A Cup Always Half Empty by Rocky41_7

A Cup Always Half Empty

Read A Cup Always Half Empty

            Maglor recalled a poem from his youth about a monkey who was filled with wanting. Whatever was out of his grasp, the monkey desired more than life itself. Once he was possessed of the thing he had desired, it was meaningless—his attention was already on the next unattainable thing with which he was convinced he would at last obtain eternal happiness.

            He had written a melody for this miserable primate, a tune of reaching and falling, of perpetual dissatisfaction, but he could not decide on the ending. An empty death after a life of useless yearning, a life wasted in pursuit of happiness never attained? Or some final thing that at last granted the monkey the happiness that had eluded him—a subtle nod to the monkey’s perspective?

            Never able to decide which path to take, Maglor had written one of each, and usually ended the song before he reached the final theme. He did so presently, allowing a suitable pause before he took up his guqin to begin a new piece. The crowd tonight was made up mainly of middling government officials. A few highborn guests lounged about, blowing trails of pipe smoke up towards the painted ceiling and lending the venue an air of added glitz. On the screens behind Maglor, vibrant branches of cherry blossom arced and the whispering creek, directed through the hall from the yard, which curved in front of the stage, gave him something of the appearance of being in nature as he played. To aid in the performance, he wore hairpins shaped into silver leaves, which stood out neatly against his dark hair, and perfumed himself with jasmine.

            He had never understood stage fright. Even when he played at his most raw, laying his heart out at the feet of his audience, he found it a comfort that someone was there to listen. That someone should hear his laments! All the better if they found them beautiful.

            And lately, Maglor Feanorion was full of laments.

***

            The path of musician and entertainer was not one that would have been open to the son of a wealthy man. Fortunately, then, Maglor had thought on many a wry occasion, he was no longer the son of a wealthy man.

            His name had garnered him attention in the beginning, but now it was his music that did it, and Maglor preferred it that way. (Not that he quibbled with the boost he’d gotten earlier.)

            There was a slightly untidy porch around the west side where Maglor might sit and practice, and from there he could see one of the smaller roads weaving in towards the center of town. Down this road sometimes passed a particular government official, whom Maglor could always spot at a distance by his golden hair, tucked up under his plain black cap which marked out his profession.

            Most others preferred the front porch, which faced a busier road, and thus put them more on display (both to see and be seen)—and Maglor had too, until recently.

            He had to lift his head to see above the fence-line and could catch only the slightest glimpse of yellow hair from where he sat, but he would still sit and play there in the early morning chill in hopes of a sighting of his quarry.

            It was a lucky day that day—he spotted what he sought and for a moment his bow danced all the more vigorously across his strings as he watched the Elf pass over this one dusty stretch of road before vanishing behind the laundry house next door. He saw a flash of a neatly-curved ear and a split-second view of a noble profile and when the object of his yearning had passed, Maglor sank back onto his cushion, setting aside his instrument to lay haphazard across the porch floor, the beads in his hair clattering quietly with the motion. His heart beat more quickly in his chest. His face felt warm. The only thing that could have made it better, he thought, were if Thranduil had turned to look at him.

***

            Maglor was relieved he no longer had to fight so hard to keep his hands steady when he poured their tea. It hadn’t been terribly long ago when the thought of a meeting like this gave him such excitement he found it difficult to contain himself. Now, there was more normalcy to it and he was able to pour Thranduil’s tea without spilling a drop or untidying his long sleeves and pass it to him unsweetened, as he preferred.

            They began their drink in silence. They usually did. Maglor had found that if he did not provide the conversation, Thranduil was content to sit for interminable lengths in silence. Sometimes, this was acceptable—Maglor might sit and study the line of his jaw, the vibrant green of his eyes, the elegant fall of his lashes—but as soon as he came back to himself, he squirmed in the silence, unable to brook it without breaking it.

