by SemperViridis
The greatness of this genius, unequaled, unsurpassed, precludes even the idea of a successor. No one will be able to follow in his footsteps; no name will equal in his glory. ~ Franz Liszt
Genoa, 1822
“Do you require anything else?”
In response, the bedridden man eyed the vials of powdered calomel and opium resin that the physician had prescribed for him, shook his head in negation, and hoarsely gave his thanks. Enfeebled, he laid back against his pillows, unable to keep his eyes open any longer after the good doctor’s house call. The man’s gaunt, pale face and hands appeared to float in the shadows of the bedchamber, an illusion aided by his long, dark hair that spilled over the bedlinens, blacker even than the gloom surrounding him.
The physician pursed his lips as his glance wandered over the ailing patient. Such promise, such unrivaled ability, brought to its knees by its possessor’s numerous maladies. As a learned man, the doctor typically gave no credence to rumors of blood-debts owed to the Devil. But observing the ashen countenance of the invalid before him, the physician conceded that just this once, perhaps there was a foundation of truth behind the whispers. Perhaps this particular individual, this unparalleled virtuoso, actually had sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for his breathtaking talent.
Breaking from his reverie, the doctor shook his head in exasperation at his own fancy. Too much time spent with the musician seemed to addle his brain, almost in the manner of the swooning ladies who attended the violinist’s impassioned performances. Best to remove himself from the hypnotic presence of the composer before he, too, started hoping for torrid encounters of a kind not dissimilar to, but very much more physical than, the feverish way that the virtuoso’s long-fingered hands worked a bow over his violin’s strings. With a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, the physician saw himself out and quietly shut the door behind him.
The pallid man in the dim chamber listened to the doctor’s departing footfalls receding across the hall and down the stairs before arising from his bed and bolting his bedchamber door against entry. Once his privacy was ensured, he straightened his back, standing tall, and the tenebrous miasma pervading the room receded as unmistakable vigor and startling beauty replaced his ghostly pallor and sunken features.
Maglor Fëanorion breathed a sigh of relief as he dropped the glamour that gave him the frail, cachexic appearance of impending mortality. The more he magically altered his appearance, the greater difficulty he had maintaining the facade, so he usually made only the visual changes necessary to convince others that he was a mortal man, such as hiding the luminosity of his eyes or the true length and sheen of his voluminous hair. Maglor regretted the current necessity of manipulating the Song just enough to slightly confound others in his presence, but it was imperative that the physician, who had examined him closely, would never notice that he had been replaced by someone else. These efforts would help that other individual live a better life than he otherwise would have experienced.
Providing charitable aid had been instrumental to the preservation of Maglor’s sanity over the long millennia of his peripatetic existence. He typically remained in an area for a mere ten to fifteen years as a way of disguising his lack of visible aging, and the satisfaction of having assisted others wherever he went helped assuage some of the loneliness of only rarely and fleetingly experiencing true friends or lovers who knew and accepted who and what he was.
There had been times when he had lived as a hermit, allowing the enforced solitude to vanquish any risk of the heartbreak of inevitably watching his mortal loved ones age, sicken, and die. But the yearning for some sort of companionship, even with superficial and temporary acquaintances, had prompted him to re-enter human society, time and again. Besides, he was already inadvertently responsible for numerous legends regarding the elusive fair folk, as well as more than one canonization of a supposed ascetic who performed medical miracles. Whenever his humble hermitage had somehow been discovered, he would be sought out by wayfarers in need of healing, and of course he helped them to the best of his ability.
Was it really any wonder that he had effected more positive outcomes than mortal physicians were able to produce, considering their often barbaric treatments? The bloodletting and cupping kit on Maglor’s bedside table, as well as the vials of mercury chloride and opium next to it, were more likely to kill a patient than to provide substantial health benefits. But Maglor had to exercise extreme caution in educating others on correct healing techniques; not only would that risk exposing his non-mortal origin, but he had narrowly escaped being tried as a witch only two and a half centuries ago, for the offense of having cleansed and poulticed a suppurating wound.
