On Tuesday, January second, 2018, Sören, Anthony and Nicholas returned to their home in Blackheath with Mark driving them down, so they didn't have to take the train. Since Anthony's parents' home - which was theirs now - was four floors, they had a lot of extra rooms that weren't being used, especially because Anthony's handicap made it difficult for him to go past the second floor. So Mark was given carte blanche to take any of the available rooms as a bedroom for himself, and he was also welcome to set up a music room if he saw fit.
For the next two weeks, Sören, Anthony and Nicholas worked on discovering the balance between giving introverted Mark his space but also making him feel welcome and included and part of the family. And while the reunion between Maglor and the reincarnations of his father and uncles had been intense, they were also allowing Mark to get adjusted to the new pace of life in London, and the rhythm of the household - especially with Sören's schedule at the National being so erratic - before they broached the topic of their history again.
But they couldn't avoid the subject forever.
After dinner on the night of Friday the nineteenth, Mark started clearing the table without being asked. When Nicholas raised an eyebrow, Mark said, "If you're letting me live here rent-free, I could at least pitch in with chores."
"I shan't object to an extra pair of hands, since the three of us work so much, but you're not a servant. You're family. We brought you here to take our family home, not because we were looking for a housekeeper." Nicholas folded his arms.
Mark chuckled. "I know. So if you want me to feel like part of the family, let me do things like you guys do."
After the table was cleared, Mark began rinsing dishes to load the dishwasher. While Nicholas wanted to take Mark's explanation at face value, he couldn't shake the feeling that chores were something Mark had learned to offer as a survival skill in his long, lonely travels - that he would attract less suspicion and encounter fewer problems if he were perceived as useful. Nicholas wanted Mark to be able to relax and feel safe, but he knew this would probably take time, with Mark wandering for ages.
Even so, Nicholas wanted to help that relaxation along, so once the dishwasher was running, Nicholas led him into the greatroom with a white dessert wine. With a glass of wine and Tobias purring away on his lap, Sören sitting next to him, Nicholas felt at ease. Perhaps too at ease, because he found himself speaking without thinking first, just saying what was on his mind - in this case, something that had been on his mind since Mark took them back to London.
"What do you want us to call you?"
Mark leaned back in his chair. "Beg your pardon?"
"Your name. As you know, your canonical name is Macalaurë, or Kanafinwë. Do you have a preference?"
Mark gave a nervous chuckle. "To be honest, I'd rather you just call me Mark."
Nicholas was surprised by this, even a little taken aback, blinking.
"You might have gathered that I try to keep a low profile. It's easier for me to do that if I use aliases that are close to my real name - Mark Lauer, Magnus Larsen among others - so that way I'm not having a delayed reaction to someone calling my name, or worse, saying 'who?' which looks sketchy. I won't object to you calling me by either version of my given Quenya name in private, but Mark is OK too, and... continuing to go by Mark in private makes it less likely to have a slip in public. You're more likely to accidentally call me Macalaurë in public if you're referring to me as that in private. So make it an occasional-use thing."
"All right." Nicholas nodded. He thought Macalaurë was a particularly beautiful name, much nicer than Mark, but he would respect Mark's wishes - the reasoning was sound. It also made him wonder if that reasoning was born of hard experience. How many close calls Mark had over the centuries. It hurt to think about Mark wandering all that time, alone, missing his lost family. Even this reunion would be all too brief, with Nicholas in the sunset years of his life.
Nicholas sighed.
"You OK?" Mark gave him a concerned look.
"I'm fine." Nicholas smiled - though he wasn't really fine, he was screaming internally for what Mark had gone through - and then he said, "I just want you to feel comfortable." After a moment of thought, reflecting on what he knew of Tolkien's work, he added, "Thou hast endured the ways of others for so long that I trow thou shouldst be treated in the manner of old thou wert accustomed to."
Mark started laughing, silently at first, then a full-bodied laugh - so much like the way Sören laughed it was a little unnerving. He laughed so hard, shaking, that he had to put his glass of wine down on the coffee table. He covered his mouth, face turning red.
Anthony was trying not to laugh too. Sören wasn't even trying; Sören let out a snort that made Mark laugh even harder.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes.
"Why are you talking like that?" Mark asked, taking his hand away from his mouth, grinning mischievously.
"Thou once spake in this way, didst thou not?"
Mark doubled over. He pulled himself together a minute later and he said, "That was a stylistic convention Professor Tolkien used to evoke stories of ancient myth... like the Bible. None of us actually talked like that." Mark wiped tears from his eyes.
