Of course he’d be the next to die.

Except that he had lived, again and again and again; and here he was alone, and all of them had gone before him. It was almost a joke, in a bitter, twisted way.
"Perhaps they needed a minstrel for their funeral dirge," he said to the waves that lapped at his feet. The tide had risen again, and he was shin-deep in water. It had long since begun to seep through the seams of his boots, despite all the wax and tar expended on waterproofing them. The salt was doubtlessly ruining the leather. He could not bring himself to care.
"Or perhaps it’s that the world was created by music, so now it looks after the musicians." He smiled, mirthlessly, to himself.
The last clasp sprang open suddenly, cutting his burned hand. He noticed it distantly as if watching a stranger's pain. His breastplate dropped into the shallow water, joining the braces and shoulder pieces he had dropped there earlier and the sword he had driven deep into the sand. Except for one vambrace, it was all the same armour that he had worn an age ago when they had set off on their journey, full of rage and pride and foolish excitement. Curufinwë had renewed the gilt layer at some point, when they’d still had the time and the gold for such follies, and the straps and clasps had been replaced several times over. But the actual armour was still the same that he had worn when he had sworn the Oath. He felt strangely wistful at leaving it behind at the mercy of the waves, or of scavengers. It was absurd that, after all the day had held, he had any regret to waste on a heap of steel and leather and gold, but he had worn it so often and so long that it felt like a part of him.
“That is why I'm getting rid of it,” he told the waves. “It belongs to Cánafinwë who swore the Oath, and we’re leaving him behind.” The waves rolled on, unimpressed.

His chainmail hauberk, his leather jerkin joined the armour and the sword. His tunic, too, bore the badge of his house – lovingly stitched on by his wife, who might yet be alive, maybe even searching for him – but he figured he could always remove the embroidery. He would need at least some clothing. He took his dagger in hand, considered throwing it away, and then kept it. It was a working knife, not a killing knife, and the more helpless he made himself, the more he would have to seek the company of other people. He did not want that; not for a while, not until this day was history, not until the world was changed yet more. He could not undo what had befallen. Even if he could, he would not have known where to begin. It was more than was possible in a lifetime - even if his life should last as long as the world. That failing, he could only try to erase that part of him that had been involved in these grim events. Perhaps, if he wandered far enough and spoke and thought little enough, he might be able to forget who he was and what had happened. He doubted it, but he could hope.

He sheathed the dagger again. He needed it for now, and later perhaps he could exchange it for a lesser smith’s work. Next he reached up for the small, star-shaped pendant he still wore on a chain about his neck, fumbling with another clasp, this one unbent but hard to clasp with fingers numbed by burns and icy water. It opened eventually. The pendant fell into his hand. He stared down at it, hard, as if willing it to dissolve. It refused to comply. He swung his arm; he let it sink again. The small star was still in his hand.
"Silly," he said aloud. "Childish nostalgia." He swung again. This time the pendant flew, its gold glittering in the few beams of the setting sun that managed to creep through the smoke of the battle. Then it was gone.
The waves rolled on.

"That’s it," he told the sea. "Farewell to Cánafinwë Macalaurë, these days called Maglor, second son of Fëanor. I am he no more. May he rest, and his Oath, and follow me no more." The tide came in stronger now, strong enough for the current to take the smaller parts of his armour with it. The suit still lay there. Covered with water, the dents and scratches were invisible in the twilight, the revealed steel indistinguishable from the remains of the gilt layer. It looked almost as new. It looked as though one should pick it up, and reassume one’s responsibility.

The nameless elf shook his head. He bent down – not far now; the water had reached his thighs – to wash his hands and face. Then, slowly, not looking back, he waded out of the sea to where his harp was waiting.

Of Inventions and Regret

Maglor and J. Robert Oppenheimer meet in a diner in the 1960s. They speak of television and the bomb, and in a way, of Silmarils.

Started for the B2MeM 2012 Bingo prompts "Maglor in History 1: Manhattan Project" and "Smells: Pipeweed" (O68). Also sort of covers "Maglor in History 2: The Cold War" (B13). Finished for B2MeM 2016.

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Of Inventions and Regret

The air in the roadside diner was stuffy, heavy with the smells of sweat and coffee, frying fat and nicotine. All tables were taken, and the young, dark-haired fellow balancing his tray with one hand and carrying a cello case in the other looked around with some exasperation. Finally he caught sight of a table occupied by only one person, and he weaved his way through the crowded room.
"Pardon me, sir," he said to the lone occupant with a slight bow. "Would it be all right if I sit here?"
The lonesome diner nodded his agreement, and the tall young man set down his tray, spilling some of his coffee in the process. He sat down with some difficulty – the chairs and tables had been made with smaller people in mind – and tucked the cello case safely between his knees. Then he gave his table companion a friendly smile. "One might think they're giving food away for free here, huh?"
The other man, still reasonably handsome in spite of some early signs of ill health, smiled in return. "Yes, indeed. And they should – it's lousy. You took the omelette? Good luck."
"I've had worse, I'm sure," the young man said with a disarming grin. "But I'm sorry - don't I know you? Not in person, but I think I may have seen your picture in the papers..."
"That is perfectly possible," the older man said, and his easy smile disappeared. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back.
The young man grimaced. "I've touched a sore spot, it seems. My apologies – Mr. Oppenheimer?"
Oppenheimer nodded, cautiously. "Not your fault, I suppose. But as you know my name now, may I ask who I have the honour of dining with?"
"Not much of an honour. My name is Laurence. Marc Laurence."
"Any relation to Bill Laurence?"
"The journalist? Not that I know of."
"I see," Oppenheimer said. "Well, Mr. Laurence, your omelette is going cold, and it's not going to get any better."
"That is true," said Laurence. He cut a slice off his omelette and grimaced as some half-congealed egg white blobbed out. "I see what you mean," he told Oppenheimer.

With the help of much ketchup and pepper, the omelette was eaten. Oppenheimer studied the young man. A small-town boy, he thought, trying to make his way to the city, and then, in the city. His eyes looked older than they should, so probably some trauma in the past. Oppenheimer took a sip of his coffee, then decided to make conversation. "So, Mr. Laurence, where are you headed? I don't suppose you're planning to stay here."
"I don't think anyone's planning to stay here," Laurence said amiably. "We're all travellers on the way to our respective destinations. Mine is New York City. I have an audition with the Symphonic Orchestra tomorrow."
"So you're an up-and-coming musician! Will we see you on television soon, I wonder?"
"I suppose it is a possibility," Laurence said. He did not sound enthusiastic about the prospect, which made Oppenheimer frown.
"One should think that a young fellow like you would be excited about appearing in television," he said.
The young man raised an eyebrow. "Not in its current quality. The human mind manages to recognise patterns anywhere, of course, so even those blurry images will scan as an orchestra at work; but they are still lousy. Not to mention the sound. Put a couple of mice into a tin box, and they'll produce a better attempt at a symphony than anything the television can deliver. No doubt in a couple of years people will look back and laugh in derision at what is considered high technology today." He shrugged.
Oppenheimer raised his eyebrows. "Alas, there is no way to broadcast images and sound in a better quality," he said. "And if there were, we have no technical possibility of receiving them. And even if we had, we would lack the power to keep it all running, especially since every household is aspiring to have its own set."

Laurence smiled in a mild, knowing way that looked out of place on his young face. "A-tomos," he said. "Indivisible. That's what the ancients believed. But we know today – you better than anybody, I daresay – that the indivisible can be divided. Similarly, we may not have the technical possibilities for better television today, but it is not impossible. If enough people consider it important that we should have them, we will – in the future."
"That's right," Oppenheimer conceded. "If enough money is spent on it... and then, one day, the great invention will turn into a curse."
"They always seem to do that," Laurence agreed readily. "And those who put their life's work into them are left to watch while their creations lead to ruin and suffering. They may end up vilified for their trouble, too..."
"Are we talking about the bomb now?" Oppenheimer said.
"We were talking about television," replied Laurence. "But we may also talk about the bomb, if you wish."
"If I wish... I would wish for other things. So what side are you on, Mr. Laurence? Will you vilify me for helping to create the bomb, or will you vilify me as a communist, or what?"
Another mild, far-too-mature smile. "Communism as an idea is a wonderful thing," he said. "I was a communist for a while, in a way, before the realities of life demanded a change of course. As for your creation... I think the atomic bomb is a vile thing. I do not think it makes you a vile man."
Oppenheimer didn't react to the exculpation, instead putting the tips of his fingers together. "If you're a commie, I probably shouldn't be seen talking to you."
"Oh, that was a long, long time ago. I don't think I'm on any present record," the young man said, shrugging. "At any rate, I'll be moving on soon. I have to catch my bus in," he leaned sideways to catch a glimpse of the chrome-framed clock on the wall. In spite of the thick cloud of cigarette smoke, he seemed to have no trouble reading the time. "Twelve minutes. And you will no doubt continue your journey, too..."
"I would already have, if you hadn't come along," Oppenheimer admitted.
"My apologies."
"Oh no; it has been an interesting conversation," said Oppenheimer, beginning to gather his belongings. "You have an interesting future ahead of you, I am sure." He raised his eyebrows. "And an interesting past. Tell me, young Mr. Laurence, how old are you exactly?"
The young man turned his face away on instinct, but then seemed to think better of it. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said, looking Oppenheimer in the face. Gone were the haunted but youthful eyes of the small-town boy, replaced by something ancient and inscrutable. Suddenly, the aging scientist was gripped by a powerful sense of fear as old superstitions, long since overcome by reason, awoke in his mind.
"What are you?" he whispered.
Marc Laurence smiled a sad smile. "Many things, Mr. Oppenheimer. But nothing that you need to be afraid of."
He bobbed his head in farewell, and made his way out. Despite the cumbersome cello case, he seemed to have little trouble making his through the narrow aisle and the thronging customers. Without thinking but with a great deal more pushing and squeezing, Oppenheimer followed him out of the diner and to the bus stop.
"You have seen the past, Mr. Laurence; but can you also see the future?"
Laurence smiled gently. "No more than any other man. Why do you ask?"
"Because I worry about the future. I worry about my invention - about what it means in the many conflicts that are brewing on this planet, particularly with the Soviets. We wanted to harness the light of the sun for the good of mankind, but we don't seem to have done a good job of it. I would hate to be the cause of the apocalypse. I had hoped that you could put my mind at rest."
Laurence set down his cello case. "I cannot see the future, but from what I've seen of the past, I know that mankind is capable of learning. So we can hope that they've learned enough – on either side. Maybe they will manage to end war without wiping each other out first. Maybe one day, the light can be harnessed for the good of mankind. Just because there have been many failed attempts, that doesn't mean it won't be done in the future."
"But that's not knowing - only hoping."
"Yes. While we breathe, there is hope." A Greyhound bus drew up, and Laurence picked up his cello. "Goodbye, Mr. Oppenheimer. And good luck."
"Good luck to you, Mr. Laurence. I'll keep watching for you on the television."
Laurence snorted. "Better watch for a live performance."
"Maybe I will do that, too."
"I'd be happy if you did." The doors of the bus hissed open. Laurence took the steps with all the energy of a high school graduate, making Oppenheimer feel like the older of the two again.
He looked after the Greyhound as it disappeared in the distance.

