Upon these shores by Lyra

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.

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.