Nicholas felt like an idiot; he was just trying to be welcoming and make Mark feel truly at home. Sören patted him, then leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. "You tried," Sören said.
Anthony reached behind Sören to also pat Nicholas. "Thou triedeth."
"As you know, that is not proper archaic grammar," Nicholas scolded. "That was painful."
"Oweth," Sören said, and then he and Anthony fell on each other, wheezing in hysterics.
Nicholas gave an exaggerated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose; he truly didn't hate it anywhere near as much as he pretended to. Sören ribbed him just like a brother would, and it was strangely comforting.
Just like before.
Sören skritched Nicholas's beard like he was a cat, smiling indulgently - Nicholas couldn't help smiling back - and then Sören's own smile became wicked as he turned to Mark and said, "You'll have to excuse Nick here. AS YOU KNOW, he teaches Classics at UCL and he lives for that old-timey, ancient shit." Sören turned back to Nicholas, eyes dancing. "Probably because he was there."
Nicholas put his wine glass down and tweaked Sören's nose, making Sören giggle. He spoke into Sören's mind. I'll spank your bottom until you're as stiff as one of those ancient statues, you brat.
Promises, promises. Sören bit his lower lip.
Nicholas pushed away the delicious mental image of spanking Sören and turning his beautiful bum red - making Sören whimper and pant, begging to be fucked - and returned his thoughts to the conversation. Mark chuckled at their banter and Nicholas felt a touch of wistfulness, not wanting to find Mark so attractive when he smiled and laughed like that.
Mark picked up his glass of wine. "The more things change, the more they stay the same, I see. The two of you had quite a comedy routine back then." Mark sighed, and sipped his wine. He sat back, stretching out an arm on top of his chair. "And in fairness, you were always a bit more formal than the others, Ñolo. Not quite as formal as the thees and thous the professor was fond of, but formal enough." He shook his head, laughing again. "You even still say 'as you know' like you used to. It's unbelievable."
Anthony exhaled. He put his glass down - he only had a small bit of wine, since he was on an antidepressant - and he steepled his hands. Immediately, Nicholas knew that the time for relaxing was done and they were about to have the conversation they'd been avoiding, about the past. "You seem very sure of the fact that Tolkien's choice of archaic language was a stylistic convention. Am I correct in assuming that you met John Ronald Reuel Tolkien while he was still alive?"
"You are correct," Mark said, nodding. "He already started worldbuilding before we'd met - fragments of his own memories. We served together in World War One, I saved his life, and visited him years later to help flesh out details."
"You said... his own memories."
Mark smiled. "He quite literally has the name Beren on his gravestone, and his wife Lúthien." Then Mark's smile became a frown. "It makes me feel like an idiot that I didn't put things together sooner, about why you had a Silmaril in your possession. I should have realized who you were."
"It was hard enough for us to come to terms with all of this," Sören said, "never mind still being a living relic of that time. You lived for so long without your family, I'm not surprised you closed yourself off to the possibility of ever finding us again."
Mark nodded. "And yet..." His eyes met Anthony's. "When we were together, a part of me knew, I think. You reminded me so much of Arafinwë."
"You told me a few times, without mentioning him by name." Anthony folded his arms. "Then one night you had a nightmare, calling out the name Ara, telling me not to go to someplace called Gondo - well, I interrupted you before you could finish, but I know now from reading you were going to say Gondolin." Anthony raised an eyebrow. "And when I asked you who Ara was, you said..."
"The man I lost my virginity to. I remember what I said, Anthony." Mark's voice was quiet. He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, put his glass down, and folded his hands between his knees, looking down, pensive.
Nicholas spoke now, wanting to be reassuring, not wanting Mark to fear being turned away from his new home. "We shan't judge you for that. As you know, none of us are exactly in a position to do so."
"Yeah, I know." Mark looked up and gave a wry smile. He sighed. "You no doubt have had memories of this, but... we were all intimate. It was not the usual custom of our people, and it is not something I would condone among humans..."
"Of course not," Nicholas said; Sören and Anthony nodded.
"But with us, we were consenting adults, and... it was devastating to lose you all."
"That leads me to my next point," Anthony said. "I'm - well - Arafinwë is mentioned in canon as being alive to this day."
"There are a number of things I didn't tell Tolkien," Mark said. "He would not have been able to handle discussion of incest and homosexuality, bisexuality. And... I couldn't bear to tell him that you died, Ara. I could talk about the death of Fëanor, the death of Ñolofinwë... but discussing yours was... I couldn't. The wound was already bleeding too much."
