Maglor in the 1848 French Revolution by Aprilertuile

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February 1847

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Maglor quickly found a sort of routine in his life in Paris, waking up in the morning to the sound of the first people opening their doors, most shouting at something: It could be the start of a bad day, mud in the streets of the city due to bad weather, children crying…

He usually got up and got dressed quickly, opening the windows to let the air come in. He was used by now to the heavy scent of the city. That smell was one of the many reasons why Maglor would have usually avoided Paris. To speak plainly, Paris stank. Like most big cities of this era, if Maglor was honest.

He would then help with breakfast for the patrons, mainly bread and milk, bread and the evening leftovers or bread and some sort of alcohol for those very few alcoholic patrons.

Cleaning the rooms came of course second, and then he was free for a little while in the afternoon, until he had to be back to the tavern for the very crowded evening.

Since his banishment, he has enjoyed working in taverns and inns. It allowed him human contact; it allowed him to hear a lot of information… And yet, it kept him living on the edge, basically ignored by the patrons.

Most people didn’t know or didn’t care about his name or history, so long he brought their orders in a timely fashion.

During the afternoons, he often went to play music in crowded places. He’d try to stay discreet enough not to earn the ire of the local police forces. Or at least, he’d try to be gone before the police could notice him. The police and city guards were often too quick to threaten people with jail for crimes like playing music in the street, which they considered just a step above begging for money.

It was always good to have funds, just in case.

The second time Maglor met Louis, the young man looked a bit less like he was a single missed meal away from fading away. Maglor took it to mean that he had managed to get by a bit better that week.

It was good to see.

Again, the young man stayed behind when his friends left.

“Pay or leave!” Ismérie warned him again, barely looking toward them.

“May I have something very cheap please?” Louis asked, showing the few coins he had on him.

For the price, it’d be the same leftover that Maglor would have later: black bread mixed with bits of pork pies from the previous day, and potatoes with their heavy sauce.

But food was food, and leftovers weren’t bad thankfully. Maglor served him a somewhat generous plate that had Ismérie snort in amusement.

“Pushover.” She whispered.

“Just a tad.” He answered the same way coming back to the lad with the plate, bread and a glass of the same old cheap wine.

One of these days Maglor would check that it was really wine and not just vinegar.

“Will you sit with me, please? I’m sorry I can’t pay you back for the meal of last time. I will. I’ll try at least, I promise, but… Would you… Eat with me? So we can chat?”

Maglor looked around, and Ismérie shrugged. Apart from a couple who would sleep here that night, an almost asleep drunkard in a corner and the young man, the tavern was empty anyway. He could do whatever he wanted.

Maglor nodded at Louis and went to make himself a plate, coming back with a piece of slightly hard bread. It was all that was left in the kitchen, and Ismérie would need to see how to arrange things tomorrow for her patrons. If she could.

The young man smiled with open relief.

“So, Max right?”

“Hm, indeed.”

“Nice to meet you properly. Thank you again for last time. I was… Really unlucky that week, and really out of sort that evening so…”

“It happens. I’m glad I could help a bit. I’m also relieved to know this week was better.”

“Ah, yes, it really was. And really I needed to come and thank you. Not everyone is willing to give up their food to feed perfect strangers.”

“And yet how much better would the world be with a little bit more kindness?”

Silence fell between them for a short moment, both tasting their meal carefully.

“Victor said… uh well, did you see the group I was with?”

“Yes.”

“The blond one with the atrocious moustache?”

Maglor almost told him that everyone with a moustache had an atrocious one in his not so humble opinion. He managed to keep his opinion to himself by some miracle, and nodded at the lad instead. For one, no matter which of the two blonds with a moustache Victor was, chances are that Maglor never would have to meet him and use his name anyway.

“Well, that blond was Victor. He said he saw you play music in the street one afternoon.”

“That happens. It’s not exactly like I hide it.” Maglor nodded.

“So you really play? The harp really?”

“Yes, I really play, and yes I really play the harp.”

“Why?”

“Because it earns me some coins and I like playing music. I’m good enough I can get by, so why not?”

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

Makalaurë, Kanafinwë, Maglor, once one of the best minstrels of the Noldor… could “get by” playing the harp.

He was reduced to carefully controlling his level of skills and power to seem good but not that memorable…

“Yes, but no, I meant… Well. Isn’t it very difficult to play? Not to mention expensive?”

Well his silver harp had been expensive; his father had not cheated him on the material, certainly. But then again it was built when he was a prince, by the crown prince even, so… And that harp was long gone from this world.

Standard harps were of course expensive in this day and age, but far less so when one knew how to make one, or repair one almost endlessly. Well taken care of, a harp could last for centuries. With a bit of elvish help, it could last even longer. Not eternally, but to be fair, nothing lasted forever. Not even elves who were made to last…

But how to explain that without giving the wrong impression… ?

“It’s difficult to play but worth it. And it was an heirloom, so not really expensive for me…”

Well the harp was old at least. Not an heirloom granted but full of memories nonetheless. It was a good excuse too.

“Oh.”

“I wasn’t always wandering, you know. I had a good education that included playing music.”

If by “good education” one meant an education that included unhealthy focus on craft to the detriment of everything else, health and sanity included.

Not that Maglor quite wanted to admit that out loud.

“Also I know how to repair it mostly. And admittedly most of the money I earn with it goes into harp care anyway.”

“Will I ever hear you play? What can you play? Why the harp specifically? Just because it’s an heirloom?”

“I’m not hiding so if you find me during the day, you’ll hear me. You and everyone on the street. As for what I can play… Well, a lot of different music. I have a few originals too. Classical. And a few regional and popular melodies. And why the harp… Because I love the harp. I can also play other instruments but I don’t own any other instruments, so…”

“Can you tell me more?”

Maglor raised an eyebrow but considering what they talked about last time, it was fair enough. Maglor told him a couple of stories of what he got into while playing the harp:

The first story he told was of the time he was crossing a small village and stopped for a rest. He had played on the village square, only to end up surrounded by sheep and two pigs, while the people were just eyeing him oddly or outright ignoring him. That had been so flattering…

The second story was of being employed to play music for a local harvest feast. The mayor had promised shelter and a reward for his playing; the shelter had been a place in the village barn, and the reward had been a sack of grains.

Maglor had come face to face with a couple of surprised sheep when he went to rest after the celebration.

A sack of grain was a heavy, impractical thing that Maglor would really have done without, but the mayor had insisted. So then Maglor had tried to barter with people to exchange it with sheep gut and horse hair to make strings for his harp.

He heard as he left the village that he had proved beyond any doubt that musicians were an odd sort: really, exchanging good grain for guts and horse hair…

His ego might have suffered a hit or two during his travels.

Louis had a good laugh at his expense over this, until Ismérie told them clearly she ran out of patience, it was late, and time to close.

As Louis left, and Ismérie closed behind him, she turned toward Maglor and looked at him firmly:

“Louis is a good kid. Don’t do something he’ll regret, Max.”

Maglor looked at her in surprise, wondering what he was supposed to be doing to the kid that was so terrible.