Maglor had emerged from the harrowing experience with even greater disgust for people who wielded their religiosity like a weapon, and a newly strengthened resolve to draw as little attention to himself as possible. However, within a couple of centuries, mankind had developed stringed instruments that approached the grandeur of those he had played in Tirion in his youth. There were very few things that Maglor missed about Tirion; he had felt stifled by the laws of the Valar, the requirements of courtly pomp and circumstance, and the omnipresent political machinations - but performing before a sophisticated audience held nostalgic allure for him. Singing in taverns or plucking a mandolin in town squares was rewarding in its own way, but Maglor had been drawn inexorably to the fine instruments crafted by famed luthiers Antonio Stradivari and Giuseppe Guarneri, so he procured a violin and began performing concerts in the seaside resort city of Livorno. Under his newly assumed name, Niccoló Paganini, chosen for its association with the generous St. Nicholas and for Maglor’s lack of affinity for the mainstream religion of the area, his fame spread with great rapidity, and before long, he had been appointed first violin of the nearby Republic of Lucca. Accepting the honor had been against his better judgment, but the lure of the stage was irresistible. He had lost so much: his entire family, his people, even his true name and identity had vanished with the passage of time. Could he not have this small solace, if only for a short while?
Quelling his misgivings, Maglor had embraced the opportunity, and the past twenty-two years since his first performance in Livorno had been glorious. He was renowned for his virtuosity with the violin as well as his unrivaled skill in both sight reading music and performing entire recitals from memory. He had given live performances of such intensity and inspiration that viewers claimed the Devil himself guided Maglor’s arm. The attendant rumors of his having sold his soul to the Devil alarmed Maglor considerably, given his prior experience with the Inquisition, but fortunately, literal witch hunts were not presently a concern in Europe.
His greatest achievement of these past two decades had been the publication in 1820 of his 24 Caprices for Solo Violin, acclaimed as the most fascinating and difficult pieces ever written for the instrument, particularly Caprice No. 24. Maglor’s music had last been immortalized to this extent in the Ñoldolantë, but that hauntingly beautiful composition no longer was recognized by any living audience, so he had adapted parts of it into his most memorable violin caprice.
Maglor had intended to disappear following the publication of his Caprices. After twenty years in the public eye, he felt concerned that his lack of aging would raise uncomfortable questions that could compromise his safety - but by the same token, the prominence of his Paganini persona meant that it was unlikely that he could slip away unnoticed, so he would have to carefully orchestrate his “death.” He realized that he required additional time for his meticulous planning while avoiding discovery, given the greater scrutiny applied to a man of celebrated status. And, although he would keep a couple of choice instruments for himself, the thought of having to lose almost all that he possessed, once again, acutely pained him.
Yet another reason to not get himself into this type of predicament. But the music was intoxicating. It had still been worth the struggle.
It was 1821, the year after the Caprices had been published, when Maglor had everything in order so that he could vanish. And then an encounter with another violinist changed his plans.
This unknown musician, tall and lean with long dark hair, was possessed of considerable skill with the violin. He had had a genteel upbringing and education, but unfortunately, he was given to multiple vices and was destitute, having pawned his own violin to pay his gambling debts. Recognizing the violinist’s talent and hoping that the impoverished musician’s depression would lift if he could continue to play music, Maglor had given the man a Guarneri violin, as well as a chance to improve his life circumstances drastically. Rather than staging his own death, Maglor would bestow his successful persona upon this man, who was struggling with both finances and numerous health concerns. Of course, this required additional measures to achieve the subterfuge, including clandestinely rehearsing together. Fortunately, the mortal man was a musical prodigy. And the man’s chronic ailments serendipitously presented the perfect opportunity to achieve the artifice of transferring the identity of Paganini. Maglor would briefly retire from the public eye, and when the mortal man emerged from his sickroom, changes in Paganini’s appearance could be attributed to the ravages of ill health. In time, any recollections of Paganini having been even taller or possessing a more ethereal beauty would be attributed to faulty memories, viewed through the lens of adulation.
