Honi soit... by Lyra

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Chapter 1

Daeron returned from the market in a particularly bad mood. "Whatever happened to the language when I wasn't looking?"

Maglor, in the process of tuning his harp, looked up with a wry smile. "The same that happened to the language when Elwë stayed behind in Middle-earth, I assume."

Setting his basket of goods down sharply, Daeron cried, "You can hardly compare Sindarin to this! I mean, one day it's all Hwæt! We gardena in geardagum(1), and now it's this… this garbled mixture of broken sounds!"

"The process is nonetheless the same," Maglor replied calmly. "Languages change over time. It's natural - especially with a people as short-lived as the second-born. At any rate, I believe I remember that you hated the old language just as much when you first encountered it. You'll grow used to this just as you did then."

"Never! It's entirely devoid of beauty!" He tilted his head, mocking Maglor's calm tone. "At any rate, what would you know about languages?"

The other raised his eyebrows pointedly. "My father was also a linguist, you know,” he replied evenly, but Daeron knew better than to fall for that even voice. It was wiser not to discuss Maglor's father. Despite everything that had befallen, he still harboured some loyalty for the one who'd caused all of it to happen. Daeron had learned long ago to steer away from that particular topic. He quickly returned to their original subject. "Well, this language is ugly. There is no music in its sound."

Maglor, knowing very well that Daeron meant to divert him, accepted the red herring. "As I said, you'll grow used to it. And find the music."

Relieved to be back on familiar territory, Daeron snorted. "Hardly. Certainly not even you or I could make it sound beautiful."

"You could not – not yet, while you hate it," Maglor replied seriously. "But I… yes, I daresay I could."

"You couldn't! You overestimate yourself – and that horrid English. I'd bet my lyre that you couldn't."

"Only your lyre! So you admit that I might be on to something." Maglor gave his harp-strings an experimental pluck, then picked up the tuning key again. "Very well; I accept. So what should it be? A ballad?" Another strum of the strings. "An ode? An epic?"

"Too easy. An epic… yes, that might work even in this language. No, let's have something else."

"Ah, but now you're stingy. You said nothing beautiful could be produced in this language. That would include epics." He grinned. "At least it's only your lyre, not your flute..."

"Oh, very well," Daeron replied, waving his hand dismissively. "You won't be able to write anything, however, so it's not my lyre you should worry about."

"We will see."

"What about romance? That should be interesting, with such an ugly language!"

"Hah! Your lyre is as good as mine."

"But you have to apply their rules, and stick to their style."

"Of course."

"So, what will I get when you finally realise that it's impossible?"

Now it was Maglor's turn to laugh. "If I find it impossible after all, I'll do the dishes for the next century. And cook, too."

"Deal!"

From that day on, Maglor developed an almost terrifying interest in the lays, ballads and histories performed anywhere in the surroundings. Whenever there was a wandering minstrel or story-teller in the village, he too would be there, spending hours on the market square, in the pub or in the shabby little inn, listening or speaking to anyone who had anything to do with stories - "in order to get a feel for what exactly I am dealing with", he explained.

Most of the time, he dragged Daeron along, who suffered greatly under these outings; he hated the language, he didn't care for that sort of music, and he didn't like being among people. He was convinced that Maglor subjected him to this torment out of spite - he even had been forced to attend church services, which they ordinarily ignored, merely because Maglor insisted that the sermon provided a guideline for storytelling! But when he confronted Maglor with his theory one day on their way home, it had been denied vehemently.
"You should do as much research as I do, or you'll be unable to judge my work properly. Besides, you'd enjoy these outings as much as I do if you could only overcome your hate of the language. Some of the songs aren't half bad."

"And some are more than just half bad. And Maglor – you cannot deny that the language isn't beautiful."

"It isn't. But I like its character. It's quite practical, you know. Simple. Refreshing."