"I understand," Anthony said, his eyes too bright. Nicholas reached across Sören to put a hand on Anthony's knee, knowing this conversation had to be stirring up old feelings. Complicated, painful feelings. Sören's hand covered Nicholas's.
"Are there... any others from canon, still present in our world?" Nicholas asked.
Mark nodded solemnly. "One of the Maia, Olórin. You're likely more familiar with him by the name of Gandalf."
Sören gave a low whistle. "Gandalf is real?" Then he covered his mouth and turned pink, like he knew how that sounded. "God, I'm an idiot. I'm bloody Fëanor, asking if Gandalf is real..."
Mark smiled in that faux-innocent way that Sören did. If that apple was any closer to the tree it would still be on the branch, Nicholas thought to himself, once again not wanting to notice. Not wanting to remember, not wanting to feel. Then Mark quoted from Tolkien. "For Fëanor was made the mightiest in all parts of body and mind: in valour, in endurance, in beauty, in understanding, in skill, in strength and subtlety alike... The professor failed to note some of the sarcasm."
Nicholas snorted.
"Jæja, fuck you," Sören said, not unkindly.
"Later." Nicholas smirked.
"OK, guys, we're having a serious discussion," Anthony said.
"Right." Sören sat up very straight, with an almost-predatory look of concentration on his face. Nicholas couldn't help laughing, and a moment later Sören joined him. Anthony laughed too, rolling his eyes.
"Do you still see Gandalf? Olórin," Anthony quickly added.
"Once in a very great while. I believe the last time our paths crossed was in the early 1990s. He's still around - he pokes me with ósanwe, what you would call telepathy, more often than that - he's in London, in fact, and he knows I'm here, so you may receive an unexpected visitor in the coming weeks or months."
"I take it that like you, he uses an alias and... a human disguise," Anthony said.
Mark nodded solemnly. "Right now, if I recall correctly, he's using the alias Edmund Billingsley, and works as a -"
"That's the name of my sodding, bloody therapist." Anthony's eyebrows shot up and his mouth opened. "Bloody fucking hell."
"Ahhh. That explains why he said he was on an assignment but wouldn't elaborate. I guess he's been keeping an eye on you."
"Just a bit."
There was a long, awkward pause. Anthony looked perturbed - Nicholas could only imagine how it must feel to realize that one's therapist was actually a Maia in disguise, who knew what he was all along and was observing from that distance.
How it must feel to realize that the world was far stranger than they knew. Here sitting before them was an Elf who had wandered among mortals for centuries, millennia. Anthony's therapist was a Maia. How many more non-humans were there, hiding in plain sight?
"There is one other Elda who has not returned to Valinor. Círdan. He's hanging around waiting for me to leave Middle-Earth, to ask him to take me home, as if I would grovel before the Valar." Mark's fists clenched in defiance. "I still agree with Fëanor that Manwë let everything happen, and then expected us to be good little thralls."
"Good," Sören said. Then he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and added, "But I know what this cost you. You have some living family there, like Artanis -"
Mark shrugged. "If Galadriel's acceptance of me as her kin hinges upon my reconciliation to the Powers that fucked over everyone I was close to, that isn't really acceptance, is it?"
"Even so, it's been a long time to be all by yourself," Sören said. "I'm not saying you should go there, just saying that while I admire your convictions, I know they come at a price."
"They do." Mark nodded. "But eventually, the price paid off." He held his hands out to gesture at the three of them. "I did find you again."
"I have no idea why we're here," Sören said.
"It says in the text that Fëanor would be released from Mandos at the end of days, before the Dagor Dagorath. Surely you see what's going on in the world."
"And what am I supposed to do about it? I'm just one man. Just one man, only human. As it is, I can't even save every patient I perform surgery on." Sören scowled.
"That may be the point," Mark said. "They may have wanted to break you, by putting you in more vulnerable, human forms. They tried to keep you apart by incarnating you in different generations. One of you even from another country. And you still found your way to each other, despite that. And... I know you, Father. You have already made it this far. You are so defiant. I can still feel that fire burning in you - transmuting what would be a weakness, into a weapon. What would be a curse, into a blessing."
Nicholas wanted to believe that - he knew more about Sören's life than Mark did and it was indeed remarkable that Sören had endured such adversity and trauma in his early life and still managed to become a successful neurosurgeon, with successful relationships. There was something in Sören that refused to break, refused to die.