The Picture of Daeron Gris

Written for an uncalled prompt on the B2MeM 2012 Bingo card "Maglor in History 2": N34, Fin de Siècle. I apologise for everything.

In the house of the great Sarah Bernhardt, two writers meet Daeron and Maglor.
Warnings for allusions to substance abuse, mental illness and homophobia.

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The Picture of Daeron Gris

The candles flickered as the great Sarah Bernhardt, clothed in a long, black silk robe, strode past.
"Oscar, mon cher! Welcome, welcome. How good of you to visit your old friend again."
Oscar stooped to take her proffered hand, breathed a kiss onto it, and said, "You are not old. They call you la divine, do they not? Divinity never ages."
Sarah Bernhardt withdrew her hand and waved it emphatically, her golden bracelets clinking with the movement. "Nonsense. I am now 55 years old. That is ancient, in a woman. Soon I will not rise from my coffin."
"You will rise from your coffin many decades yet, I hope," Oscar replied, and turned to his companion. "You see, Arthur, she sleeps in a coffin. Or at least, that is what she wants us mere mortals to believe."
The man called Arthur, with a walrus moustache, a sensible suit and alert eyes, harrumphed in reply. "So I have heard."
Despite the disapproval apparent in his voice and posture, la grande Bernhardt gave him a generous smile. "And welcome to you, too! A friend of Oscar's is a friend of mine – even if he looks dreadfully reputable."
Over Arthur's coughing fit, Oscar said, "The good doctor is dreadfully reputable indeed, but you must not think him dull. He's got stories in his mind that make the wildest Bohemian look tame."
"I am glad," Sarah Bernhardt replied. "A doctor should never be dull. At my age, I have met too many dull doctors. But speaking of age: You must meet my immortal friend!"
Oscar raised his eyebrows. "Your immortal friend? Have you added a tortoise to your menagerie?"
The actress shook her head dramatically. "A tortoise? What would I want with a tortoise? No, he is human, and immortal; or very old, at any rate. He has been everywhere, and met everyone. I insist that he meet you, too." She turned on her heel and, without looking over her shoulder once, marched deeper into the labyrinth of her house. Incense hung heavily in the air, and somewhere, a lion roared. Muffled conversation and the clinking of glasses came from the small groups of guests that attended Sarah's soirees. Over the general din, a warbling flute could be heard. Oscar and Arthur followed, the one with an amused smile on his face, the other with an apprehensive air. "Is this wise?" Arthur asked his companion. "No offense to your venerable friend, but I am not certain that I approve of her house, or the company she keeps."
Oscar gave a quiet laugh in response. "I am very certain that you do not approve. You will find her house a den of decadence and iniquity. But come along nonetheless. Take it as a learning experience. Like Sarah, you may find inspiration among her company. I certainly hope that I will. I have as yet no idea what to write for Stoddart!"
"Well, I have already begun to rise to that challenge," Arthur said proudly.
"No doubt!" Oscar exclaimed. "You are ever conscientious. But never mind; you can store the inspiration away for later." The sound of the flute, playing an intricate and exotic melody, was growing louder. Sarah Bernhardt appeared to be leading them directly to the flutist.
"A snake charmer?" Arthur guessed. "An immortal Indian? I hope he will not have his snake with him."
"I would not be too sure," Oscar said calmly. "Sarah collects extraordinary creatures of all kinds, and she would hardly be afraid of a snake when she does not fear her puma, or the lion."
"They are kittens," the great actress replied without turning her head. "There is nothing to fear from them. But no; my immortal friend is not from India, are you, Daeron?"
The flutist, who certainly said in a cushioned window-seat cross-legged like a snake-charmer, lowered his instrument into his lap. "I have been to India," he replied.
"Of course you have, mon cher! You have been everywhere," Sarah Bernhardt purred. "Daeron Gris, I want you to meet my dear friend Oscar Wilde. He's a poet. You'll love him, and he will love you, I am sure. Now, I must look after my other guests. Enjoy your evening!" She batted her long, dark eyelashes at Arthur, waved her hand, and drifted back towards the crowd.
"Oscar, eh?" the flutist said by way of greeting. "Any relation to King Oscar?"
"That is not how names--" Arthur huffed, but Oscar interrupted him. "As it happens, he is my godfather."
"Really! Godfather to an Irishman! He was born a Frenchman, you know. I met him as a small child. He was so unhappy that he could not go to Bonaparte's coronation, and later, was crowned king himself."
"I know," Oscar said with a smile. "My mother told me that story when, as a child, I was sick and could not go to the circus that was in town."
"And now you own your own circus?"
Oscar's smile intensified. "I don't. But who knows, maybe one day I will."
"You seem surprisingly proud of the French, for a Breton," Arthur butted in.
The flutist tilted his head. "What makes you think I am Breton?"
"Your name, of course. Daeron. It is a Celtic name, is it not? Dara, Dáire, Daeron. But you do not speak French like a Brit; so I must assume that you are Breton."
"Excellent!" Oscar exclaimed softly.
"Elementary," Arthur retorted with a smile.
Daeron did not smile. "I am not fond of linguists," he said, narrowing his eyes. For someone who claimed to be immortal, he looked rather young; no older than thirty, certainly, even though there were lines of bitterness carved around his mouth. His skin was sallow and his eyes had a glassy, faraway quality, but that was more likely due to the abuse of opium or absinthe – both of which were common enough in Sarah Bernhardt's house – than to old age.
Oscar jumped in before the doctor began to defend himself. "And this," he announced, "is Arthur. No relation to King Arthur, I'm afraid."
The flutist studied Arthur for a while. "You would be surprised," he finally said, prompting another coughing fit from Arthur.
"You have met King Arthur?" Oscar couldn't help asking.
"Camelot was a good place for musicians," Daeron said matter-of-factly, as if there was nothing outrageous about his claim. "Royal courts generally are."
"Well, I can't recall any mention of a Daeron in the Morte d'Arthur," Arthur snapped.
"No, of course not," Daeron said in a thoroughly bored voice. "Malory didn't mention that he himself was present, either, did he?"
Oscar blinked. "You say that Malory was witness to the scene? Is he also immortal, then?"
"How very perceptive," said Daeron. "He is here, too, you know. You should talk to him. He is better company than I am." And with that, he lifted his flute – no modern Boehm flute, but a simple old thing made from wood – to his lips. He began to play again, his fingers dancing masterfully upon the holes, and closed his eyes.
"I suspect our audience with the immortal is over," Oscar whispered to Arthur. "Come on, let us find something to drink."
"With pleasure," Arthur said, not bothering to keep his voice down. "I will not force my company on such an uncivil man, immortal or otherwise."

