Down Through the Ages by StarSpray

If Daeron had had any expectations of encountering a figure from his past at all, he would not have expected it to happen in a small but bustling town built around a series of freshwater springs in the low hills at the feet of much taller mountains at the very easternmost edge of the Persians' reach. It was a place for travelers and caravans to stop and replenish supplies, and rest after crossing the mountain passes, not for such chance meetings.

It was not the sort of place one expected to find long-lost Elven princes, although Daeron suspected there were Avari living in the mountains and trading in clever wooden carvings, if what he saw in the marketplace was any indication. But he forgot about the carvings when he heard the notes of a harp played by fingers more skilled than he had heard in a very long time. He followed the sound, as did most other people, to a spot near the town's main temple, and there he was: Maglor Fëanorion, in the flesh, his dark hair held out of his face by a plain bronze circlet, his lap-harp of the Greek style, his clothes of fine quality though lacking in any adornments. Daeron waited until the song was done and the crowd dispersed before approaching.

"You are rather far from the mournful sighing of the Sea," he said. It was like taking a drink of fresh clear water to speak in Sindarin again, after juggling so many other tongues over the years and the miles.

Maglor looked up sharply, and then he smiled. "And you are far from—what was it—the dark waters where you made laments for Lúthien for many ages of the world?"

"I made one lament for Lúthien, and it was before I left Doriath," said Daeron primly. "Pengolodh was too romantic for his own good." Maglor laughed. "But what are you doing here?"

"Following the traders, seeing where all the roads lead," Maglor said cheerfully. He rose, tucking his harp away, and wrapped his cloak around himself. "What are you doing here?"

"Trading," Daeron replied. There was a fortune to be made in the silk trade, and he was looking forward to retiring, for a time, to a comfortable house somewhere—near Athens, perhaps. "Come. Let me buy you a drink. You can tell me where else you have been wandering."

The tavern was filled with rowdy sailors calling for at least a dozen different drinking songs. Daeron laughed and picked a song that no one had requested; it was immediately taken up by half the bar. Alcohol flowed freely, as did laughter and shouting, and the bartender and the barmaids were kept quite busy. It was hot in the tavern; Daeron blinked sweat out of his eyes as he changed the lyrics to the song to better-rhyming ones as he sawed out the notes on a fiddle someone had thrust into his hands, when he had mentioned that he could play. It was not a well-made fiddle by any standards, but it got the job done.

When the song finished someone dropped into the chair beside Daeron, and thrust a flagon of ale into his hands. "Well done. I couldn't have made anything of that ridiculous instrument."

"It doesn't really matter," Daeron replied, grinning at Maglor as he took a swig of his ale. Its quality matched the fiddle's. "They're all too drunk to notice." He was also drunk, and felt that he could blame that for the way the flush on Maglor's cheeks, and the way his dark hair came loose of its queue, caught and held his attention.

"I bet they aren't too drunk to learn a new song," Maglor said after a few minutes. "Where's that fiddle? Strike up a tune, minstrel." He hummed a few bars, and, laughing, Daeron picked up the fiddle again.

"My, these ships will hire just anyone, won't they?" an amused voice said behind Daeron as he shoved his trunk underneath the frankly absurdly small bunk that he had been assigned. He turned to find, of course, Maglor in the doorway, slouched against the frame. His lazy posture was belied by the bright amusement shining in his eyes. His hair was cropped fashionably short, and Daeron suspected those were real diamonds in his cuff links. In his hand was a violin case.

Daeron raised an eyebrow. "Yes, truly their standards are lower than I had expected," he said. "Where did you come from?"

"From the harbor, as one usually does when boarding a ship. That," Maglor added, nodding to the other bunk in the small room, "is mine."

"Delightful," Daeron said as he stepped aside. He kept his tone dry, though he could think of a number of far worse bunkmates that he could have been assigned. "I had no idea you were even in America."

"That is because I've been in Canada, mostly," Maglor said.

The voyage back to Europe was more pleasant than Daeron had anticipated when he boarded. He enjoyed performing, of course—that was why he had sought the job—but it was far more fun when he could play with someone of comparable skill and taste. Some evenings they left their poor compatriots behind in their performances, trying to quietly outdo one another through dinner music or waltzes for the fine gentlemen and ladies sailing first class.

It was a sunny day at the very end of June when the ship docked in Liverpool. The harbor was loud and filled with people of all kinds, arriving and embarking, selling and buying. The air smelled of fish and soot and saltwater. Daeron and Maglor disembarked together, and were met almost immediately by a young boy waving a newspaper at them. Maglor snatched it up and tossed a coin to the boy, who thanked him and ran off, pulling another paper from his bag to wave around the crowded dockside. "What is it?" Daeron asked. He felt suddenly off-kilter, as though he had been going down a staircase and missed the last step, or like the ground had shifted beneath his feet.

"I think," Maglor said slowly, as he handed the paper to Daeron, "that we should take the next ship back to America."

The article he pointed to was not very long. Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife had been assassinated only the day before, on a visit to Sarajevo. "Do you know what's going to happen?" Daeron asked. He had no idea of the politics and alliances involved, except that this was not the first heir to the Austrian throne to die under troubling circumstances.