            He smoothed back a loose lock of hair—perpetually seeking to escape from his updos—and tilted his head at such an angle as to put his beaded earrings on display against his neck.

            “It’s been some time since I saw you last,” he said demurely. He had worked for many days on saying this in a way that sounded neither petulant nor aggrieved.

            Thranduil was silent, looking impassively down into his teacup as the steam wafted up about his face. It had taken Maglor time to understand the silence was often a prelude to an answer, if he could only find the patience. Thranduil rarely spoke without thoroughly considering his words first, whereas Maglor struggled not to vomit out every thought that entered his head.

            “I was traveling,” he said quietly at last, and Maglor turned fully towards him, balancing his cup artfully in one hand.

            “Did you bring me a gift?” he teased, batting his eyelashes in a way he believed was charming. He bit his lower lip when his answer was a tense quiet, trying to read the thoughts behind Thranduil’s stone face. No luck—Thranduil could’ve made a gifted courtier with a poker face like that.

            Rather than speak, Thranduil reached into the folds of his simple, clean-cut robe and withdrew a small bird of carved wood. He pushed it across the table. Maglor’s eyes widened.

            “For…me?” he asked. Thranduil nodded and lifted his teacup. Maglor picked up the bird and turned it over. She had her wings extended and the details of her beak and tail were present despite the small size of her.

            “It’s a white-winged lark,” Thranduil murmured around his tea.

            “Oh!” said Maglor, who knew nothing of birds or fauna or flora of any kind. He had never been the outdoorsy type, to put it nicely. “It’s beautiful,” he said, biting his lip again. “Are you sure you don’t want—?”

            “I carved it on the ride there,” Thranduil said at the same time Maglor began his question.

            “Oh! You made it?” Maglor re-examined the bird with new interest. Thranduil nodded, setting his teacup down. He kept both hands wrapped firmly around it, which was not very elegant, but Maglor was delighted, as he viewed this slight uncouthness as a reminder of Thranduil’s more common birth, and anything Maglor was permitted to know of Thranduil’s past and present delighted him. “I shall find her a suitable place of honor then,” said Maglor, putting the bird gently down on the table.

            “I’m sure that isn’t necessary,” said Thranduil.

            “It is,” Maglor insisted. “I should like to see her often.”

            Thranduil made a non-committal noise and lifted his teacup again, but before he left he said: “If you like it so much, perhaps I will bring you another.”

            When Maglor smiled, he knew it was too broad, showing too much tooth, but he couldn’t help himself.

            “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, she should have a companion.”

***

            Any society had to have its rules. Maglor did not concern himself overmuch with most of them and found the great majority dull as dirt, but there was one that was of late causing him a great deal of trouble. It was never something he had considered much before, but now he thought of little else. The law was this:

            It was forbidden for a musician or entertainer to marry with a public official.

            It wouldn’t do for servants of the government to be bound to those with careers of such ill-repute, after all. And if Maglor was a bit free with his physical affections, did that reflect on the profession as a whole?

            It wasn’t about the law, though. It was Maglor—he wanted too much. Always reaching for something he couldn’t have, never satisfied with what he did have. Whomever had written the poem about the monkey had never understood, he thought, what it was to want something so much. And what bliss! What beautiful ignorance! To know nothing of the kind of want that gnawed at your bones and rent at your heart and suffocated you with your own feelings. Maglor wished he did not know this want more desperate than thirst.

            He had tried to convince himself to be content with less. In the beginning, Thranduil had been only an unusually pretty face among the crowd of people that ebbed and flowed around Maglor. Then, he had told himself he was pleased enough simply to talk with him now and again. Friendship, surely, would sate him! But when coaxing Thranduil into his bed did not abate Maglor’s desire, he knew nothing would. He could lay among the covers, watching sidelong the rise and fall of Thranduil’s chest as he dozed, and ache, and ache. None of it was enough. Until he could sleep and rise in Thranduil’s house, sit himself at Thranduil’s table, introduce himself as Thranduil’s husband, he would not be content.