Maglor was roused from his reverie by a discreet tap on the bedchamber door, and as he re-glamoured himself in case his visitor wasn’t the one he was expecting, the room became shadowed once more. Unbolting the door, Maglor peered into the hallway, then admitted the waiting, cloaked and hooded figure. Once inside, the newcomer revealed a face striking in its likeness to the haggard visage that Maglor wore, glamoured.
The two men exchanged requisite pleasantries before turning their attention to the bedside table. “The physician brought prescriptions of calomel to treat syphilis and opium to suppress your cough, and left written instructions for self-administration. The calomel is to be taken orally for your throat, as well as applied topically in ointment form, to lesions,” Maglor indicated.
The mortal took stock of the medical supplies. “Ah, excellent,” he rasped, “my cupping kit is in good order. It appears that it hasn’t been used? You were most welcome to it.”
Maglor hoped that his answering smile didn’t appear as pained as it felt. “Remember, my friend, that I am simply pretending to be ill. Because I am not unwell, there was no need to prevail upon your goodwill and use your kit to balance my humours.”
“My goodwill?” The man who would henceforth be known as Niccoló Paganini laughed, setting off a torrent of coughing. Once his hacking cough had subsided, Paganini looked apologetically at Maglor and softly commented, “I do not know how to thank you for all that you are doing for me.”
“Live your life to the fullest, love well, compose and play excellent music, and take care of the instruments.” Maglor laughed gently, and Paganini smiled in return, hesitant to precipitate another attack of coughing.
“Take care, my friend.” Donning the hooded cloak, Maglor departed, yet again walking away from someone he had come to know, the same way that he had walked away from countless others. But this time, he had made a substantial difference in the man’s happiness and material comfort. He clung to that thought, to buoy his spirits as he faded into obscurity once more.
Hanover, 1843
Raking a hand through his raven hair, Maglor exhaled noisily in frustration as he reached yet another dead end in his research at the library of the Higher Vocational College. Gottfried Leibniz was most renowned as a mathematician and philosopher - but he also had been an accomplished cryptographer, and an alchemist. Maglor hoped that in Leibniz’s writings, he could locate a cypher that would help him solve a mystery that had dogged his thoughts for over five and a half centuries.
In the late thirteenth century, Maglor had lived in the small town of Hamelin, less than 50 kilometers southwest of his current location. At that time, he was earning his keep by playing a flute. The instrument had recently become extremely popular in the region, and Maglor had given music lessons to multiple local children.
During the spring of 1284, Hamelin’s wheat crop became blighted in the field, the heads of the stalks bleaching out to a sickly white, portending a very poor yield during the upcoming harvest. Compounding the matter was a recent rat overpopulation. It was impossible to keep the rodents out of granaries in any case, but with their increased numbers, the rats were systematically eating through the town’s grain stores unchecked. The townspeople of Hamelin would face a very lean winter, with famine a distinct possibility. Maglor thought of the small faces of the children, drawn thin with hunger, and he resolved to offset the impending disaster.
Reaching into the Song, Maglor played his flute as he strode through the town, using the peculiar notes of his haunting tune to call the rats from the buildings, summoning them to follow him down the street and out into the wild, to live happy little rodent lives away from the humans who wished them dead. Then the tone of his song changed, and the beautiful melody evoked a remarkable light, reminiscent of both shining silver and glowing gold, that enveloped Maglor as he approached the nearby wheat fields. As Maglor continued his progression through the fields and away from the town, the illumination spread out over the wheat, and as the magical light reached each plant, new and healthy growth appeared, free from the wheat scab that had ruined the crop. It was an utterly fatiguing performance, and not one after which Maglor could realistically return to the little town. So he continued deep into the woods, entreating the trees with the final notes of his song to provide him with camouflaging shelter as he succumbed to exhausted slumber.
