A Song of Sunlight and Sand
Maglor had never been one for heat. Too many centuries wandering wind-swept cliffs and moon-cooled forests had given him a temperament tuned to chill air and hushed starlight. But today, his tunic shimmered in the Dubai sun, the golden embroidery catching light like notes off his harp.
He sat on a bench beside the glittering canal, plucking a melody that rippled through the air like the breeze between the skyscrapers. Sören leaned against the bench’s edge, squinting up at the Burj Khalifa with one hand shading his brow and the other wrapped tightly around a plush camel named Snorri.
“Does this mean you’re finally a ‘desert elf,’ now?” Sören asked, his voice dry as sand. “Trading sea foam for sunstroke?”
Maglor’s fingers didn’t miss a note. “I go where you go, elskan. Even into the jaws of solar death.”
Sören snorted. “Flattering. Just say you wanted to see me in shorts again.”
“I did,” Maglor admitted without shame, glancing sideways to admire the curve of Sören’s knee, just dusted with dark hair, framed by faded denim. “But I also wanted to play where joy hums in the stones.”
“Ah, so it’s not me. It’s the city.”
Maglor plucked a low chord and smiled. “It’s always you.”
They’d met five years ago in Reykjavik. Sören had been performing street magic in the cold—coin tricks and illusions with sleight of hand so clever even Maglor, son of Fëanor, hadn’t seen the glint of spellwork beneath it at first. The elf had been drawn in by a floating card trick, but stayed for the snark and the warm cinnamon bun Sören had offered afterward without asking his name.
“You looked like you hadn’t smiled in centuries,” Sören had said then, poking him in the ribs with the ease of someone who didn’t believe in personal space.
“I hadn’t,” Maglor had replied, blinking like a man waking from a dream.
They had been inseparable ever since.
Dubai was stop eleven in their current whirlwind world tour. They had been to Kyoto (where Maglor tried karaoke), Cairo (where Sören got cursed by a very polite ghost), and Lisbon (where they made out on a rooftop with a bottle of port and a backdrop of tiled roofs and starlight).
But Dubai was different. Dubai gleamed. It sang.
Maglor set the harp aside, resting it carefully against the bench. He reached for the book beside him—deep blue leather, embossed with the Star of Fëanor. It pulsed faintly with light. “I brought something.”
Sören raised a brow. “Is it a ring? A crown? Another one of your secret Silmaril-adjacent trinkets?”
“It’s a scrapbook.”
Sören blinked. “You? Made a scrapbook?”
Maglor looked smug. “With glitter glue.”
The mortal’s laugh echoed down the boardwalk. “Show me immediately.”
They flipped through it together, page after page of their journey: a pressed petal from the sakura trees in Kyoto, a train ticket from Switzerland, a chocolate wrapper Sören had stubbornly saved because it “tasted like phoenix dreams.” There were little notes in Maglor’s elegant hand, sketches, pressed leaves, a feather from some ethereal bird in the Andes that had tried to seduce Maglor with warbling song before realizing he was spoken for.
“It’s like your Silmarils,” Sören said quietly, fingers brushing over a snapshot of them kissing in the rain in Edinburgh. “But less doom.”
“I’m getting better at that,” Maglor said. “Less doom.”
Sören tilted his head. “How do you feel here, really?”
Maglor looked out at the water, its turquoise shimmer catching the sunlight. The city pulsed with life—cars, laughter, scents of cardamom and grilled lamb, air conditioning units humming like tiny harps of their own.
“I feel… warm,” he said. “And awake.”
“And overdressed.”
“You picked the outfit.”
“You refused to wear the tank top I bought you.”
“It had glitter wolves on it.”
Sören grinned. “Exactly.”
A pause. The kind only lovers can stretch like silk between heartbeats.
Sören set the camel plush on his lap and looked sideways, voice softer but still teasing. “You’re not going to sing some tragic Valinor elegy in the middle of a tourist hub, are you?”
Maglor leaned in. “I’m not sad anymore.”
He kissed Sören then—quick, sun-drenched, and smug—and then pulled back to add, “But I am composing a new song.”
Sören’s eyes narrowed. “Maglor. I swear to every Vala past and present—”
“It’s a song of joy,” Maglor said firmly. “Of sunlight on new skin. Of laughter shared across languages. Of Icelandic boys with camel plushies and tattoos of fire and water.”
Sören flushed. “You’re writing me into your music?”
Maglor blinked. “You think I haven’t?”
There it was again—that hush of wonder, the look Sören always gave him when the centuries behind Maglor’s eyes softened into something fragile and entirely mortal. It was the look that had made Maglor stay. Not because he was worshiped, but because he was known.
“Come,” Maglor said, rising with a stretch. “I heard there’s a rooftop café where the hummus glows.”
“That can’t be sanitary.”
“Magical realism, meleth. You’ll love it.”
They wandered the promenade hand in hand, harp case slung across Maglor’s back like a bow of light, Sören carrying Snorri the camel like he was royalty. They bickered over the route, tripped over a scooter someone had left irresponsibly in their path, and paused to take photos in front of a mural of wings painted on a wall. Sören insisted Maglor pose with them.
“You’re an actual myth,” Sören said, snapping the photo. “Might as well live up to it.”