"Oh, come now! Certainly your father wouldn't have found it refreshing. He'd have agreed that it is ugly."

Astonishingly, Maglor's grin didn't falter. He didn't even blink. Tonight's entertainment had been particularly dreadful, yet his mood was splendid – and apparently snide remarks from Daeron's side couldn't do anything about it. "No doubt, and he'd have written a scathing essay or two. And then he'd have made a point of learning it anyway – so he could teach these poor people Quenya."

Daeron gave up. "But I won't accompany you to any of those amusements again. I know enough about these people's poetry by now, and I'm thoroughly sick of it."

Maglor snorted good-naturedly. "Nonetheless you will have to accompany me tomorrow."

"Oh no! Who's playing this time?"

"Symond Harper and Walter of Willowdale - oh, and Maglor Smithson and Daeron Piper, I'm afraid. If you hadn't been so busy suffering, you might have noticed that Sir Henry himself asked us to play at his little Michaelmas feast tomorrow."

Daeron groaned. "When you say 'little feast', you mean…"

"Dancing, noise, and gluttony. Of course."

This announcement was greeted with another groan. "Why, Maglor, why? Can't we just play for ourselves, and not waste our music at these feasts?"

Maglor laid a hand on his shoulder. "Now, be reasonable. Winter is coming, we're short on money, and engagements like this help fill our pockets. If we do our job well, and I for my part will, we'll be invited to play at other feasts, and perhaps then we'll be able to have better meals this winter, or even to leave this place and move to some place with a language that won't offend your ears quite so badly."

"We could do that now."

"And freeze and hunger miserably. If you're into that sort of thing, fine, but don't expect me to share in your misery if I can help it."

"I have to share in your misery of listening to those horrid poems." Daeron practically kicked the door of their cottage open.

"If only you could share in my amusement."

"Amusement! And better meals! Spoiled princeling."

"Poor jealous misanthrope", Maglor rebutted. "Now, let's to bed; we'll have to rise early tomorrow to rehearse those dances you love so much."
Daeron didn't bother to reply.

It was not actually true that Daeron hated dances or the music played for them. The problem was rather that when he relaxed in the swelling sound, letting the happy couples swirling past him, blurring the defences in his mind, he was swiftly reminded of a past that was forever gone; of a home; of other feasts and dances; of one dancer.

Lúthien.

Thingol's daugter was a topic even more dangerous than that of Maglor's father, and had to be avoided at all costs. Maglor had found this out when he'd made a thoughtless jest too much in 1267; it had taken him 17 years until he had found Daeron again near a town called Hamelin. He'd had to add an unpleasantly large group of children to the long, long list of those whose death was, directly or indirectly, his fault.
The topic of women in general and one woman in particular had been touched with much caution ever since. Dances, however, could not be avoided if you were a musician; and dances were, for Daeron, a constant battle against the memories.

Accordingly, when they played that night, he looked rather grim even while his flute poured forth the most joyful melodies. The only face that wore a similarly unhappy expression was that of the court priest, who of course had to disapprove heartily of such sinful endeavours.

During one of the few breaks granted to the musicians, the priest promptly locked Daeron in conversation, which annoyed the Sinda even more than it usually would have. He could see Maglor talking to the Earl and wanted to slip closer in order to listen. Instead he had not choice but to stay and listen with growing impatience to the priest, who, oblivious, believed to finally have found receptive ears. Daeron was actually relieved when the dancers demanded music again.

"We have been invited to play at his Christmas revels," Maglor announced when they were on their way back home.

"Invited? By whom?"

"Why, Harry Hotspur, of course."

"Harry who?"

Maglor rolled his eyes. "Sir Henry, stupid. Don't you listen to any of the talk?"

"I couldn't", Daeron returned sourly. "I was subjected to a tedious and painful lecture on the sinfulness of dancing. Honestly, why do these priests always think I want to listen to them?"

"Because they try very hard not to enjoy anything in life, and you appear to be a kindred spirit, I'd guess."