They acquired a bottle of wine – Arthur declined the offer of absinthe – and entered the spacious lounge, where a harp concert had just ended. As the listeners streamed out for refreshments, Oscar and Arthur managed to secure a place to sit. Arthur sat in a wicker chair while Oscar, with some difficulty, arranged his long limbs on an oriental pouf. An ornately carved stool served as a low table for their glasses and bottle. The wine was good, and Arthur's ruffled temper cooled a little. He was mollified even more when a cart of hors d'œuvres was brought in. The lounge filled up again slowly, but both men had a chance to snatch a few oysters and canapés before the cart was empty.
"What I do not understand," Arthur said after a while spent in silence, "is why he is so uncivil. Why make up stories of immortality, if not to seek attention? But why seek attention if you cannot be bothered to be polite?"
"Oh, I don't know," Oscar said. "Maybe if you had been less sceptic, he would have been more polite. Sarah seems to get along with him well enough."
"No offense to the great Sarah Bernhardt, but she encourages morbid fantasies. I do not."
"Well, I certainly found him intriguing," Oscar said. "It was a fascinating conversation, even though you cut it short."
"I did not --"
"You were exuding disapproval from every pore, my dear friend. Maybe it stifled his sensitive soul."
"A charlatane must be used to disapproval."
"Perhaps," Oscar said, swirling his wine. "But it may sting him nonetheless."
A couple of young fellows, dressed as musketeers, were beginning an elaborate stage duel in the middle of the room, commanding their attention. After a while, somebody cleared his throat behind them.
"Pardon me, gentlemen, but if this place is not taken, would you mind if I sat there?"
Oscar and Arthur turned in unison, but while Arthur frowned at the intruder, Oscar immediately replied, "It is only a footstool, but you are welcome to sit there, if you wish." He took his glass and the bottle into his lap. Arthur raised an eyebrow, but took his own glass from the stool as well.
"Much obliged," the stranger said with a little bow. "This house lacks only one thing, and that is seats for everybody."
"No wonder, with so many people in it," Arthur said. "But if I recall correctly, you had your own seat a bit earlier – at the harp?"
"You recall correctly," the stranger smiled. "But I do not wish to run afoul of d'Artagnan and his friends, so I have postponed my return."
"A wise choice," Oscar said genially, "even if they are only using stage rapiers."
The stranger nodded. "And your footstool was the only place left in the room. I hope I am not intruding on your conversation."
"You can introduce yourself, and be part of the conversation," Oscar suggested.
"Indeed! I have been amiss. As I know who you are..."
"Really?" Arthur said, looking curious in spite of himself.
"I believe so – Dr. Conan Doyle?"
"That is correct," Arthur replied. "But you are the first person in this house to call me so. How did you guess? Deduction?"
"I'm afraid not," the young man said with a wink and a smile. "I recall seeing a photograph of you in the newspaper, a while back. But if you prefer deduction, I could tell you that I heard that Oscar Wilde was here tonight, and had brought a friend called Arthur. I overheard you both speaking English, so I knew that you were likely to be Mr. Wilde and his friend; and as I read that the inventor of Sherlock Holmes is a friend of Mr. Wilde, and called Arthur, I guessed that you must be him."
"Ah. Either way, you have the advantage of us."
"He will be Malory, I expect," Oscar said quietly.
"Malory? Not quite, but close. Maelor Orfèvre, at your service."
"Maelor? That is a Breton name," Arthur interjected.
"Yes," Maelor said, tilting his head. "Is that important?"
"Not really," Oscar said. "Arthur is only trying to solve an earlier puzzle. So you are Breton; are you also immortal?"
The young man's eyes widened slightly, but he smiled. "I take it you have spoken to my brother."
Arthur snorted. "We have attempted to make conversation, yes," he said.
"Your brother?" Oscar asked. "Then you are, like him, immortal?"
"Well, like him, I have not yet died," Maelor said dryly. "But I do not tell tales of immortality."
"You say they are not true?" said Oscar, managing to sound honestly disappointed. Arthur gave him a sharp glance.
"He feels that they are true," replied Maelor. "So he is not a liar, if that is what you thought."
"I do not think him a liar," Oscar said.
"Well, I do," Arthur said, with feeling. "But I suppose it's different if the poor fellow isn't aware of the falsehood. There are places for people who believe things that are not true, of course..."
"Convents?" Oscar quipped playfully, earning himself another glare from Arthur.
Maelor ignored their banter. "Yes, there are such places. That is precisely why I brought him here, not there." He took a deep breath. "Have you ever been to an asylum? Most of them are places of neglect and torment. Only rarely will you find one where people genuinely try to help the confused and the sick; more commonly, those who work there enjoy lording it over others, and find easy victims there. Here..." he gestured at the high-ceilinged lounge, absurdly but generously furnished, with its bauble-bedecked chandeliers and potted tropical plants, the velvet-curtained windows, the make-shift stage, the cigarette smoke, the noise. "Here he can be free."
The musketeers ended their swashbuckling performance, and the audience cheered and applauded. Oscar and Arthur dutifully joined the applause in spite of having missed most of the show.
"If he values his freedom, your brother should not tell improbable stories about Bonaparte and King Arthur," said Arthur when the noise had died down.
"It would be easier for everybody if he stopped doing that," Maelor readily agreed, "but sometimes, he cannot. However, he isn't doing anybody any harm, so why take his freedom? Actors and poets are paid for telling improbable stories, so I found him an appreciative audience. It keeps him more balanced than locking him away ever would."
"I suppose," Arthur said. Oscar said nothing, studying his empty glass instead. "I must commend you for taking such good care of your brother, then."
Now, Oscar spoke up. "Your older or your younger brother?"
"Pardon me?" Maelor said.
"Is he your older or your younger brother?"
Maelor smiled in a disarming manner. "Younger. Is that important?"
"Well, if he had been older, then his stories could have been true. But if you knew him from birth..."
"I didn't," Maelor admitted with a shrug. "We have been raised in different families. It is... complicated."
"Ah," Oscar said. "But you are both musical men."
"Yes. Which reminds me that I must return to my harp. It seems to have survived the duel, so I have no excuse."
"You are a musician," Oscar reiterated, "and a linguist, too?"
Again, Maelor's eyes widened in surprise. "What makes you think that?"
"You enunciate very clearly," Oscar said. "In the manner of someone who learned a foreign language perfectly, or of an actor – or of a linguist."
Maelor laughed and got to his feet. "Force of habit, I suppose," he said. "My father was the linguist, not I."
"Ah," Arthur said, nodding slowly. "And your brother and your father fell out?"
"You might say that," Maelor said with a twinkle in his eyes. "Gentlemen, I thank you for the seat and the honour of your company. I trust you will enjoy the performance."
They did. It was quite spectacular.

"How can two brothers be so very different?" Arthur said as they rode a cab home. He was tired. It was well past midnight.
"Oh, Arthur," Oscar said. "They are no more brothers than you and I."
"Why not? Because of their last names? They will be half-brothers. You heard that the younger one fell out with their father. The result of an unhappy affair, I assume, named for his mother's husband rather than his true father."
"I doubt they share either a mother or a father."
"What can you mean? They certainly looked alike enough."
"They were both handsome, I'll give you that. They had the beauty of youth – the older more than the younger, strangely. And both were dark-haired, but their foreheads and noses don't match. They have the same ears, but not the same eyes. Did you notice that? Daeron had empty tunnels in his face, while Maelor had the most expressive eyes..."
"I have seen such empty tunnels in many a dope-fiend's face."
Oscar sighed. "You have the disappointing ability to find rational explanations for everything."
"Of course. I'm a doctor."
"Meanwhile, I am a writer, a spinner of tales – a professional liar. I sense that one of these two lied to us, and I think it's the one who spoke sense. They are no brothers."
"Then why say so?"
Oscar stretched his long legs. "Ah, why do men say that they are brothers, when they are not? So they may room together with nobody batting an eye, for instance..."
"That's scandalous!"
"No, Arthur, that's Bohemia."
Arthur grunted, but kept his peace. They did not speak for long enough that Arthur nodded off, in spite of the rattling of the cab's iron wheels upon the cobbles and the clatter of the hooves.
He was torn from his sleep when Oscar said, "I wonder how he does it?"
Arthur yawned. "How who does what?"
"Daeron Gris. If he is immortal, how does he keep so young a face?"
"Please, Oscar, don't tell me that you consider his absurd story the truth."
"I consider it an intriguing story. Indulge me. How does he stay young?"
"He doesn't; it's all in his mind."
Another dramatic sigh from Oscar. "Arthur. Don't think like a doctor for a moment; think like a writer."
Arthur proved that he could sigh almost as forcefully. "Very well. He sold his soul, then."
"Too obvious; too dull. That would explain why he doesn't die, but not why he doesn't age."
"He did have an unhealthy complexion, and some lines around his mouth."
"Not nearly enough, if he knew King Arthur."
Drawing himself more upright, Arthur tried to shake off his drowsiness. "Well, maybe Merlin magicked him young forever. But it seems to be a curse rather than a blessing."
Oscar nodded to show that he appreciated Arthur's efforts. "Better. But useless."
"Well, you tell me, if you don't like my suggestions!" Arthur sounded genuinely hurt.
Oscar pondered the question for a while. "Someone else must be aging in his place. I'd say his brother, but we've met the brother and he looks just as youthful..."
"An effigy, then?"
"Yes!" Oscar clapped his hands. "That's it. An effigy. He has a portrait on the attic which ages instead. Excellent."
Arthur stifled another yawn. "Elementary. Can I sleep now?"
"Stay awake a while longer. We'll be at the hotel soon. I will abandon you there, I'm afraid. I'm in dire need of coffee."
"Coffee? At this time?"
"At this time!" Oscar laughed. "Sleep is for the weak and the conscientious. But I must work. I think I know what to write for Stoddart at last."

---

Chapter End Notes

Despite Daeron's annoyance, Arthur Conan Doyle is correct; Daeron is a Breton name (a surname, actually) of uncertain origins, but possibly related to the Irish name Dáire. A modern English form would be Darren or Darion.

Maelor is a reasonably common Breton name, derived from Celtic Maglorix, which apprently meant „chieftain“. Variants are Mael, Maelar, Meloir, Magloire and, indeed, Maglor. You're welcome.

Gris, in case that needs elaboration, is French for „grey“ (as in „Grey-Elves“). Or, of course, „gray“. Orfèvre means „jeweller“. I suppose they should've picked the same surname if they're pretending to be brothers, but where would the fun be in that?

Reputedly, in 1889 the American publisher Joseph M. Stoddart challenged Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle to write him a mystery story for Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. Arthur Conan Doyle wrote The Sign of the Four; Oscar Wilde wrote The Picture of Dorian Gray. I apologise to both these great authors for my crude fictionalisation of their characters. Also to the divine Sarah Bernhardt, and to Thomas Malory.

Elf Counsel

Written for an uncalled prompt on the B2MeM 2012 Bingo card "Maglor in History": G47, The Vikings Invade Britain. Also sort of covers the B2MeM 2009 prompt for March 22.

Alfred the Great discusses his legal reform with his harp teacher.

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Elf Counsel

He wasn't part of the nobility, nor did he have the experience of age, and therefore he was not one of the witan. Máel had come from Ireland in the wake of the Danish assaults on that island. He did not speak of his past, but he must have been educated in one of the great monasteries, for his knowledge of history and lore was extensive, and he spoke Latin perfectly. Some claimed that he was untrustworthy, having escaped the walls of his cloister; but most agreed that when the Vikings burned your halls and slaughtered your comrades, no man could be blamed for running away. At any rate, he took no office, unlike the Welsh monk Asser who dined at Alfred's high table or the bishops who were as influential as any ealdorman. He had the ears of lords and king when he played the harp, but he had neither seat nor voice in the council.