            Maglor wept for the monkey and the fire that burned in him, and wept again because no one understood it. When the monkey died at last, those around him thought him merely greedy and discontent. They did not understand. They did not understand what a curse it was to want a thing.

***

            Nevertheless, Maglor sought such temporary joy as he could. When he had Thranduil naked abed with him, loose and languid from their lovemaking, his other fears and longings seemed to recede slightly, allowing him a little more room to breathe.

            Maglor drew his fingers up Thranduil’s bare sternum, passing by the sparrow tattooed on his ribcage, up to the stars inked below his collarbone. There was a faint purple mark blooming on the right side of his chest, which Maglor realized with flushed pleasure had been left by his own mouth.

            “You must take me with you next time you leave the city,” he said, blinking slowly at his companion. Thranduil’s pale gold hair was unbound and spilled out over Maglor’s pillows. Later, Maglor would press his face into that pillow and breathe in the smell of him that lingered.

            “I hope not to leave again,” said Thranduil with a faint frown. He did not care much for travel. He did not care much for the city either, but that was where his work was. Once, after too many cups of huangjiu, Thranduil had, with uncharacteristic volubility, spun him a tale of the forested countryside where he originated—the lush green hills, the constant rustle of trees, the hoot and call of forest life. It was almost enough to make Maglor forget how much he hated being out in nature.

            Maglor gathered Thranduil would prefer to return there, to the vast forests of his home province, if it were an option.

            “I would make a most charming travel companion, I assure you,” Maglor continued as if he hadn’t spoke, smiling as he eased in nearer along Thranduil’s side. “I promise I should never let you grow bored! Think of what a fine time you would have, with me to sing you all the way to the next imperial city.”

            Thranduil made a noncommittal, yet some how wry, sound in the back of his throat, and carded a hand up through Maglor’s thick, dark hair. His dull nails scraped gently against Maglor’s scalp, and Maglor shut his eyes, nearly purring at the touch.

            “Perhaps I shall just send you in my place,” Thranduil said. “If you are so keen to spend several days in a carriage.” Maglor laughed and sat up, earrings rattling as he swung a leg over Thranduil to straddle his lap.

            “Make me your secretary?” he asked with a grin, laying his palms against the solid muscle of Thranduil’s chest. “I will write all your missives in verse. Think what a delight that will be!”

            Thranduil caught Maglor’s face between his hands and pulled him down for a kiss, startling an undignified sound from Maglor’s lips before he melted into the kiss.

            “As if I would ever trust you to note-take,” said Thranduil when he released him. “Your mind wanders more than a river has curves.” Maglor drew up in mock affront.

            “I am most diligent in things to which I apply myself!” he said.

            “There is nothing you have ever applied yourself to outside of music,” Thranduil returned.

            “I have found nothing else worthy of my undivided attention,” Maglor sniffed. He paused. He dug his nails slightly into Thranduil’s chest. “Well. Almost nothing.”

            Thranduil had a tell, when he was embarrassed. The mistake was in watching his face. The key was the ears. His delicately-pointed ears would flush with pleasure or embarrassment long before anything showed in his expression, and learning this had given Maglor the understanding that he flustered Thranduil more than he had ever guessed, before.

            “I have told you before…I am an artist,” he said smoothly, leaning forward. “I cannot concern myself with base things like note-taking or numbers. I have time only for what is truly remarkable.” He stroked a hand down Thranduil’s chest and watched those deep green eyes with a half-lidded look.

            “I should apologize for wasting your time then,” said Thranduil. This was their dance—Maglor laid overwrought compliments on Thranduil, who twisted and writhed about to feign Maglor had not meant to compliment him.

            “You should apologize for not taking more of it,” Maglor dared.

            “I have time left yet,” said Thranduil, running a hand up Maglor’s thigh. “Perhaps you wish to sing me another song?” The look in his eyes assured Maglor he did not refer to one of Maglor’s verses (it was he who had termed Maglor’s noises between the sheets singing), and he fell on Thranduil among the silk sheets and Thranduil’s arms went about him, and Maglor was loved, for a time.