Daeron shot him an angry glance. "Very funny. – Harry Hotspur, you say?"

"So they call him."

"I like it. Quite accurate."

"Why, Daeron, but it's that tongue you hate so much!" said Maglor, stopping in his tracks.

Daeron glared at him. "Well, it works just this once, then. It's concise. And rolls off the tongue nicely. Must be the alliteration. Why are you smiling?"

"Oh," said Maglor, "no reason."

"Siþen þe sege and þe assaut watz sesed at Troye,/ Þe borȝ brittened and brent to brondez and askez... (3) - what is this?" Daeron was looking over Maglor's shoulder. Judging by the amount of birch bark stacked on the table, his friend seemed to plan doing a lot of writing today. (And a few trees would probably not see winter.)

"An introduction," Maglor said in what Daeron thought of as his teacher's voice: even and patient and a bit patronizing. "They do that, you know. Begin stories with lengthy accounts of history."

"But… Troy?! What sort of story are you writing?"

"People seem to be somewhat fond of King Arthur stories, so I thought I'd go with that."

"And what's Troy got to do with him? I thought he was somehow related to that foster-child of yours, what's his face-"

"Elros. Yes. But that'd take us a bit too far back, don't you think? People don't remember that anymore. Although I suppose I could begin with Númenor. Should I start with Númenor? Siþen þe sees asweped þat sterres ylonde...(4)"

"That'd make for an even lengthier introduction, right?"

"So it would."

"Then Troy will do." He read on. "Felix Brutus! Him I remember. Sweet kid. Liked my music."

"I am glad", Maglor replied, a smile playing on his lips.

"Why all this bother, though?"

"In order to place the story within the big picture. That's what they do. And you said that I had to stick to their rules."

"Wish I hadn't."

The wry smile turned into a full-fledged grin. "Why, Daeron, you like it!"
Daeron's face coloured. "Nonsense. I just can't wait for my victory."

Nonetheless he couldn't deny that he enjoyed reading Maglor's progress. His eagerness to read the verses as soon as Maglor had finished scribbling them down was a giveaway, for one. That didn't mean that he wasn't full of questions and criticism, however. Before he had even finished the first page, he was nagging already.

"What's this weird rat-tail supposed to be good for? It throws you off-rhythm."

Maglor paused writing. "Do me a favour, will you? Pretend the 'rat-tail' isn't there. Read it without it." Daeron did, and gave him a blank look.

"Read it again," Maglor said with a sigh. "Out loud."

Daeron complied; the lines followed each other in unchanging rhythm. "Ah," Daeron said. "It's dull."

"And with the tail?"

Daeron re-read the lines. "With the tail, it isn't."

Maglor smiled. "Just what I wanted, then. It's not a rat-tail, though. I call it the wheel, because it helps the poem roll along nicely."

"So it does," the other had to admit and fell silent for a moment. But soon afterwards he hovered behind Maglor's shoulders again, so impatient was he to see where this was leading. "'He watz so joly of his joyfnes, and sumquat childgered(5)'? Maglor, you can't write that!"

"Whyever not?"

"Who dragged me along to all these story-tellings? Were you listening? King Arthur was grand and noble and certainly not child-like."

Maglor sighed. "You were there, Daeron. You know that 'child-like' is putting it mildly."

"Depends on the time."

"I thought I'd write about the whole adventure with the Green Knight…"

"At that time, he was a brat," Daeron admitted.

"There you go, then. Child-like it is."

Daeron was going to be late for his business in town, but he couldn't tear himself away from the poem. In the end, Maglor offered to read to him while he got dressed, just so he would get going at all. And read he did while the Sinda hastily put on his shirt and breeches.

 

"For were wrathed hym not so much þat wynter nas wors,
When þe colde cler water fro þe cloudez schadde
And fres er hit alle myȝt to þe fale erþe…6

Are you ready yet?"

