Maglor in the 1848 French Revolution by Aprilertuile

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April 1847

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Despite Ismérie’s misgivings, Maglor kept returning to the room to check that Louis wasn’t getting worse without him.

Her loudly-voiced concerns became annoying but as Maglor reminded himself several times, he could hardly tell her that he was an elf, would not get sick and could even encourage people to heal if he concentrated a bit. Or a lot.

Around midday, Louis woke up, parched and disoriented in the unfamiliar bed of a room he didn’t recognize. He felt bad enough, and his chest was painful enough that he didn’t even try to move. He felt like he would throw up, or start coughing up a lung, or lose consciousness again. Or throw up AND fall unconscious at the same time if he moved so much as a finger.

Not the best feeling in the world.

Max soon came by, and left immediately to come back with a broth of a sort. He sat next to him and Louis looked at him tiredly.

“Hey. Where am...?” He started to cough at that, painfully, and Maglor put the broth on the bedside and helped him onto his side, humming something quietly.

It was oddly comforting to hear. Louis let himself be manhandled by Maglor, and pressed himself weakly against him, letting himself find comfort in the stronger man’s presence.

He seemed solid against his body in a way the bed wasn’t.

Really the bed was so squishy and he was so dizzy he felt like he was sort of floating on a scratchy blanket that was both too warm and not warm enough. It was a very terrible blanket. And terribly ugly too. All old and faded.

However Maglor was distinctly there, strong, present and impossible to ignore.

Also he smelled so fresh and felt so warm… How was it even possible when he clearly came from the kitchen? Louis could swear the other man smelled like fresh plants and warm sunlight.

He felt, or heard, or something, Maglor chuckle against him. Did he say that aloud?

“Indeed my dear, indeed. Here, drink this while it’s warm. It’ll help, I promise.”

Louis never noticed how clear and pleasant and slightly low his voice was. Louis must have said something again, for Maglor chuckled and helped him drink, keeping him against him. Max started to speak, telling a story of playing the harp in a garden once.

It was a lovely story.

The voice was warm and calm;  hypnotic, and inviting, like the call of a lovely summer evening, when all one wanted to do was to stop and sit somewhere, to enjoy the arrival of a fresh breeze, while the last rays of sun of the day were caressing one’s skin, a sort of lazy warmth that encouraged people to rest.

Louis didn’t realise it but Maglor coaxed him to drink his broth, most of it at least, before he fell right back to sleep.

Maglor tucked him back properly under the covers, part amused, part curious as what Louis had let escape accidentally.

The next time Louis awakened, he found a bowl of broth on the bedside table, alongside a piece of bread, Maglor was in the room, playing soft melodies on the harp.

Louis turned toward him, feeling a bit less like he was going to cough his lungs out, though he felt sore and ready to sleep for a week, and his breathing felt tight enough he didn’t quite want to move.

Maglor really knew how to play the harp, this was beautiful, the sound had a strange soothing quality. Louis hoped that Maglor hadn’t noticed him moving, for he found himself reluctant to disturb the melody.

It was the first time he saw the harp. It was in wood, clear, clearly old but well taken care of. From the bed, Louis could see it was engraved, but couldn’t make out the details.

Maglor also seemed fully focused on his instrument, like nothing else existed in the world.

He found himself dozing in the quiet feelings of the room.

He was pretty sure it was but an effect of his imagination, as he was sick and half-asleep, but he could swear he felt the music resonate somehow. It was a strange feeling, truth be told, but comfortable.

Not entirely dissimilar to the feeling of a cat purring on one’s chest. But also not entirely like that either.

Perhaps the fever was altering his perceptions. That was probably it. The fever.

Soon enough, Maglor turned toward him with a smile, fingers still dancing expertly across the strings of the beautiful instrument.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, I think.”

Well no, definitely better, Louis thought. Saying that much didn’t send him into a coughing fit hard enough to make him fear he was going to lose a lung so…

Maglor smiled and stopped playing, coming closer and placing his harp near the bed as he sat on the edge of it, and gave Louis the broth and bread.

