Chapter Text

ACT IV January 1875 - Paris

Epilogue: Opéra Garnier, loge - DAERON, alone

Daeron smiled.

It was a rare occurrence, especially in public, but he was, for once, genuinely happy, watching the company gathered below in the large auditorium. The seats, a red velvet, starkly bright in the glow of the large chandeliers, were vivid to the eye, for they were so new, and unused yet, unsullied neither by tears or laughter, nor by boredom, touched for the first time by those invited to the grand opening.

Daeron searched the crowd around him. Sitting on the edge of the seat in his loge, situated on the side of the auditorium, he let his eyes travel from face to face, slowly, deliberately, searching for something. But he did not quite realise what he was searching for, at first, his mind wandering to the fans, the toilettes, the hairstyles, the laughter, the stage, polished and clean and shiny like a brand new stage should be.

But he stopped, then, for his gaze had reached the orchestra pit, where he could see, from above, the director rehearsing the flick of his long baguette for the last time before the wide curtain opened. That movement, with the buzzing sounds around him - sounds of a filling up theatre - were the most common of all things, perhaps. And yet, Daeron paused, wrinkling his nose and running a hand through his hair, tied back in a single long tail that fell down his back.

This reminded him of something, and his eyes were drawn to a loge opposite his, where there was no one… But fifty years ago, in that same loge, though in a different opera house, he had seen an Elf he had known for most of his long, long life. The Elf in question had been gesticulating to ladies in pretty dresses and had then proceeded to make a fool of himself.

But tonight, the Elf in question was not there. Or, well, he was not in that loge, anyway.

But still, Daeron knew better. Pressing his hands together, he twisted the ring that he bore on his middle finger around with an absent sort of smirk. Maglor was there, in spirit, the last legitimate bearer of the last ring of power.

That was not all, however, for as the spectators began to lower their voices, and the orchestra struck up a few chords to tune their instruments, Daeron glanced down at the program he held in his hands.

At the top, in golden lettering, was his name, in very small letters, for he had published that grand music they were about to hear, and had directed the production, asked by the Empress Eugénie* herself to find a piece for the Opéra Garnier’s inauguration. But that was not important. What was much more interesting was the name in big red letters underneath.

Maglor Kanafinwë, it said. The Lays of Beleriand.

Unlike anything anyone in that room had ever heard before, the music suddenly picked up, the stage came to life, its dramatic set and actors springing forwards to sing their parts and Daeron sat back in his chair, sighing contentedly. There was a warm feeling in his heart and a tear in both his eyes. Because even though he had not seen Maglor since they had parted in Saint Petersburg, even though he was lost to the world, even though no one would ever seen him again… Maglor was there. In the music, in the story, in the very soul of the orchestra and in each note sung by the actors. And in the very centre of Daeron’s heart and memory. He lived on.