Nonetheless, Alfred treasured Máel's opinion as well as his skill on the harp. The King of Wessex felt that it was not enough to be ruler and warrior, but that a king also ought to be a scholar and a man versed in the arts; and because he liked the soft-spoken, bright-eyed and keen-eared harpist, Alfred had asked Máel to teach him to play his instrument. Even in these troubled days, Alfred tried to make time for his lessons as often as he could. To his grief, he had no particular talent for the harp; but Máel was patient and encouraging and kept his thoughts about the king's disgraceful plucking to himself. And often, when the lesson was over or Alfred's frustration grew too strong to continue, they simply sat and talked. Or rather, Alfred talked, and Máel listened: of hunting adventures, of news from the viking-ridden northern kingdoms, of cases that were brought before the king's judgement. Sometimes, Máel would contribute his opinion, and the king generally found it well thought out and worth considering. When the evening got late and the uncertainty of the future hung over them as a grey fog, Alfred would sketch his dream of a united kingdom, of one Englaland under one king. Others might have laughed at the idea: If, against all reason, one king would shake off the Danes and become ruler of all the Saxons, from Kent to Northumbria, it would hardly be Alfred with his frequent stomach pains, his close-cropped hair, his love for the meek and humble, looking like a frail boy among wild and battle-hardened men even at the ripe age of forty-five.

Máel never laughed; Máel never even gave the impression of secretly thinking that Alfred was an unlikely candidate for the throne of Wessex, let alone an imaginary England. Máel listened. If Máel responded at all, he treated Alfred's ambition as a possible reality. He would ask questions about logistics, about taxation or education; he never asked how in the world Alfred hoped to achieve his dream. Once, bent over by agonising cramps, by doubt and frustration, Alfred had posed the question himself, spitting it out, throwing it at Máel like a poisonous dart: "Why are you acting as if my dream had any chance of coming true? Why do you not say the obvious, that it will never happen?" Máel had ignored the dart, had poured an infusion of soothing herbs, and, when the king had recovered enough to sit up, had quietly said: "I will say the obvious: All the Angelcynn united under one ruler would be far stronger than many small factions under their own small kings. Because it is obvious, others may see it; and if you give them reason to follow you, they will. It is only a dream now, but it is a powerful idea. Sometimes, that is all that it takes." And because Máel knew that the king took consolation from the scriptures, he added, "Think of Joseph."
Alfred thought of Joseph, and let his dream grow.

He was calm now. He was thinking about the laws of his predecessors, and the laws he would need to govern a kingdom of any size. "The basis of the law, of course," he said, his fingers absent-mindedly stroking the harp-strings, "is that every man must always keep his oaths. It barely needs mentioning, but for the sake of completeness..."
To Alfred's surprise, Máel grimaced at these words.
"You disagree?" the king asked sharply. "Do you not think that oathbreaking is the worst of crimes?"
Máel cautiously set his harp aside. "I have come to realise, my lord, that there may be more important things than an oath."
Alfred was shocked. Everybody knew that oath-keeping was the key to civilisation; to hear this idea challenged, and not by a lawless Dane but by soft-spoken Máel, was utterly unbelievable.
"Like what?" he asked in genuine puzzlement, and with all the sternness of a man who has the law on his side.
"Conscience," Máel simply said, and picked up his harp again.
Alfred calmed a little. "But the two go hand in hand, do they not? A man's conscience demands that a man keep his vow."
"Normally, yes." Máel's fingers, too, fell absent-mindedly on the harp-strings; but where Alfred's fingers plucked notes at random, Máel produced complex harmonies, something that suggested the melody of an elaborate, unknown song.
Alfred waited for an explanation, but none came. "Go on," he said.
Máel studied the king's eyes for a while, and Alfred tried hard to control the anger still boiling inside him. At last, the harpist spoke. "A man's conscience should command him to keep his oath," he said. "But what if there are conflicting oaths? What if, in keeping his oath, a man must commit treason? What then does conscience say?"
Alfred did not answer, but he no longer felt angry; instead, he found himself thinking hard. What should conscience say?
"What if one has to break the law in any manner to keep one's oath? If a lord commands his follower," Máel paused to think of an example, "to burn a house and slaughter those within, what then is worse – to disobey one's lord, and thus break one's oath of fealty; or to honour one's oath and kill the innocent?"
The king rose. "I will need more time to think about this," he declared. "For tonight, I cannot stomach more."
"Very well, my lord," Máel agreed readily. "Good night."

"Firstly, we teach that the most important thing is that every man carefully keep his oath and his wed," announced the Archbishop Æthelstan, delivering the reformed Laws of Alfred to the people in the streets. "But if by one's oath, one is compelled to commit treachery against one's lord, or to any other unlawful deed, then the oath is better broken than kept..."
Máel heard it, and smiled.

---

Chapter End Notes

It appears that, among his many other great achievements, King Alfred the Great first had it written into law that there were circumstances in which oathbreaking was the lesser evil – rather than sticking with the traditional idea that oaths were to be kept under all circumstances. Maybe he had a little help from a friend – after all, the name "Alfred" literally means "elf counsel"...

For what it's worth, historical accounts say that Alfred really tried to learn the harp. They do not claim that he was any good at it.
Alfred did not live to see a united kingdom of England (let alone a United Kingdom that also encompasses Cornwall, Wales, Scotland and parts of Ireland), but he did lay the foundation.

Later medieval law codes introduced further conditions under which oaths could be voided: if they had been made under duress or if, at the time of swearing, one couldn't foresee the consequences. Quite a step from the original Roman principle and quite a clever loophole, knowing human nature (and The Silmarillion ;))...

Elf-struck

When they head out to a supposedly haunted island for a dare, the Douglas twins make an acquaintance that changes them forever.
A Victorian ghost story, without, as it were, a ghost.

Written for the "Around the Fire" challenge, for Independence1776's request: Maglor lives alone on the Isle of Himling. Someone visits the island, not knowing it’s inhabited. What happens?

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Elf-struck

"There are no ghosts," Murron said. "Just perfectly natural phe-no-me-na. That's what Miss Williams says, and she should know. She went to university and all."
Her brother pulled his little dinghy further onto the rocky beach. The islet featured only a very narrow strip of shore, which would likely disappear entirely once the tide rose.
"Spare me the lecture, help me secure the boat," he huffed. It was going to be harder than he'd hoped. Not only was the island mainly made up of forbidding, rocky cliffs; there also were no convenient rock needles, trees or at least pieces of strong driftwood that could be used for a make-shift mooring. They would have to carry the boat along until they reached the first strip of grass. Barrie broke out in a sweat at the mere thought.
Murron, who had ignored his request in order to scout their surroundings, returned. "There's a sort of stairway over there," she pointed out. "We should probably use that." Without waiting for a reply, she went to the dinghy's rear.

It was a small and light boat, but it hadn't been designed to be carried far by two whispy youths. They had to pause and put it down frequently, and by the time they had reached the cleft in the rocks that Murron had called a stairway - if it had ever been a stairway, it was now badly worn out, steep and overgrown - they were sweating and out of breath. "It was a stupid idea to come here," Murron said angrily. "Only idiots go on dares to ghost islands. Besides, there are no ghosts."
"You didn't need to come along," Barrie shot back. "You don't have to go wherever I go."
"I know that. But I can hardly let you run into danger alone, can I?"
"I can look after myself. Besides, if there's no ghosts, you don't have to protect me."
"Not from ghosts! But from the tides and the currents and steep cliffs on unknown islands!" Murron heaved the rear up again. "Besides, how'd you secure the boat if you didn't have me to help lug it up?"
With an enormous effort, they managed to bring the boat into the relative safety of the gravel field that lay behind the first ring of cliffs. Short grasses and hardy coastal flowers that lifted their yellow and pink heads against the biting winds showed that it was above the normal tideline. Relieved, they set down the dinghy and slumped onto the rocky ground, catching their breath.
"I would've found a way," Barrie insisted. "But thanks."

They took their meagre provisions out of the boat: Murron had packed bread and a bottle of water, Barrie had brought carrots and cheese. "Why did you bring water?" he chided his sister. "People lived here. There must be a well somewhere."
"That could be blocked, or polluted," Murron said with a scowl, which deepened when she noticed the leather case her twin pulled out from underneath the thwart. "Is that your harp*? Did you bring your harp along? Is that why the bloody boat was so heavy, because it had your harp in it?"
"It's not that heavy," Barrie said, his face flushing a little. "And I might need it. To appease the ghosts."
"There are no ghosts," Murron said. "Just your imagination. Maybe you can appease that."
"That would be useful, too," Barrie said.
"Firewood would've been more useful," Murron retorted. "Though maybe we can burn your harp?"
"Over my dead body," said Barrie.

They followed the remains of the path upwards. A brief debate on whether or not they should hide the dinghy ended before it could grow heated, as there simply was nothing to use for cover. They passed old lobster traps, their wooden frames bleached by the weather, but the netting was still intact. The twins did not bother to stop for a closer look. The wind was already harsh in their faces, and they could see dark clouds gathering across the sea, where the weather was coming from.
"It's going to blow by," Barrie said, to reassure himself as much as his sister. "It's going to hit the main islands, not this little rock."
"Man proposes," Murron said sternly. "Well, maybe the old monastery will provide some shelter."

Monks had inhabited the island, long ago. Some said that they had been holy men who sought to attain sainthood in life by being as miserable as possible on their windswept rock in the inclement sea; others said that they had chosen the islet because it was fabled to have been the castle of an Elf-king, and the monks had sought to stamp out such heathen superstitions. Whatever the truth, the monastery had been built upon the fundaments of an older structure, though whether it had been a castle or merely a farmstead, nobody knew. An Elf-king would hardly have built his castle on a lonely, windswept rock far out in the Western sea, Murron thought. Not that she believed in Elves. It just went to show how silly the whole story was. Almost as silly as their visit to the island, which was now uninhabited except for sea birds, and the sheep that the monks had brought with them. Nobody had bothered to carry them back across the sea. Maybe nobody had dared, because of the ghost stories. It was said that the ghosts of the last monks, who had died in a storm flood centuries ago, still haunted the ruins. When the wind was right, fishermen claimed that they could hear the music of the Holy Mass the ghosts still celebrated in the remains of their cathedral. The young folk who spent a night on the island as a rite of passage never spoke of hearing the Holy Mass, but they all agreed that the place was haunted.