“Eat if you can.”

Louis actually was famished. Food was just hard to come by, and more expensive than he really could afford most days. He managed, but…

Once he was done, Maglor left to bring the bowl back to the kitchen, and Louis seized his chance to look at the instrument, and noticed the engravings were all names. Or words at least. And some strange symbols.

“Whose’ names are they?” Louis asked with curiosity when Maglor came back.

Maglor's smile turned a bit sad perhaps, but no less warm for it.

“People long dead, I’m afraid.”

“Oh yes, this harp is an heirloom you said.” Louis nodded.

Maglor hummed a vague confirmation sound, and sat down on an available chair near the bed.

“Do you know their story? Why their names were put on a harp of all things?”

“It’s a way to remember people, to immortalise their names somehow. A harp that’s well taken care of can last a long time. And if you’re in the business of playing music or writing songs, then you can ensure future generations you teach will remember something at least.”

“Do you know… Songs about those people?”

Maglor’s eyes turned a bit… Strange, but he never stopped smiling.

“I do.”

“Will I hear them or some of them sometimes?”

Maglor tilted his head to the side, curious.

“Why would you want to?”

“Because I’m curious. I… the way I understand it, harps are rather fancy instruments. Grand harps with golden decorations or something. I never saw a harp like yours.”

“Mine is but a small instrument, made by someone stubborn with the means they had at the time, there’s nothing rich or fancy about it.”

Not to say Maglor had fallen on hard times when he had to rebuild his instrument after a sad incident that destroyed his old one but…

“You play beautifully.”

“Thank you.”

“How come you’re working here and playing on the streets? Someone of your talent…”

“You think I have talent, and while it’s flattering, not everyone likes my music. And some powerful people who claim to like music only like music that comes from important or well-known names, not from an anonymous little upstart brought up straight from the street. Even if I tried, I don’t have a big well-known name to back me up. That wouldn’t work as well as you might think.”

“That I don’t believe. You are too well read, too well spoken to not have a good education, and that doesn’t come with a big family name.”

“True, only a family like one you’re imagining right now wouldn’t have stood for one of their own to live in the street now, would they?”

Louis hesitated a bit at that, biting his lips.

“You…”

“I’m about as stuck at my current social rank as you are, my dear. I can speak well, and write well, but I don’t have anyone’s backing and no good school speaking for me and it’s a major block in social circles, as you well know.”

Louis sighed.

“The entire social system of this damn country is a joke.” 

“Yes, well, let’s not say that too loudly, shall we? I’d hate to have spent the last few days nursing you back to health only to have you under arrest if not arbitrarily executed for hasty words spoken at the wrong time and place.”

Maglor could see the stubbornness of the man rear its ugly head and sighed. He was always attracted to the same type of people: Too nice, involved and stupidly stubborn for their own good.

“Where are we? I don’t recognize the room.”

“We’re still at the tavern. Ismérie agreed to let us use one of the unused cheap rooms.”

Or wasn’t entirely given the choice, but detail, priorities, all that. Not that Louis needed to know that really. 

“And before you asked, it’s been a few days. Today is Sunday.”

“Ismérie’s too nice for her own good. I can’t even repay that, Max.”

“Don’t worry about it. I pull in the work and not enough people came to the tavern asking for a room to put Ismérie out of rightful payment. I’d have found another solution otherwise.” Maglor answered quietly.

Also he was quite annoyed with himself. He had hoped he’d be more efficient in healing the young man but alas, it had taken time and he had almost not managed that at all.

“I need to go to the university. And speak to the guys about the lessons I missed, I…”

“What you need is to rest until you’re recovered, or you’ll risk a relapse that’ll kill you this time.”

Louis tried to get up, but a single hand of Maglor on his shoulder was enough to stop him and that alone convinced him he wasn’t in a state fit to leave even if he wanted to.