He should have known that such an extravagant manipulation of the Song was likely to attract some sort of occult malignancy. But it had been so long since he had encountered an actual malefic presence that wasn’t simply a shadow, the call of a night bird, the luminescent result of swamp gas, or a figment of one’s imagination given sinister aspect by terror of demons, fostered by the clergy to keep parishioners in line, that Maglor hadn’t really considered it a distinct possibility.
After Maglor departed from Hamelin, the townsfolk believed that he had returned, demanding payment for his service, which was denied. It was recounted in the fifteenth century Lünenberg Manuscript that on 26 June 1284, a certain young man thirty years of age, handsome and well-dressed, so that all who saw him admired him because of his appearance, crossed the bridges and entered the town by the West Gate. He then began to play all through the town a silver pipe of the most magnificent sort. All the children who heard his pipe, in the number of 130, followed him to the East Gate and out of the town to the so-called execution place or Calvary. There they proceeded to vanish, so that no trace of them could be found.
Multiple accounts had been written of the children of Hamelin quite literally disappearing into the nearby mountain, and anxiety was rampant that the “Pied Piper” would return in the future to steal more children away from their homes, as the mysterious man had supposedly forewarned. Maglor felt sickened over the abscondence of the children, and dreaded what their ultimate fate might have been. And he experienced significant alarm pondering that the miscreant not only had the ability to accomplish such a feat, but to do so while convincingly masquerading as Maglor Fëanorion, whose appearance and presence were largely inimitable.
During the intervening centuries, various theories had been put forth concerning the loss of the Hamelin children. Maybe they had succumbed to pestilence. Or, they had joined a Children’s Crusade. Perhaps the tale was a revision of young peoples’ deaths during the Battle of Sedemunder, which had taken place a mortal generation prior to the appearance of the Pied Piper.
But Maglor knew that the sinister account, told and retold like a fairy tale, had actually happened. It wasn’t exaggerated. And the townspeople of Hamelin had, for hundreds of years, counted their time since the greatest tragedy to befall them. It is 100 years since our children left , stated Hamelin’s town chronicle a century after the catastrophic event. In the year 1556, 272 years after the magician led 130 children out of the town, this portal was erected, proclaimed the inscription of a new gate in the town wall. These were entire centuries when fear, terror even, had stalked the short mortal lives of a population that Maglor had lived among, felt affection for, and sought to assist - perpetrated by someone who had impersonated Maglor himself. Maglor craved vengeance so intensely that if he allowed the emotion to fester, the very air would crackle around him as the Song reacted to his fury. But no matter how diligently he had searched, he had been unable to ascertain the identity or location of his adversary. He felt nothing in the Song to guide him, no whisper on the breeze nor indication in a scrying pool - not that he had his cousin Galadriel’s particular talent for that manner of divination, in any case. So he had pored over grimoires, hoping to find a kernel of truth among the sigils, prescribed rituals, and incantations. He had consulted with the likes of John Dee, Roger Bacon, and Cornelius Agrippa. All, thus far, for naught.
And if Leibniz had concealed a cypher among his academic writings that would lead to arcane knowledge, Maglor was unable to discover it. He closed the tome before him with a thump, stopping just short of giving in to the urge to slam the book shut in a fit of pique. He leaned back in his chair, cursing softly in vexation. Although he hadn’t relished being called “the Devil’s violinist” when he was publicly known as Paganini, he had on occasion hoped that the gossip regarding his hellish bargain would draw out his nemesis. But he was still no closer to finding the secluded scoundrel. And to add insult to injury, the recent publication of Robert Browning’s poem The Pied Piper of Hamelin had brought international attention to the woeful tale. Although the subject matter was assumed to be the stuff of legends, and Browning had taken much poetic license with his version of events, it still rankled Maglor that the Pied Piper was receiving such newfound notoriety, reminding him of his failure to apprehend the creature responsible for the abduction and likely demise of 130 children. Maglor closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his frustration away.