But he also could feel the weariness in Sören's voice - the limits of what they could accomplish, in these mortal forms. All three of them, Nicholas, Sören, and Anthony, had been driven to professions to help others - Nicholas first as a priest then as a teacher, Sören as a doctor, Anthony as a lawyer. They had, undoubtedly, changed lives with their work. And yet, there was only so much they could do. The ills of the world, the impending Dagor Dagorath, was bigger than all of them. Bigger still for being mortal, human, more prone to injury, sickness, and death. Nicholas was old; at best he had maybe another twenty or thirty years left to live and that was because he was in good shape for his age, he took care of himself. He also knew he would likely start to decline within the next ten.
There was another long silence - Anthony seemed troubled as well - and Mark seemed to pick up on that, because after awhile he said, "Whether you were re-embodied as Elven or human, you're still you. And I'm glad I'm here, with all of you."
"So am I," Nicholas said sincerely. Though he was still getting to know Mark, part of him knew Mark already. He wasn't quite a stranger. Mark was indeed where he belonged.
He just hoped that eventually Anthony would see that; he knew this had to be exceedingly difficult for Anthony, with their past history.
Anthony leaned on his cane and got up, stretching. "I had a long day in court," Anthony said. "I'm going to shower and then I think I need to turn in."
It was still early, but the nights felt longer in the wintertime. Before Mark could get up to give his long-lost uncle - and ex-lover - a hug, Anthony limped away, his cane clacking on the hardwood floor.
Sören put a hand on Nicholas's shoulder and then he followed after Anthony.
"Well, that leaves us." Nicholas felt a twinge of anxiety - though Mark was familiar, he was also new, and Nicholas felt suddenly shy.
Like a schoolboy with a crush. Dangerously close to the shyness he'd felt around Sören when they were becoming better friends... that he'd felt around Anthony when Anthony became a fixture in their lives.
Cheeks burning, Nicholas reached under the coffee table and produced the chess set he kept there, sometimes playing against Sören or Anthony. "Game?"
Mark nodded. "You're on."
In the middle of the night, Nicholas's bladder woke him up, as it was wont to do at his age, and as he walked down to the bathroom, he heard movement from further down the hall. He waited until he was safely relieved and washed up, then he headed towards the kitchen to see what was going on. They lived in a quiet neighborhood and the chance of burglary was slim, so Nicholas wasn't worried about that, but they had three cats and Nicholas knew they could - and frequently did - get up to mischief in the night.
The noise was just Mark, unloading the dishwasher and putting the dishes away. Nicholas folded his arms and leaned against the kitchen wall, by the door frame. Mark was bent over the dishwasher and stood up. "Oh." He gave a sheepish smile. "I hope I didn't wake you up -"
"No, I was already awake. Nature calls." Nicholas laughed. Then he gave Mark a stern look. "But remember what I told you earlier. I don't want you to feel like a servant who has to earn his keep."
"I don't."
"And yet, it is almost three in the morning and here you are unloading the dishwasher."
"I did the catboxes too."
Nicholas sighed.
Mark also sighed. His brow furrowed. "Look. Anthony is disabled, I couldn't help but notice you have a little arthritis, and Sören works batshit crazy hours. I'm not employed - I don't need to be, I have money - and you guys are family. This is me trying to do what I can for my family. If you truly want me to stop, I'll stop, but -"
"I didn't say that." Nicholas put up a hand. "I simply don't want you to feel like you're a housekeeper instead of a family member."
"I told you, I don't. If that changes... well, I am Fëanor's son, I'm sure you know what he's like when he dislikes or disapproves of something. I'm much the same way."
Nicholas couldn't help chuckling. "I am indeed... very familiar with that." He sighed again; their eyes met. Such beautiful eyes, like the sea on a rainy day. "And part of me does remember how you were. How you are. Though, part of me is also still getting to know you, and with all new people I am a bit careful."
"I understand."
"I'm also concerned," Nicholas spoke honestly. "While I remember that Elves don't need as much sleep as humans, they do require some sleep, and that you are not sleeping at this hour makes me wonder if something is wrong."
"Yes and no," Mark said. "I have a lot of nervous energy and I needed to do something with it. So, chores."
"And you have nervous energy because..."
"The talk this evening. It was... a lot. Even though it didn't get terribly in-depth with the differences between my lived experience of history and the fictionalized, 'canon' version of events - or more accurately, Beren as an unreliable narrator who had an axe to grind against my family because he was jealous of Turcafinwë..." They both chuckled at that. "Just the bare surface was incredibly deep, and a bit painful. Moreso because..." Mark's voice trailed off and he looked down.
Nicholas finished Mark's sentence for him. "Anthony."