"I see why people say there used to be a Elf-castle here," Barrie said thoughtfully as they passed another forbidding ring of rock that sheltered a meadow, quite densely covered in shortly-cropped grass and stunted bushes. Sheep were grazing near the path, but ran off and disappeared around a corner as the twins came closer, alarmed by the unfamiliar humans.
Barrie pointed at the cliffs ahead. "These do look like the walls of a castle, don't they."
"They're probably volcanic in origin," Murron said sagely.
"Volcanos don't happen in the middle of the sea," Barrie protested.
"They do, too. Miss Williams says that volcanos can create islands, or destroy them, too."
"Well, if Miss Williams says so," Barrie said, although he still sounded doubtful. "But I never heard about this being a volcano. Just a ghost place."
Murron shrugged. "Maybe it's sleeping. Maybe it was a volcano very long ago. Makes more sense than ghosts or fairies, anyway."

The path lead through another opening in another rock wall to another meadow, better protected from the wind. Further ahead, they could see the proper, man-made walls of the ancient monastery. Someone had gone to the effort of restoring parts of it at some point; a farmer or somebody else who had been interested in the wool, most likely. "Is somebody shearing these sheep?" Murron wondered aloud. The sheep they had seen had been rather short-fleeced.
"Nobody goes here, except for the big boys," Barrie pointed out. "They probably shed their wool by themselves. Lots of opportunities to shed, with all these rocks."
"But shouldn't we be seeing bits of wool everywhere, then?" Murron asked, and then answered her own question. "I suppose the birds use it for nesting, or the wind blows it away." She looked up at the sky, which continued to darken. "I don't think it'll blow these clouds away, though. I think we'll be stuck in the middle of the storm, if we don't leave at once."
"Better stuck here than on the sea," Barrie pointed out. "Besides, I have to stay the whole night."
"To impress people you don't even like."
"Don't rub it in. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."
Murron snorted. "And a woman's gotta clean up the mess, as usual."
"You didn't have to come along!" Barrie protested again. "I could have managed on my own."
"I would have died worrying. This way, at least I know what's going on."
"Yes," Barrie conceded. And because there was nobody there to listen, he admitted, "I'm glad I'm not alone here."

They stopped walking then, having reached the outer walls of the old chapel and hall. Even if you didn't believe in ghosts, it was an awe-inspiring place: Not because of its size, which wasn't that impressive, but because it seemed to exude age and authority from every worn stone. Much of the roofing was still intact, the twins realised, probably because it hadn't been thatched but covered with proper roof tiles. The central hall had partially collapsed, but both the chapel to the east and a smaller building to the west looked much like the monks might have intended them. There was no more glass in the windows, but the empty frames had been covered in roughly woven cloth, and the wooden doors were still in place, safely closed. Even if they had been open, Murron and Barrie agreed, they wouldn't have gone inside. Maybe they would try if the storm got really bad and they found no other shelter; maybe not even then. Dead silence seemed to reign about the place. Even the wind, kept off by the warding walls, seemed to hold its breath.
"It's so quiet," Barrie whispered and immediately felt silly about pointing out the obvious. The words had simply come out before he'd had time to think.
Murron didn't make a scathing reply. "Yes," she whispered in return, "my heartbeat seems to be the loudest noise around." Then she added, somewhat unceremonially, "I need to pee."
"I won't look," Barrie promised.
"I'll walk off a little, anyway," Murron said.
"Don't go too far!" Barrie said, and just in case she might think that he was afraid of being alone, he added, "you know, steep cliffs on unknown islands, and all that."
Murron stuck out her tongue at him.

As Murron went out of sight behind the old chapel, Barrie looked around uneasily. Whenever sunlight made it through a crack in the clouds, the place looked friendly enough, just lonely; but whenever the sun was obscured behind the looming grey cloud-towers, the ruins and the rock walls took on a very hostile aspect. But it wasn't as silent as he had earlier thought. The wind had quieted down, yes, but it could still be heard behind the protective rocks, where it continued to blow with unmitigated strength. Sometimes, the whistling and howling was pierced by the cries of gulls and gannets. And above the beating of his heart, he could hear the humming sound of... bees?
"Surely we are too far from the shore for bees?" he said out loud, before he remembered that nobody was next to him to listen. He took a closer look, and sure enough, the golden clover and tiny pink and white carnations were, every now and then, visited by bees.
"The monks must have brought them, just like the sheep," he said to himself. "Monks always keep bees, because they need so many candles." Mystery solved, he felt calmer.
Until the music started.

It didn't at all sound like monks chanting the Holy Mass. It didn't sound like a natural phenomenon, like something that might be caused by the wind or the birds or bees, either. It sounded like a harp being played by a highly skilled harpist, an incredibly fast arpeggio plucked by incredibly nimble fingers. It was not a melody that Barrie recognised, certainly nothing like the reels that he commonly heard or learned to play himself. It was more like sophisticated continental music, he thought, the sort that Miss Williams, the island teacher, sometimes played on her pianoforte. But while he enjoyed that music, it had never captured him in the way this ethereal music did now; it almost felt as though it was played on his very heartstrings, as if the melody was filling his entire body and mind, sweeping him across vast oceans and into lands where the trees were not stunted by salt and sea winds, but grew high, high up into brilliant skies, with flowers like enormous golden goblets or like strings of silver pearls.
Thunder rolled, and the mood changed. The music was no longer jubilant, but harsh and threatening. The sky had gone black, except when it was torn by flashes of lightning that briefly lit up a rolling, frenzied sea. Waves mounted high, crowned with pink froth; swans desperately tried to stay afloat among grinding shelves of ice, and tall ships went up in flame --

His sister tore him from his vision, frantically pulling on his arm. "Barrie! Barrie!" she cried.
He had not even realised that she had come back, nor had he noticed that it had begun to rain in earnest, that the thunder and lightning weren't just part of the music but part of the very real storm that had not at all blown by, instead discharging itself right above the small islet.
"Barrie," Murron cried, "we have to leave!"
"But the storm --" he protested, refusing to move. Above the thunder and the renewed howling of the wind, above the crashing of the waves, he could still hear the music, beautiful despite its merciless force. I need to learn to play like that, Barrie knew with every fibre of his being. I shall not be happy before my own fingers can produce such music. "Can you hear what I hear?" he asked.
"The music? Yes! That's why we have to leave! Barrie, someone is living here--"
Despite the pain that had gripped his heart - for he feared that he would never be able to make music like that, not if he lived to be a hundred years old - and in spite of the drenching rain, Barrie found himself smiling.
"I thought there were no ghosts?" he couldn't help teasing.
"Not a ghost!" Murron shouted angrily. "Someone living! Barrie, someone is keeping a garden in the old cloister, and it's not overgrown, it's a proper tidy garden! And someone has been collecting driftwood, there's a whole pile of it! I'm not joking! Someone's hiding out here, God knows why, and we're trespassing on his grounds! We have to go!"
The music had stopped, making Barrie's heart ache with longing. He clutched his harp case to his chest and didn't budge.
"We can't go now," he pointed out, "my dinghy isn't built for this kind of weather. We'd be smashed on the rocks, or blown right out onto the open Atlantic, to drown or starve."
"Then we have to hide somewhere further down!" Murron tried to push Barrie towards the incision in the rock wall, but she found no foothold on the slippery ground. Her brother, meanwhile, still stood as if transfixed, as if he had grown roots.
Exasperated by his obstinacy, Murron cried, "We can't stay here! Who knows what kind of person this is, probably some sort of deserter or a pirate or a murderer---" She was shivering with the wet and with fright.
Slowly, her words registered. "Dear God," Barrie said, paling. "We're going to die!"
"Please calm yourselves," said a grown-up and pleasant and not-at-all-ghostly voice, clearly audible even over the thunderstorm. "It's been centuries since I murdered anyone."
The source of the voice was wearing the long, undyed woollen robe of a monk, but his hair, darker than the thunderclouds, was unshorn and flapped freely in the wind.

Huddled into the woolen blankets the stranger had given them, the twins took surreptitious looks at their surroundings. The stranger had led them to what he said had been the kitchen of the monastery, a small room east of the ruined hall. Although there was very little furniture, the stranger had managed to make himself at home. There was a long, heavy table but no seats, so they had sat down on the ground in front of the fireplace. As there were eelgrass mattresses and pillows on the floor, it was less uncomfortable than Barrie would have thought, and the embers in the fireplace warmed them nicely. The room was gloomy, but in a cozy way. The heavy curtains kept out the storm surprisingly well, being fixed to the wall all around the windows, not just above. The thunder was muffled by the walls, but the drumming of the rain seemed to be magnified by the roof tiles, with no thatch or second floor to swallow the noise. Although the roof must have withstood many such downpours across the centuries, Barrie couldn't help glancing upwards anxiously every now and then. At the same time, he was very much relieved to be inside and no longer drenched.
By the light of several strategically placed chandeliers - with real beeswax candles, no tallow lights! - Barrie could make out a heap of eelgrass mattresses and woollen blankets: this, presumably, was the bed. In the opposite corner, there was what looked like a loom fashioned from driftwood. There was a small enamel tub and a couple of buckets, and upon the worktable, Barrie noticed a couple of earthenware bowls and some cooking implements, a fishing net and other bits and bobs. Underneath the table, he thought he could discern an old-fashioned travelling trunk.

"I did not tidy up," the stranger said, observing the way in which the twins took stock of his residence. "I was not expecting visitors." He poured the boiling water from the kettle into a teapot of red clay, and then began to braid his hair. Barrie tried again to reconcile the raven-dark tresses with the man's monkish apparel, and couldn't.
"We didn't mean to importune you," Murron said, tight-lipped. Barrie shot her an anxious glance; was she frightened, or still cold? She had refused to take off her soaked clothing, so underneath the warming blankets, she must still be dripping wet.
The stranger gave a lopsided smile. "No, of course not. You never do." He filled two bowls from the teapot, and set them down on the stone frame before them. "Here. A hot drink is indicated now, I believe."