"Nothing good," said Maglor. "Can't you feel it? This is the first pebble to come loose in an avalanche."

"A discordant note in a song," Daeron murmured, "that throws the rest into chaos."

"Yes."

"Where is the ticket office?"

"We really must stop meeting like this," Daeron said when he stepped into the dimly lit, dark-paneled bar to find its only other occupant to be Maglor, sitting at the piano in the corner. "I thought you were in Canada again."

"I thought you had gone off to South America," Maglor replied. He played a few notes, and hummed. "This thing is out of tune."

"I doubt the patrons will notice," Daeron said. It felt as though they'd had this exact conversation before, under rather similar circumstances. He found a stool nearby and dragged it over beside the piano bench. As he pulled out his flute, he said, "The rain forest is all well and good, but not for an extended stay."

"But Chicago is?" Maglor arched an eyebrow. He'd grown his hair out again, Daeron noticed absently. It looked better longer, framing his face just so. His eyes were still very bright.

"I never said that," Daeron said. "I just wanted a proper drink." A thing that, ideally, would be impossible in the United States these days, but there was no denying the Americans their alcohol. Hence the hidden bars. The extremely good pay for musicians was as much to keep their silence as it was for their talents. Here, Daeron had been told, they would also get free drinks, and he had been assured that there was no bathtub gin to be served. Not when Mr. Capone himself might stop in to check on the business.

He pulled his flute from its case and played a few notes as a bartender appeared to prepare for the evening. Maglor listened and then began to play himself, fingers moving gracefully over the slightly-yellowed keys.

(Al Capone did come that night, and it turned out he tipped very handsomely.)

Daeron had not expected to find much to his taste in the Museum of Modern Art, but he was in the city and he was curious, and by the time he'd spent a few hours wandering the galleries he found that he quite liked what he saw. There was something delightful in the bold colors and simple designs of the paintings, and though he could give or take some of the sculpture there were others that he could have stared at for hours.

In particular there was one installation involving a lot of colored string and clever placement of lights that meant one could spend an entire day walking around the room continually finding new shapes and images in the shadows and in the play of light on the strings. It was accompanied by very soft music, played almost too quietly to be heard. Consequently, it took Daeron two full hours to realize why the music sounded so familiar, and to go read the little plaque for artist information.

Maglor had not made the string installation, but he had made the music in collaboration with the artist, and Daeron wasn't sure why he was so surprised.

"Do you like it?" Maglor asked, appearing as though by magic beside him as he left the room, startling Daeron so that he almost walked into a corner. "I thought the lights were particularly clever."

"Are you just lurking by the door to eavesdrop on people?" Daeron demanded once he had control of himself.

Maglor laughed. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt for some obscure band that Daeron had never heard of. The tattoo of musical notes running up his arm was new; the brightness of his eyes was the same as ever. "Of course," he said. "How else will I know what they think of it?"

"It isn't even your art," Daeron said. "You only did the music." Maglor laughed again. "…Is it your art? Did you do a collaboration with yourself?"

"Why not? My heart lies in music, but that does not mean I am not skilled with my hands." The words should not have been as suggestive as they were, coupled with the slight raising of one eyebrow. Daeron refused to rise to the bait.

"It's very impressive," he said, and Maglor grinned. "You don't have to look so smug about it. Tell me how you did it."

Maglor was, Daeron discovered, not very hard to track down once one knew what to look for. Especially when he was teaching music composition at a small, expensive school in the French Riviera. Daeron found him in person at a quaint little cafe, engrossed in a notebook and, of all things, wearing a pair of glasses—the sort that took up more of the face than strictly necessary with bright-colored rims, in Maglor's case a vivid green. Daeron purchased a coffee and sat down across from Maglor, snatching the glasses off his face as he did so.

"You cannot actually need these," he said, turning them over in his fingers.

"I like them!" Maglor protested, reaching out to snatch them back. Daeron leaned back and put them on. The lenses were, of course, mere glass. "They make me look studious. You, on the other hand, look ridiculous."

"It is impossible for you to look studious," Daeron laughed. "Not with that hair."

"Are you here for any reason besides stealing my things?" Maglor asked, attempting to look put-upon as he closed his notebook.

"Yes," said Daeron. "Do you realize we've never…collaborated? On anything?"

Maglor immediately forgot his pretend annoyance. "Did you track me down just because you want to write a song together?"

"Not just one song," Daeron said. "That would be ridiculous."

"What else did you have in mind?" Maglor asked, leaning in.

Daeron also leaned in, and ceased speaking French in favor of ancient Quenya. "I have many ideas," he said, and watched Maglor's eyes go dark in a way that made him feel warm all over.

"Then what are we waiting for?" he said in the same language, grabbing his notebook and Daeron's hand to drag him from the cafe and down the street.

In Maglor's apartment Daeron glimpsed scattered books and papers and a piano with a cat napping on it near a window before Maglor had him pressed against the wall, showing off how skilled he was with his tongue, rather than his hands. When they finally broke away and Daeron could catch his breath, he said, "I really did also want to write music—"

"Now?"

"Obviously not—"

"Good. I've waited too long for you take my hints, and I intend to make a very different sort of music this afternoon." Maglor kissed him again, firmly, as he pulled him toward the bedroom.