 

Daeron shock his head hastily while working into his boots. Maglor sighed.

 

"Ner slayn with þe slete he sleped in his yrnes
Mo nyȝtez þen innoghe, in naked rokkez
Þeras claterande fro þe crest þe colde borne rennez
And henged heȝe ouer his hede in hard iisseikkles (7) -

What are you looking for now?!"

 

"My cloak; read on!"

"What on earth do you need a cloak for?"

"Stupid question - it's icy outside!"

Maglor raised his eyebrows, and opened the window to a sun-lit morning. The first leaves were turning red and golden, but the air was mild. It promised to be a glorious golden autumn day.

Daeron looked outside, feeling foolish. Eventually he turned to Maglor. "That doesn't mean –" He stopped when he noticed the other's barely concealed amusement.

"I got you."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"Oh fine."

"I won!"

Daeron glowered at him, feverishly trying to avert the impending doom. "You cheated!"

"Grave charges. How did I cheat?"

"Your wheel! We had agreed that you'd stick to their style and rules, and that's not in it!"

Maglor put down the bark page, but kept the quill, gesturing dramatically. "But you forgot one important thing."

"And that is?"

"Those mortals always come up with something new. And that, too, is part of their style." He underlined the last words, quill poised like a sword.

Daeron knew when he'd lost. He sighed. "Very well. Fair's fair. My lyre is yours, then."

Maglor nodded gracefully. "And yours is a hasty run to town, if you don't want to be too late."

"Right." Daeron looked uncomfortable. "See you later, then." Maglor replied with another nod.

When he was alone, Maglor went and picked up the neglected lyre. He sat down and carefully tuned the strings, singing softly.

"Þus in Arthurus day þis aunter bitidde
Þe Brutus bokes þerof beres wyttenesse.
Syþen Brutus, þe bolde burne, boȝed hider first,
after þe segge and þe asaute watz sesed at Troye…"(8)

Then he smiled, returned to the last page of his poem, dipped the quill into the ink pot again and added a final line:
Hony soyt qui mal pence.

 

 

Chapter End Notes

 

(1) "Lo! of the Spear-Danes in days long gone…" Opening line of Beowulf.

(2) Sir Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, also named Harry Hotspur, lived from 1364 (or 66) to 1403. Sir Gawain has been dated to the late 14th century – or at least that's when the first manuscript appears. It isn't likely that the Gawain poet and Sir Percy had anything to do with each other – the dialect of the poem seems to be Lancashire rather than Northumberland – but Harry Hotspur is funnier than John of Gaunt...

(3) "After the siege and the assault had ceased at Troy,/ [when] the castle [was] destroyed and burned to embers and ashes..." – opening lines of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

(4) "After the seas had swept away the island of the star…" This bit is mine, and any grammatical errors are my fault.

(5) "He was so joyful of his youth, and somewhat child-like..." Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, l. 86

(6) "For war did not trouble him so much as winter,/ when cold clear water was shed from the clouds/ and froze before it could come all the way to the pale earth…" Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, l. 726 – 728

(7) "Nearly killed by the sleet he slept in his armour/ for more than enough nights, on naked rocks/ whereon the cold stream ran splashing from the mountain-top/ and hung high over his head in hard icicles" Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, l. 729 – 732

(8) "Thus befell this adventure in Arthur's time,/ the book of Brutus bears witness thereof./ Since Brutus, the bold warrior, came hither first,/ after the siege and the assault had ceased at Troy…" the closing lines of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight refer to the opening, quoted above.

(9) Modern French Honi soit qui mal y pense ("Shamed be anyone who thinks ill of it"), the motto of the Order of the Garter. According to some theories, the green girdle Gawain wins in the course of his adventure was the origin of the garter order. At any rate, the line was affixed to the Gawain poem – although it's not entirely clear whether that was really the author's work. I like the cracky theory though ;)

 

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