Barrie put his hands around he hot bowl at once, inhaling the inviting peppermint smell, but was stopped by his sister's words. "How do we know you don't want to poison us?" she said, and added, "The whole village knows we're here. As soon as the storm is over, they'll be coming to look for us." Her voice pretended to a confidence that Barrie knew Murron didn't feel.
The man's smile turned wistful. "My dear children, if I wanted you to come to harm, I could simply have left you to tumble down the cliffs, or to drown in the storm."
"Maybe you need our bodies for some kind of wicked magic," Barrie pointed out, remembering old fairytales. Murron gave him an exasperated look. "Maybe you want to sell us as prostitutes, or-" she shuddered - "for vivi-section," she suggested instead.
The stranger's brow creased. "I am not that kind of elf," he told Barrie, "and none of that is my trade," he said to Murron. He nodded at the teapot. "It's a peppermint infusion. Not the right choice in this sort of weather, I suppose, but I have no proper tea. Drink it, or leave it be; it's your choice."
Barrie sniffed, and couldn't discern anything untoward. He decided to cast caution aside, and took a sip. It was delicious, intense and refreshing and liberally sweetened. Their mother never allowed them to put honey or sugar in their tea, herbal or otherwise; so he closed his eyes and enjoyed the unfamiliar luxury.
Murron still hadn't touched her bowl. "What is your trade, then?" she asked.
"Music," the stranger said.

Barrie's set down his bowl with a pang. "Yes. We heard you playing earlier." His hands had suddenly begun to tremble, and he couldn't quiet them no matter how hard he tried to hold still.
A wistful smile. When he smiled, Barrie thought, the stranger looked beautiful, surprisingly young, and eminently admirable. Having grown up among people of stocky build, bent forwards against the wind, where tall people continually had to duck their heads to fit into small houses, it was unusual to see a tall man with a straight back. Barrie was also unused to people having such fair skin without looking sickly. In their home village, everybody was tanned or ruddy, except for the bedridden and the newly born. The stranger's wrists, visible underneath the open hem of his robe's sleees, were sinewy and suggested strength; and the man moved with grace and efficiency.
Barrie noticed that he was staring, and quickly looked down at his hands. They were still moving without his volution.

"Indeed," the stranger said. "I had not realised that I had company, or I wouldn't have been so careless. You were more quiet than they usually are - no boisterous songs for courage, no stones thrown at the sheep, no attempts to climb the roof."
Barrie felt his face flush, imagining the misbehaviour of other young men who had come to the island. "Well, we're told the island's been abandoned," he said defensively. "We're told there's only ghosts around."
"It is unwise to upset the ghosts," the stranger replied earnestly, "not that I've ever met any, in this place. And, of course, I want you to believe that the island is abandoned."
"Why?" Murron asked sharply. "If you're a musician, shouldn't you be wanting an audience?"
"Sometimes I do," the man said. "But when I get too entangled in the business of Men, I need to withdraw to places like this - especially to this place."
"Why here?" Murron inquired. "Nobody comes here. I wouldn't be staying here if I had a chance."
The stranger spread his hands. "You, child, are young and full of potential. I am old - though not too old to make mistakes. This is a good place to hide and recover. It used to be my brother's stronghold, long ago, and now it has become my refuge."
Murron narrowed her eyes. "There never was a stronghold here, only a monastery."
"Built upon the ruins of an Elf-castle," Barrie pointed out. "Or that's what they say," he added when his sister rolled her eyes at him.
"Stronghold, not castle," said the stranger, "but yes."
"There are no Elves," Murron said in her most scathing tones, "any more than there are ghosts."

"I assure you we exist, although we have become rare," said the stranger. "As do ghosts."
Barrie bit his lips. "How old are you, then?"
The stranger shrugged his shoulders, giving another disarming smile. "Would you believe me that I have lost count?"
"Then who was king when you came here?" Murron asked, folding her arms across her chest. "Not your brother. I mean, of Britain, when you made your refuge here." Derision dripped from her every syllable; she clearly didn't believe a single word.
"My brother was no longer king when he built his stronghold here," the stranger said, unperturbed. "And when I last came here, Britain did not have a king, but a ruling queen."
"Elizabeth?" Barrie asked excitedly.
The stranger smirked, looking more youthful than ever. "Elizabeth was queen of England and Ireland, not of Britain. And no; I mean Victoria."
"Victoria's still queen," Murron said triumphantly. "Can't have been that long ago, then."
"I just thought, because I saw burning ships, earlier," Barrie mumbled, "that maybe you had seen the burning of the Spanish Armada."
The stranger raised an eyebrow. "You saw...?"
"Yes," said Barrie, shifting uncomfortably, "during the music, when the storm began."
The stranger studied him, and the raw pain flared up in Barrie's heart again. He suddenly found it hard to meet the man's eyes, which reminded him of the sea on an overcast day, when the sun suddenly shone between the clouds and turned the ocean into a blinding mirror.
"You were not supposed to see that," the stranger said at some length. "I apologise. It is not a pleasant memory, and certainly not one that should burden you. So you have a bard's heart, young one?"
"I hope so!" Barrie said proudly. "I learn to play the harp, too." But immediately, his spirits sank again. "Not like you, of course; nothing like that. I wish I could play like that. Can you teach me?" Murron clucked her tongue in disapproval. For the first time in his life, Barrie did not care. He was far more interested in the stranger's answer, but it was not what he had hoped to hear.
"No," the stranger said. The simple word seemed to crush all his aspirations, leaving Barrie drained and ready to cry. Perhaps the stranger noticed the effect he'd had on Barrie, because he added, not unkindly, "Not here. Not today. But who knows? Our paths may cross again."
Barrie nodded dully.

"At any rate," the stranger said, maybe trying to distract him, "no, I did not see the burning of the Armada."
"What a surprise," Murron said.
"I was in Japan at the time," the stranger continued.
Murron's eyes widened. "Nobody gets into Japan," she protested, "and the Japanese don't get out. I've read about that."
"Things were different back then," the stranger said. "But you are well-informed, young lady. I am surprised."
Murron grimaced, trying to figure out whether he was poking fun at her. "I'm no young lady," she said, coming to a decision. "My name's Murron, Murron Douglas. And he's Barrie."
"Finbar," Barrie protested angrily. He didn't normally mind his nickname, but he didn't want to be introduced like that to someone whose respect he desperately longed for.
The stranger tilted his head. "Of course. Nice to meet you, Murron and Finbar Douglas."
"Shouldn't you be telling us your name now?" Murron asked.
"My name has long been lost," the stranger said. "But I suppose you may as well call me Maclaurin."
Murron was frowning again. "So that's not your real name?"
"No. It's an approximation."
"What is your real name?"
"Cánafinwë Macalaurë."
Murron wrinkled her nose. "That does sound Japanese."
"Not really. And it is not a Japanese name."
"But you've been to Japan?" That detail seemed to fascinate Murron so much that she had let go of her mistrust, Barrie thought. The rejection rankled in his heart, and he couldn't have cared less about distant countries.
"Indeed," said Maclaurin, "and to many other places." He flashed an actual grin. "I cannot stay in any one place for too long a time, of course, and I cannot always stay out here, either. I do a lot of travelling."
"I want to do a lot of travelling," Murron said, with feeling.

Barrie gave her a surprised stare. This ambition of his sister was new to him, and felt completely alien. He could not imagine leaving home for any extended period of time. He felt rooted to the coast, their island village, the barren ground, the salty winds. If only he could play the harp in the way the stranger had, he thought, he would be completely happy. Never would he have thought that his twin might feel so differently.
"Really?" he couldn't help asking. "I've never heard that before."
Murron gave him a scornful look. "Do you think I'd be happy as a fisherman's wife, or a meek little weaver? I want to see the world!"
"Well, I don't," Barrie said, "so how should I know that you do?"
A smile was playing on Maclaurin's lips. "If you want to become a good harpist, you will need to travel," he told Barrie. "You must broaden your horizons. You need to expose yourself to different influences, learn from different masters, and experience life - and music - in its many different shapes and sizes."
"Oh," Barrie said, abashed. It did not sound at all enticing to him.

"As for you, Murron -" Barrie expected Maclaurin to talk sense into his sister, as adults were supposed to do. But Maclaurin was no ordinary adult. "If it is your desire to travel the world, then that is what you must do."
"But how?" Murron said, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "Nobody will let me travel. They'll keep me here forever, just like the other girls."
"Well, that's the way things are--" Barrie tried to calm her, but Maclaurin was speaking again.
"You will find a way," he said, in his calm, melodious voice. "Maybe you will accompany your brother to London when he attends the Royal Academy of Music..."
"The Royal Academy of Music?" Barrie interrupted. "Who says I'll go there?"
"I do - or a similar institution. The Conservatoire National in Paris, perhaps? If you are serious about your music, that would be a reasonable step."
"Oh dear," Barrie said, while Maclaurin turned back to Murron.
"Or you will find some other way of journeying South," he said. "Merchants travel. Weavers travel, too, if they want to expand their business."
"But I don't want to be a merchant's or weaver's wife," Murron said. "I want to go to university, like Miss Williams."
"And end up as an old spinster teaching at a village school, like Miss Williams," Barrie snapped. Frustration and confusion made him angry. How could his sister have such wild dreams? And why did Maclaurin reject him, but encourage his sister? It was unfair!
"Miss Louisa Williams?" Maclaurin's voice was still calm. His eyes seemed to have widened, but that might as well have been a trick of the light.
"She's our teacher," Murron confirmed, "and she's not an old spinster, she's only forty or so. Anyway, she's living out here now, but she's studied and seen the world before that! I don't mind coming back here. I just want to leave, first."
Maclaurin appeared to have recovered from his shock. "Then you will find a way," he affirmed.
"Hah! Don't expect it to be easy," Barrie said, still annoyed.