***

            The moon bathed the garden in pale light, turned green to black, and blue to silver. There was a faint breeze that stirred the trees and the grasses, whispering in Maglor’s ears. His long robes pooled around him on the deck and behind him, through the half-open door and behind the paper of the door, warm candlelight flickered.

            Thranduil knelt beside him on the wood. He was by too often; Maglor knew that. If he were less selfish, he would send him away, or tell him not to come so much. Married they were not, but tongues still wagged, and Maglor would wither to see Thranduil punished for Maglor’s sake.

            “I remain, as always, wed to my art,” Maglor was saying theatrically, placing a hand over his chest. “Anything else gets difficult, you see.”

            “I should hardly think you have a dearth of admirers,” Thranduil said, a sentiment he had hinted at before. Maglor nibbled the inside of his cheek as Thranduil’s eyes quickly darted away.

            “Of a sort,” Maglor said indecisively.

            “What sort?” Thranduil asked. His eyes were on Maglor again.

            “A…shallow sort,” Maglor answered reluctantly. Thranduil went on looking at him. “The…types who are interested in me are…well, they have little overlap with the ones looking for long-term commitment,” he said with a laugh that came out shakier than he meant it to. Blast.

            Thranduil frowned.

            “I’m sure that’s not all true,” he said.

            Maglor picked at the blue hem of his robe.

            “One doesn’t wish to overpay for a thing,” he murmured at last.

            “Overpay?” Thranduil echoed, his brow knitting. “What do you mean by that?”

            Maglor twisted the hem around his fingers.

            “Only that all things have a value, don’t they?” he said. “And one does not wish to sacrifice more than is warranted by that value to obtain the thing.”

            “You are not a trinket at the market,” said Thranduil with such heat that Maglor turned his whole head to look at him. There was a flush across Thranduil’s pale cheeks and he saw Thranduil’s hand fisted in his lap. “We are not speaking of barterable goods.”

            Maglor shrugged nervously and picked at his robe.

            “But for many, that is how the world is,” he said gently. “Everything with a value. Everything with a price. Everything a bargain.” Winners and losers. Things gained, things lost.

            “If someone has told you so, they are a liar most cruel,” Thranduil said with some tremor in his voice as a string pulled too taut. “There are more things in life which cannot be so valued, with numbers and columns and comparisons. And you—you are.” Thranduil shook his head. “An Elf of surpassing beauty and remarkable talent, and anyone so greedy as to benefit of these things without giving to you in return lacks not only honor, but decency.” He spoke with unusual rush.

            Maglor was trembling. He hoped the light was too low for Thranduil to see.

            “You’re too kind,” he whispered, a stock response which managed still to rise to his lips, even then.

            “No. I am not,” said Thranduil. “This is true, Maglor. And if there are those who would make you think you are not—worthy­—then it is only because they wish to have a bargain for themselves, and take without having to show you the respect and treatment which you deserve.”

            Maglor the mighty-voiced, Maglor the gold-cleaver, Maglor whose voice was like the sea could not speak. He had no words.

            “You despair too soon, I think,” Thranduil added in a much softer voice, his face tilted slightly down, his eyes still on Maglor’s. “You have time yet. Let no one tell you it has passed. One day there will—there will be some Elf to take you to husband as you should have, as you wish to have. And they will be glad to know you kept looking for them.”

            Maglor could not see him clearly anymore for the tears in his eyes. He swallowed hard around the painful lump in his throat, trying to keep his breathing steady.

            “Thranduil,” he said, muscles tense, on the verge of flinging himself into Thranduil’s arms. Thranduil’s hand was still in his lap and Maglor wished so desperately that Thranduil would place it on Maglor’s knee, or over his hand, or against his cheek. If Thranduil touched him, Maglor would give in: he quivered at the thought.