He opened his eyes to the sound of someone sitting in the chair directly across the table from him. Someone with grizzled grey hair, bright blue eyes, and a lined face that simultaneously exuded wisdom and kindness, although the man could appear quite gruff when he wanted to. Maglor hadn’t seen him in ages - in the mortal sense of that term. He greeted the newcomer via ósanwë: Olórin. Or, should I say, Gandalf?
Olórin-in-human-guise smiled winsomely and verbally addressed Maglor using his current alias. “Marcus Lauer, I believe? It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it has,” Maglor replied aloud, “and forgive me, but I am at a loss …”
“Jakob,” supplied Olórin.
Maglor arched an eyebrow. “… Jakob,” he said, with a slight quirk of his lips.
“Johann Jakob Guggenheimer Schmidt, to be precise,” Olórin returned loftily, also with a slight smile. But when Olórin gave that small lip quirk, he always appeared to be wishing for a pipe well-supplied with pipeweed. Maglor idly wondered whether Olórin had found an acceptable substitute for his beloved Longbottom Leaf in recent millennia.
“Johann Jakob Guggenheimer Schmidt.” Maglor couldn’t resist repeating the name; its cadence flowed like the melody of a folk tune. In the back of his mind, he was already humming a little ditty that would undoubtedly annoy Olórin while also amusing him.
“Indeed. I have an important matter to discuss with you - if we may proceed, privately?”
Maglor accompanied “Jakob” out of the library, curious as to why Olórin had chosen to contact him. Despite his usual aversion to Ainur, Maglor reasonably trusted that the Maia was a benefactor, which Olórin had repeatedly demonstrated since his original embodiment in human form. And he consistently chose to appear in that same human form, although now his hair and beard were much shorter than they had been when he was widely known as Gandalf.
It was a short walk to the river; Maglor, who was not given to small talk, strolled along with Jakob in companionable silence, enjoying the song of the chaffinches as they called from nearby trees. Once they reached the Leine, they gazed into the gentle flow of the water for a few moments while ensuring that they wouldn’t be overheard. Maglor had the ability to manipulate ambient sounds into white noise that would camouflage their conversation from passersby. He wasn’t sure of the precise nature of Jakob’s abilities in that regard, but he felt the Song begin to thrum around them almost imperceptibly, reminiscent of tinnitus, and Maglor knew that Jakob, too, was safeguarding their discussion.
Then, without preamble, Jakob asked, “Have you heard of the entity known as Azazel?”
Maglor blinked once, and responded in the affirmative. At least his extensive study of grimoires had borne some fruit. “He is reputed to be a fallen angel, responsible for teaching mankind gemology and metalwork, including how to forge weapons and armor. The apocryphal Book of Enoch states that his teachings have corrupted the entire world, and that all sin should be ascribed to him. Students of both theology and the occult debate whether Azazel is identical with ‘Satan’ himself. Of note, Islamic sources indicate that the original name of Iblis, before he was expelled from Heaven, was ‘Azazil.’ ”
“Yes, that’s him,” Jakob sighed. “Those who accept his knowledge and gifts always pay dearly in the end.” Jakob’s lips appeared to desperately want to blow a smoke ring, and he turned compassionate eyes upon Maglor. “You have known him by other names.”
Gifts, Jakob had just said. Someone obviously well-versed in smithcraft. Maglor clenched his jaw and felt his fingernails biting into his palms, trying not to envision the pierced and broken body of his nephew, as Jakob continued, “The etymology of his current name is debated, but a frequent theme among the possible translations is an association with a mountain. For instance, the name might mean, ‘strong mountain,’ or perhaps it refers to a rugged mountain itself.”
Maglor realized that he was holding his breath. He visualized the sigil for the demon Azazel, which featured a central, elongated diamond shape, tilted at a 45 degree angle and bisected by a straight line. The depiction resembled a stylized eye with a viperine, vertical pupil. The Eye of —
“Sauron.” Maglor released a steady stream of curses that would have scandalized a sailor. Jakob didn’t flinch, but perhaps appeared even more in need of some Longbottom Leaf as the air sizzled around him.