Mark nodded. He looked up, and away. "I fucked up, back in 1999. I broke his heart. I did the wrong thing for what I thought was the right reason - he was willing to throw his life away for me, and I didn't want to see that happen, didn't want to force my vagabond, nomadic exile lifestyle on him, especially that young. But he doesn't know that. I'm still the bastard who took his cherry and ran, I'm pretty sure."
Nicholas exhaled. He felt caught in the middle. He wondered if this was how Anthony felt when he and Sören were apart the first few months of last year. He wondered if this was how Finarfin felt when Fingolfin and Fëanor argued. "I'm probably not the one you should have this discussion with. Anthony needs to hear what I'm telling you now."
"He does," Mark said, nodding again. "I'm not disputing that. But the timing of it is also... rather wrong, considering I just admitted earlier in the evening that we had all been lovers. I don't want him to think I'm making a play for him, like we can pick up right where we left off as if nothing had happened."
"Indeed. Sören and Anthony had broken up in 2013, and after they reconciled in 2015, Sören still needed a year to trust him again, before they could be anything other than friends. I don't know how quickly Anthony will forgive."
"Not to mention that..." Mark sighed. "If he reads my apology as coming onto him, I don't want him to think I feel obligated to be with him because of what we were to each other in his past life. Yes, you are all still who you were, but you are also who you are now, and I respect that. Any connections would have to be based on this lifetime, getting to know each other again."
"I agree." And then Nicholas's cheeks burned, as he drank in the sight of Mark, still model-gorgeous even in a Pink Floyd "Dark Side of the Moon" T-shirt with blue plaid flannel pajama bottoms, his mane of raven-black hair disheveled from chores. He didn't want to notice Mark this way, and reading between the lines, he got the sense Mark said what he did as a rebuff - stating he wasn't interested in rekindling old passions, without coming right out and saying it, not wanting to be rude. It stung, even as Nicholas didn't want to get his hopes up over Anthony's ex. Attraction to Mark was a recipe for disaster, and Nicholas felt the little spark of hope fading, and it hurt, but he knew it was for the best. He spoke what he was sure Mark would not explicitly say. "I shan't fault you for not being interested in me. I know I am an old man now, not the beautiful god-like Noldo so much like yourself, that you were used to."
There was another one of those long, awkward silences, and Nicholas's face burned, wishing he hadn't said that, not wanting to sound self-pitying - after all, Sören and Anthony were perfectly fine with Nicholas as he was. But even more than that, he realized his statement hinted at a one-sided attraction - a resignation that it would not come to anything. He had admitted being interested in Mark without directly saying so. Nicholas wanted to crawl into the floor and hide.
Mark closed the dishwasher, and then he came around to where Nicholas stood, and looked him up and down. "You're not too old at all," Mark said. He grinned and chuckled, eyes gleaming. "You do realize I'm thousands of years old, right?"
"I meant in terms of aging."
"Yeah, I know. I was trying to make a joke."
Like your father. Nicholas thought of Sören - the playful humor was one of the things he loved most about the younger man.
Mark sighed. Then their eyes met, and Mark put a hand on Nicholas's shoulder. "More seriously, though." Mark's voice was husky now, as that hand reached up to touch Nicholas's cheek. "I think you're very handsome. I like your silver hair, your beard... that chest hair I see peeking out. You're a white wolf."
And just like that, Mark came closer, and Mark's mouth was on his. Their lips parted, their tongues met, swirling, brushing, licking, teasing. Mark's lips were full and soft, his mouth sweet. Nicholas groaned into the kiss, a shiver down his spine, arms breaking out in gooseflesh, cock stirring in his pajama bottoms. His heart beat faster as his mind raced with the delicious memories of the ways they'd had each other before - the delicious possibilities of having each other again. That kiss was like fire, melting the bounds of past and present, melting away all resistance, stripping everything away to the fire in Nicholas, raw, hot need. Mark's hands slid down Nicholas's chest, a thumb gliding over a nipple through the fabric of his shirt, the kiss deeper, more insistent.
Mark pulled back, patted Nicholas on the shoulder again, and brushed by as he walked off. Nicholas stood there, mouth open, stunned, as he heard Mark's footsteps on the stairs. He couldn't believe what just happened. Maglor kissed him, right there in the kitchen.
He was going to have to tell Sören and Anthony that Mark kissed him - Sören was going to work in two and a half hours, and Sören was not a morning person, so the conversation would have to wait until later.
It was just a kiss, nothing else had happened. He and Mark hadn't even really had a conversation about starting anything. Nothing had changed.
And yet, everything had changed.
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