Down Through the Ages by StarSpray

Bunkmates

Prompts for this chapter: Steamship & WWI

"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?"