“He was quite definitively defeated - obliterated, even!” Maglor raged. “His Ring, the concentration of so much of his power, was categorically destroyed, melted into oblivion. How has he scraped enough of himself together to plague the world anew?”
“It has been six thousand years, Macalaurë.” Jakob looked almost apologetic. “The shadow of his almost-forgotten malice grew and took shape, bolstered by the collective negative emotions of mankind, until he recalled enough of himself to assume a physical form. And apparently, he has garnered enough strength to take fair form once more.”
Maglor swore again. “Have you discovered how he intends to accomplish world dominion this time?”
“No. But I have discerned that he travels via the Fennassath to avoid detection.”
The air crackled palpably with Maglor’s latest spate of curses. Few knew of the existence of the extra-dimensional gateways that could be used for instantaneous travel to locations around the world - or beyond. Maglor looked skyward. “Is Morgoth secure?”
“He is. The lesser Doors cannot breach the Door of Night,” Jakob stated conclusively. Maglor remained unconvinced by Jakob’s assurance, his skepticism fully displayed on his face.
“Are you going to enumerate the deficiencies of Morgoth’s parentage in Khuzdûl this time? You have exercised your fluency in Quenya and Sindarin as well as Sumerian, Portuguese, and Malayalam thus far.”
Maglor held his silence, and Jakob continued, “Our greater concern at present is Sauron’s growing collection of souls, as it were. In the absence of the Rings, he appears to have taken up the business of brokering favors in exchange for eternal servitude.”
Maglor cursed in Khuzdûl - to humor Jakob, of course - and turned his gaze to the flow of the Leine, wishing he was at the sea, listening to the waves crash against the shore. The sounds of eternity, in a register perceptible to mortal ears. “He didn’t get Paganini.” The utterance was half-statement, half-supplication.
Niccoló Paganini had died three years previously, at the age of fifty-eight, unable to speak due to his persistent laryngitis. As a result, he had not taken part in the last rites that a priest had attempted to perform. This was construed as a “refusal” of the sacrament, and therefore was counted as evidence that Paganini had indeed been in league with the Devil.
Since his fateful first meeting with Maglor, Paganini had for the rest of his life played the Guarneri violin that Maglor had given to him. He married and fathered children, and enjoyed a successful concert career throughout Europe, earning great wealth. Maglor fervently needed to believe that Niccoló Paganini had succeeded on his own merits, with some aid from Maglor, and had not succumbed to the false promises of Sauron Gorthaur.
“No,” Jakob answered. “Sauron did not compromise your protégé.” There was a pause, while Jakob apparently gathered his thoughts, and drew a deep breath before uttering, “He has, however, stolen away others that you have known.”
Maglor turned his attention from the river to meet Jakob’s sad blue eyes, a horrible realization regarding the timing of Jakob’s visit dawning on him. “You cannot mean the children of Hamelin.”
“I am sorry, Macalaurë — ”
“Sorry?!?” Maglor exploded. “You are ‘sorry?’ ” A volley of curses in a couple more extinct languages blistered the air. “I have been searching for centuries — ”
“I know , Kanafinwë,” Jakob boomed. The use of Maglor’s ataressë halted his tirade, so that he was able to attend to the information that Jakob had for him, although he still seethed.
“I was not sure, initially, that it was Sauron who had abducted the children,” Jakob explained. “He has not been easy to track. But I have discovered that he has been most active of late in the United States. I am hoping for your assistance in thwarting him.”
“Of course,” Maglor bit out. He knew that it benefitted neither him nor the situation to remain angry with Johann Jakob Guggenheimer Schmidt. But that amusing little ditty in the back of his mind, conjured by the meter of Jakob’s name, had become more annoying. An irritating little jingle, really. And Maglor was going to exact his petty revenge for the tardiness of this intelligence regarding his ancient enemy by ensuring that American children would sing the jingle ad nauseam.