            “Do not undervalue yourself,” Thranduil said. “I care not to hear my friends spoken ill of. Even by themselves. You have done nothing to earn it.”

            Maglor swallowed again, trying to blink the tears surreptitiously from his eyes.

            “I will try,” he said thickly, wondering if he could slip inside to find a handkerchief out of earshot. He attempted a wobbly smile. “Whatever you think, I believe your words are kind, and it soothes my heart to hear them.” Almost as much as it set his inside aflame with agony of desire.

            Then, only then, when the danger had passed, did Thranduil reach for him, and lightly touch Maglor’s hand, and Maglor looked up and smiled with more surety as the passions of his heart cooled and came more under his control once again.

            “You have been a good friend to me,” Maglor said. “I would that you know how much I treasure that. I know my position makes it difficult.” Thranduil’s eyes moved away and his hand began to draw back.

            “I meant nothing by it,” he murmured. “I have only done as I wished.”

            Ah, but did he not see! Did he not see the kindness in that? That he was kind to Maglor because he wished to be, and for no other reason?

            “Then it means all the more, for I have traded nothing for it,” Maglor said, with something nearer to a true smile, for all his hands still had a tremor.

            “I would take nothing for it,” said Thranduil, looking back at him.

            “You have too much honor for that, Thranduil,” said Maglor with a lightly teasing note. “That is part of what I like about you.” Breathing deeply, he rose to his feet to shed the last of that terrible moment of near-truthfulness. “Come back inside. Let me boil another pot of tea. Will you take another cup before you go?”

***

            Maglor was doomed to perish of longing for things that could never be his. Facedown he lay among his red silk sheets, his hair in disarray with a mahogany and jade pin sticking out haphazardly from his unbrushed locks, and thought to expire of the pain in his chest.

            He could have tried to choke it out of himself. He could have sent Thranduil away, taken no more visits from him, even moved towns. He could have cut this Sinda out of his life and tried to excise the pain and desire which Thranduil woke in him.

            But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Refused. No—Maglor would rather have the pain than deny himself the feeling. It was not in him to deny his own feelings.

            I love you, he wept silently, hands fisted in his fat pillows. The smells of Thranduil’s last visit had faded out. I love you, I love you, I love you.

            Did it matter that Maglor lived a life of relative privilege, with a roof over his head and meals on his table and fine clothes and dozens of instruments at his fingertips? Not a whit—he wanted Thranduil. Would he have been just as miserable to be poor and longing? He thought the answer was yes.

            The notes of aching need Maglor called up on his strings played through his mind and laying in bed, he re-wrote the end of the monkey’s song. Happy ending—as if there could be happiness for one who wanted so intensely! The monkey was wretched. Even if he had the last thing he desired, he would dream up a new thing to want. There was no end. The monkey was a bottomless well, doomed never to be filled, never to have enough.

            He reached for the carven lark which he had left beside his bed the night before and ran his fingers over the smooth wood. He had asked Aredhel about it. Larks, she said, were usually plain birds. They were more remarkable for their beautiful and varied songs.

            Clutching the bird in his fist, he buried his face in a pillow again, too weary to weep any more lovelorn tears.

            In the evening he was due to play for a city administrator’s feast. It was a great honor for a musician to be recommended. By then, Maglor would have painted on a smiling face, with a hint of coyness about the eyes and a subtle cloud of floral perfume around him. He would fix his hair up with gems and combs of fine ivory or painted wood. For now, he allowed himself his blotchy cheeks and red eyes and pathetic, wobbling frown as he rose up from the sleeping mat and went to his desk for his pen and paper.

If he was going to make his laments known to the world, he would do it in a suitable way to make everyone in attendance weep along with him and ache for Maglor’s aches and hurt for Maglor’s hurts: to make them see the beauty of his suffering. That would have to be comfort enough.

---

Chapter End Notes

Maglor languishes in elegance, at least.

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