"Of course not," Maclaurin agreed. "The worthwhile things in life very rarely come easy. You will have to prove your dedication to your dream, again and again and again. But just because it isn't easy, that doesn't mean it's impossible." He sighed, and seemed to stare off into the distance. The rain, which had gradually grown less forceful during their conversation, was now reduced to a mere dripping. The violent darkness of the storm was replaced by the peaceful darkness of dusk. Barrie was beginning to feel tired.
"If nothing is impossible," he said, breaking the sudden quiet, "will you really not teach me? Just the basics, maybe, just this summer? I promise I'll travel and broaden my horizons afterwards. I'll even go to London if that's what I need to do, if only you show me how you play the harp first."
Maclaurin smiled, gently. "That is not how it works," he said. "And I will not be around to teach you. I will have to leave this place soon; my refuge has become compromised, and it is time to move on. But as I said, our paths may cross again; and maybe then, we will both be ready." As Barrie lowered his head, despair washing over him, Maclaurin continued, "You have a bard's heart, Barrie Douglas. Expose it to the world, and you will find the music inside yourself."
"How much more useful it would be," Murron mused, "if I were happy to stay, since it's what's expected of me, and you were happy to travel, since it's what you must do."
"You complement each other," Maclaurin said. "Make good use of it."
"If you won't teach me to play," Barrie spoke up, "will you at least play for us again?"
Maclaurin smiled. "That is a good idea." He rose in a graceful, fluid motion. "I think we can risk going into the chapel without getting too wet. Some music, and then, to bed."

Wrapped in their blankets, the twins followed him through the ruins of the old hall, navigating past the rubble and deep puddles. The chapel was in better repair, but no less stark; even after Maclaurin had lit the candles, it remained grey and bare. The walls were neither plastered nor painted, and undecorated aside from the massive wooden cross above the old altar. There were no choir stalls, only a few benches. A precious harp, far grander than Barrie's small instrument, stood before one of them, where Maclaurin sat down. Murron and Barrie seated themselves across the room, to be able to see as well as hear - what little there was to see.
At first, Maclaurin played pieces that Barrie thought he had heard before, the piano kind written by foreign composers, perhaps. For Murron's sake, Maclaurin also played music from the many countries he had visited. Barrie did not particularly care for most of it, but Murron claimed to adore it.
Later, the music turned yet more adventurous, captivating Barrie's heart, although he did not again experience as vivid a vision as he had before the storm. And at last, Maclaurin began to sing, in a tongue that felt familiar and alien, timeless and ancient at once.

The twins awoke when the sun shone through the empty window frames. They had apparently found refuge from the storm in the old chapel, where they had spent the night huddled in old woollen blankets that they had found who knew where. There was no other soul on the islet, although they found surprising traces of relatively recent habitation: The old cloister had been turned into a vegetable garden that was only just turning to seed, and a make-shift loom, some eelweed mattresses and some cutlery in the old kitchen suggested that the monks hadn't been the last to inhabit the old structure. Barrie could have sworn that they'd had company the previous evening, and reported some details to Murron, though his memory was fuzzy and seemed to dissolve the more he tried to remember. Murron was uncommonly taciturn, and did not even berate him for finding it hard to shake off his vivid dream. They could not, however, find any trace of the harp that Barrie claimed to have seen, nor was there the slightest trace of a teapot.
They could see marks of the storm all over the island - seaweed and shells had been blown onto the cliffs by the wind or cast upon the grassy patches by the waves. Those must have reached far higher than the twins had thought, high enough to sweep off their dinghy, along with the lobster traps that they found smashed into pieces on the rocky strip of shore below.

As Murron had predicted, it did not take long for the villagers to come looking for them. Although no grown-up would ever have said so, it was a commonly approved rite of passage for the village boys to spend a night on the haunted islet; although the dignity of Barrie's newly-gained adulthood was spoiled somewhat by the fact that he had lost his boat and needed to be rescued. The dinghy was later found intact on a neighbouring island, where the storm had apparently wandered after unloading its worst over the small rocky islet.
To Barrie's and Murron's fortune, their parents were so relieved to have them back after the night's storm that their punishment was relatively mild. Nonetheless, something had come between the twins during that night on the island. They drifted further apart as the year progressed. Murron returned to school with renewed fervour, begging Miss Williams for tutoring and further reading every weekend. Barrie had lost whatever interest in bookish learning he'd ever had, and he had also lost his flavour for the reels and jigs that he had played so well on his harp. He did play the harp often, but now he picked out fancy tunes: sometimes they were variations of the classical music Miss Williams played on her piano, and sometimes he seemed to try and recreate music that he could only have heard in dreams. Once he had his dinghy back, and was at liberty to roam again, he often went on trips to the surrounding islands and even to the haunted islet, as if searching for something.

Murron finished school as the best student of her class. This earned her a handsome letter of recommendation and a position as junior assistant to the island's leading wool merchant, Mr. Campbell, who soon called her an asset to his company, and began to suggest that she should marry his Jamie. But during a trade fair in Glasgow, Murron disappeared and could not be found. It was years before Barrie began to receive postcards from places like Persia, Singapore or Brazil. In time, their parents' anger turned into pride.
Barrie stayed behind in the island village of their childhood. He made a living as a fisherman, and continued sailing to the small islet to the northwest, where he looked after the beasts that the monks had left there. He brought home honey and wax and wool, and sometimes, puffin eggs; in return, he played his harp to the birds and bees and sheep. He also repaired part of the old monastery, and through the summer, he tended the vegetable patch that seemed to benefit from the protected climate in the cloister, or maybe from the blessing provided by the former residents. Either way, it yielded more produce than the gardens in the village did.

He was an oddity, to be sure, but a harmless one; and so the villagers accepted him as an incomprehensible but normal part of their community. Some reckoned that he had run afoul of the ghosts in his youth, and was now trying to make amends; although Barrie denied these stories, stating that he had never met a single ghost on the island. He did insist that he had once met an Elf. Even when his children no longer cared for fairytales, Barrie kept on telling them that Elves had indeed lived on that island, which had not then been an island but a mountain overlooking marshes and woodlands and fields. His wife sometimes joked that he was more in love with the island than he was with her, but even the island could never compete with the strange music that he forever pursued, and that forever seemed to lie beyond his grasp.
Miss Williams, who taught the village children for many years to come, and who - for all her learning - figured that there were more things between Heaven and earth than were taught in schools or university, said that Barrie must be elf-struck. Eventually, that was the explanation that was most widely accepted.

---

Chapter End Notes

* Although the invention of the Highland tradition must already have been in full swing at this point, I am assuming that in remote areas like the Outer Hebrides, the harp – not the bagpipe – would still be the Scottish staple instrument.

² Presumably, there are no orchestras where the twins grew up, so their only access to classical music would be the homemade kind, probably on the piano. It's still a couple of years until phonograph or grammophone are invented.

³ It probably does if you only know a Japanese name or two from history, and nothing about the language.

Exiles

In the Roman province of Macedonia, two exiles meet.

Written for the SWG August 2017 challenge, Song of Exile.
Warning for a half-hearted attempt at and a discussion of suicide.

Read Exiles

According to the calendar, summer was over, but the heat continued to be oppressive. The air was thick and heavy, and the steady nighttime noise of cicadas and midges was grating on Maglor's nerves. Yet, the relative quietude of his house was equally unappealing: The clay walls stored the day's warmth, making it even more stifling inside than outside. So, in spite of the restless buzzing and whining, he remained in the garden. Of course, it was not much of a garden at this time of the year. The water basin was gasping dry, and all but the hardiest shrubs had died and shrivelled; the remains of his chamomile lawn were crunching under his feet as he paced under the dark cloudless sky.

In retrospect, he could not say what had made him raise his eyes to the hills that overlooked the town of Thessalonica. Perhaps he had tried to avoid the torches, flickering and shrouded by expiring moths, that had been lit in some of the neighbouring gardens where other people took refuge from the heat of their houses. Perhaps his subconscious had picked up on some movement, some shadow shifting on the uttermost fringe of his vision. Whatever the cause, he had looked away from the gardens and up to the hills.
In early spring, when the melting snow from the northern mountains and the heavy rains of the new year had made their turbulent way down to the sea, there had been violent landslides, leaving the hillsides steep and perilous to walk. On the very edge of one such slope, near the villa of the Roman quaestor, Maglor saw a man.

Even if the lonesome figure was merely hoping to catch a whiff of the cooling sea breeze or escape the smell of the sweating city, Maglor felt that it was his duty to investigate. He told himself that it was an entirely rational decision. Rumour had it that the quaestor was housing a grieving friend who needed to recover from some great loss. The sheer amount of guards posted around the perimeter, even now that the quaestor himself was touring the province, suggested that there was more to it. Either way, if a Roman citizen and guest of the quaestor took a tumble off a ragged hillside in Thessalonica, there could be dire consequences for the city, innocent or not. That surely was reason enough. But if Maglor was honest with himself, his feet had begun to carry him out of the withered garden and into the silent streets before he had given the matter a second thought. He was acting purely on instinct, evading the legionaries in the streets and around the estate without thinking. Even though he was no longer a practiced hunter and warrior, he could still move silently and efficiently, and he reached the hilltop without delay.

As yet, the man was standing a foot's length away from the edge, his head bowed as he pondered the next step. He had clearly not reached a decision, but he did have the air of a desperate man, and he was swaying in the heat. It was all too easy to see him stumble and disappear down the slope even should he not wish to jump after all.
Maglor shuddered at the thought; he had acquired an abhorrence of people standing too close to cliffs or chasms. He knew he had to intervene, allowing his feet to make some sound so the other would not be alarmed by his sudden presence, but moved slowly to suggest that he was no threat. Maglor was now fairly confident that the man must be the quaestor's mysterious guest - he had not bothered to put on a toga on this hot night, but he was wearing a Roman-style tunic, though dark and unembellished. Maglor spoke out in Latin, "Greetings, friend. Please do not be alarmed; I mean you no harm."
The man froze, but did not turn or reply.
"I hope you do not truly mean to step off that edge," Maglor said pleasantly.
He had not expected an answer, but this time he got one, in the hoarse voice of a man who had long kept silent, "Probably not. I am rather afraid of death, you see."
"I am glad to hear it," Maglor said. "Would you mind coming back here, then? Slopes like that can be very dangerous. The ground could give way at any time, or you might misjudge the distance in the dark."
"To be honest, I am rather hoping for that. I do not have the courage to kill myself, but if the hill simply broke away beneath my feet, it would take no courage on my part. Once I am falling, I cannot shy back, after all."
"Ah," Maglor said, trying to maintain his calm."But you might realise that it was a mistake to fall, and then you cannot reverse it."
The man made a noise somewhere between annoyance and acknowledgement. "Damn you. Do you belong to Plancius' household?"
Maglor hesitated, but decided to stick to the truth - as far as that was possible, anyway. "No. I live in the neighbourhood. I could not sleep, and I happened to see you standing there all by yourself. It made me worry."
"What business of yours is it what I do?" In spite of the man's gruff words, Maglor was relieved to hear that his voice was regaining strength, if only in an attempt at self-assertion. He kept his own voice deliberately friendly in spite of the lump that had risen in his throat.
"None. But I have lost my brother in this manner. It is a grief I do not wish on anyone."

For a while, there was silence, and Maglor feared that the man would step over the edge out of sheer defiance. Then, to his endless relief, the other turned away from the slope. He did look like a man tired of life. Although he was clearly Roman, he was unshaven. His hair had grown long and straggly, and he had the unhealthy look of a well-fed man who had suddenly stopped to care about eating. "Damn you," he said again, though without much force. "Very well; for your sake, if not for mine, I shall stand away."
"Thank you," said Maglor, forcing the corners of his mouth into a polite smile. The quaestor's guest approached, giving him a disgruntled look as he stopped an arm's length away. "Thank you, I suppose. Or maybe not. Time will tell."
"It doubtlessly will," Maglor agreed, maintaining his smile. "Well. I have achieved my purpose, and now that I am satisfied that you will not take a sudden step into thin air, I can leave you in peace and bid you a good night."
"Thin air? There is no thin air to be had in this place," retorted the man. "Nor peace, nor a good night."
"I am sorry that you feel this way, but perhaps tomorrow will be kinder."
There was a dismissive snort in response. "So this is it? First you interfere in my business, and then you just... go? Are these the customs of these sad times?"
Maglor raised an eyebrow. "I did not have the impression that you cared for company."
"Well, since you have already forced it upon me, you might as well stay." The man paused. "How else will you know that I do not turn back and jump?"
"You will do no such thing. But if you wish to talk, I can stay."
"Then you better come back to the house."

Aside from a guard and the steward, both shocked to see that the quaestor's guest had left the premises without anyone noticing and surprised that he had brought a guest of his own, the household was fast asleep. They silently made their way through the tiled, pleasantly cool corridors until they reached the guest quarters.
"I should have known that you are not part of Plancius' house," the man said as they sat down. "They would not have dared to approach me. I carry a smell of doom about me. I hope it does not rub off on you."
A small laugh escaped Maglor. "You need not worry on my account - I am accustomed to doom."
"Really?" Now the man's eyes, previously dulled with grief, gained an inquisitive gleam. "What kind of doom?"
Maglor shrugged, affecting equanimity. "Exile, and the loss of all that I have loved." It was a reality that he had long since come to term with; nonetheless, it stung more than expected to hear it spoken.
The other man sighed. "Ah.Then you should know the soul-eating despair of being banished from one's family, one's native land, one's very purpose in life..."
"Oh yes. But as you can see, I have not given in to that despair. Mind you, I've had a long time to get used to it."
"I will never get used to it," the other man said with passion. "I cannot. It is destroying everything that I am." Abruptly, he slumped forward, burying his face in his hands.
The weary-looking steward appeared to bring two cups and a decanter of diluted wine. Maglor thanked him, and the steward left as quickly as she had come. The silence lengthened. Maglor waited.

Eventually, the man let his hands sink and shook his head. "I do apologise," he said. "I need to get a grip on myself. I just don't see how. My life is such a mess that it no longer has a point."
Maglor gave another smile. "Life feels like that, sometimes," he said diplomatically. "I suppose it must be harder since you have nobody to confide in..."
The man waved his hand. "It's not as bad as that," he said. "I write a lot of letters. Plancius has proven to be a true friend. And normally, I have my secretary by my side - he above all is a great consolation. He wouldn't have let me get too close to that edge, either." He shook his head again, wistfully. "But Plancius is upcountry right now, and Tiro is off to Gaul to negotiate the terms of my return with Caesar. Damn Caesar! Everything depends on him these days!"
Maglor grimaced sympathetically, but could not help pointing out, "There seems to be some hope, then, that your exile may be rescinded."
"Perhaps. I dare not hope, but I am told that it might happen. But at what cost? My enemies have only grown stronger. And I will be beholden to Caesar, which is precisely what I wanted to avoid. That is why I ended up in this forsaken hellhole in the first place, not wanting to be Caesar's creature! My life would have been a lot easier if I had not tried to resist him!" He buried his face in his hands once more. "I could have joined his stupid little circle when he asked me. I could have been the fourth man! But it would have felt like betraying the republic. I had to protect the republic, hadn't I? But to what point? Here I am, impotent, ruined, an exile, and the republic has betrayed me." He let his hands sink and gave Maglor a rueful stare. "What hubris, you must think. To assume that the republic depends on me, and me alone. I suppose that is why the gods are punishing me in this manner."

Maglor took his time to reply. "As far as I know, the gods no longer directly intervene in the business of mortals," he eventually said. "They watch on occasion, perhaps, but they do not punish or reward."
The other made a surprised sound half-way between a sob and a chortle. "You make it sound as if you were on intimate terms with the gods! Have they sent you?"
Now it was Maglor's turn to chortle. "Not at all. I cannot claim to know the minds of the gods, but if one thing is certain, it's that they would not trust me to do their bidding."
"Pity," the man said, sobering again. "I could have used an emissary of the gods to advise me, for I really do not know how to go on. I fear that I must either remain an exile and watch the republic be torn apart, or I must submit to Caesar and help him do it. Both thoughts are unbearable - life itself is unbearable."
"Well, emissary or not, I would still advise you not to give up hope. Maybe your fears are unfounded, and maybe they are not. But either way, do not give up. Should the republic truly depend on you, do you not need to keep yourself alive? Surely you have not fled into exile in order to die there, unknown and unmourned. And surely you have not sent your great consolation all the way to Gaul if you did not hope for him to succeed. You have gone on until now; you can go on further, even if you do not know where you are headed. There is always hope."
"Damn you!" said the man, clenching his eyes shut. His breath was coming fast in agitation, and it took him a while to recover. At last he said, "But thank you. You are telling me what I need to hear, or at the very least, what I want to hear. Yes; I can go on further. As long as I breathe, I can find hope." Smiling wistfully, he added, "In all honesty, whether or not Rome needs me, I need Rome. If only I can go back soon." He heaved a long, drawn-out sigh. "Do you miss home?"
Maglor had to swallow hard before he could reply. "Of course. I miss it so much that the pain sometimes seems to consume me. Though in truth, I miss my brothers more than I miss any particular place."
"Brothers? You spoke only of one, earlier."
"Only one killed himself. The others had been killed much earlier. Objectively, one might say that they deserved it, but that makes nothing easier." Again, he had to swallow the lump that wanted to rise in his throat. "So you see, I am no stranger to loss. And I was tempted to give in to despair, too. I did not know how to go on. But I did. And I think it was the right choice, even though I no longer have a sense of purpose like you do." It was true - it had been the right choice - but nonetheless, speaking of his brothers hurt almost too much to bear.
"I am sorry to hear it," the man said. "And I am sorry to have been such an inattentive host. I did not even ask your name!"
"Marcus Aureus," Maglor replied automatically, still struggling to maintain his composure.
"A Roman citizen?"
"Oh yes. That is a good thing to be these days, isn't it?"
If the man was puzzled by this somewhat enigmatic response, he did not show it; he merely nodded. "Marcus Tullius," he introduced himself.
Despite himself, Maglor could not help but smile. "Yes," he said mildly. "I guessed as much."

"Really?" A confusing mix of emotions seemed to be wrestling behind the man's eyes: satisfaction, even a sort of grim joy at having been recognised, but also a trace of fear. "How?"
Maglor upturned his palms as if presenting the evidence. "Although I am living in, as you called it, this forsaken hellhole, I do pay attention to events in Rome, as well as that is possible. And I assure you that your case has caused quite a stir," he said. "I did not know that you had taken refuge here, but once we were talking, something about your speech seemed familiar. Something about your face, too. And I remembered that the current quaestor's family hails from Arpinum. I drew my conclusions."
The man gave a somewhat embarrassed chuckle. "And you have gotten a terrible impression of my hospitality, I fear," he said. "I must apologise. I am so consumed by my tribulations that I have quite forgotten how to behave around friends." He reached for the decanter and began to pour the wine. "What was his name?"
Maglor tilted his head, frowning. "Whose name?"
"Your brother's - the one who killed himself. Since I might owe him my life, or at least a night's solace, I feel that we should drink to his memory."
"Tertius. His name was Tertius."
The man handed him his cup, and raised his own. "To Tertius, then. May he have found peace."
"May he have found peace," Maglor echoed, closing his eyes to hold back tears. "And may we continue to find hope."
"Yes," Cicero said. "To hope."

---

Chapter End Notes

"Marcus Aureus" is a bad personal pun, for which I apologise. Marcus can be rendered as "devotee of Mars" = warrior, and aureus means "golden (one)", so it's pretty much a direct translation of Macalaurë.

"Tertius", of course, means "third".