Maglor tilted his head. “And you, my flame and fountain?”
Sören smirked. “The pretty distraction.”
Maglor kissed his cheek. “The anchor of my joy.”
They found the café. The hummus did, in fact, glow. The server winked and called Maglor “moon prince,” and Sören did not let him live that down the rest of the afternoon. They drank something with rosewater and mint. Maglor sketched new runes in the condensation on the glass.
Later, back in their suite, with city lights blooming below like constellations rearranged for mortals, Maglor sang.
Not of loss. Not of exile.
But of love that came quietly in a snowy square in Reykjavik and turned into something louder and brighter than any lament. A melody of fire and water, sand and silk, laughter and plush camels and the knowing look in a man’s eyes that said:
You are not your sorrow anymore.
Maglor finished the song and looked at Sören.
“I wrote that one for you,” he said.
Sören was already curled up with Snorri in one arm and Maglor’s book in the other, but he smiled sleepily and said, “Took you long enough, glitter boy.”
And Maglor, Prince of the House of Fëanor, bearer of sorrow and songs, climbed into bed and let himself laugh.
Because love, at last, had rewritten him.
And the night, like the harp’s strings, shimmered with joy.
He sat on a bench beside the glittering canal, plucking a melody that rippled through the air like the breeze between the skyscrapers. Sören leaned against the bench’s edge, squinting up at the Burj Khalifa with one hand shading his brow and the other wrapped tightly around a plush camel named Snorri.
“Does this mean you’re finally a ‘desert elf,’ now?” Sören asked, his voice dry as sand. “Trading sea foam for sunstroke?”
Maglor’s fingers didn’t miss a note. “I go where you go, elskan. Even into the jaws of solar death.”
Sören snorted. “Flattering. Just say you wanted to see me in shorts again.”
“I did,” Maglor admitted without shame, glancing sideways to admire the curve of Sören’s knee, just dusted with dark hair, framed by faded denim. “But I also wanted to play where joy hums in the stones.”
“Ah, so it’s not me. It’s the city.”
Maglor plucked a low chord and smiled. “It’s always you.”
They’d met five years ago in Reykjavik. Sören had been performing street magic in the cold—coin tricks and illusions with sleight of hand so clever even Maglor, son of Fëanor, hadn’t seen the glint of spellwork beneath it at first. The elf had been drawn in by a floating card trick, but stayed for the snark and the warm cinnamon bun Sören had offered afterward without asking his name.
“You looked like you hadn’t smiled in centuries,” Sören had said then, poking him in the ribs with the ease of someone who didn’t believe in personal space.
“I hadn’t,” Maglor had replied, blinking like a man waking from a dream.
They had been inseparable ever since.
Dubai was stop eleven in their current whirlwind world tour. They had been to Kyoto (where Maglor tried karaoke), Cairo (where Sören got cursed by a very polite ghost), and Lisbon (where they made out on a rooftop with a bottle of port and a backdrop of tiled roofs and starlight).
But Dubai was different. Dubai gleamed. It sang.
Maglor set the harp aside, resting it carefully against the bench. He reached for the book beside him—deep blue leather, embossed with the Star of Fëanor. It pulsed faintly with light. “I brought something.”
Sören raised a brow. “Is it a ring? A crown? Another one of your secret Silmaril-adjacent trinkets?”
“It’s a scrapbook.”
Sören blinked. “You? Made a scrapbook?”
Maglor looked smug. “With glitter glue.”
The mortal’s laugh echoed down the boardwalk. “Show me immediately.”
They flipped through it together, page after page of their journey: a pressed petal from the sakura trees in Kyoto, a train ticket from Switzerland, a chocolate wrapper Sören had stubbornly saved because it “tasted like phoenix dreams.” There were little notes in Maglor’s elegant hand, sketches, pressed leaves, a feather from some ethereal bird in the Andes that had tried to seduce Maglor with warbling song before realizing he was spoken for.
“It’s like your Silmarils,” Sören said quietly, fingers brushing over a snapshot of them kissing in the rain in Edinburgh. “But less doom.”
“I’m getting better at that,” Maglor said. “Less doom.”
Sören tilted his head. “How do you feel here, really?”
Maglor looked out at the water, its turquoise shimmer catching the sunlight. The city pulsed with life—cars, laughter, scents of cardamom and grilled lamb, air conditioning units humming like tiny harps of their own.
“I feel… warm,” he said. “And awake.”
“And overdressed.”
“You picked the outfit.”
“You refused to wear the tank top I bought you.”
“It had glitter wolves on it.”
Sören grinned. “Exactly.”
A pause. The kind only lovers can stretch like silk between heartbeats.
Sören set the camel plush on his lap and looked sideways, voice softer but still teasing. “You’re not going to sing some tragic Valinor elegy in the middle of a tourist hub, are you?”
Maglor leaned in. “I’m not sad anymore.”
He kissed Sören then—quick, sun-drenched, and smug—and then pulled back to add, “But I am composing a new song.”
Sören’s eyes narrowed. “Maglor. I swear to every Vala past and present—”
“It’s a song of joy,” Maglor said firmly. “Of sunlight on new skin. Of laughter shared across languages. Of Icelandic boys with camel plushies and tattoos of fire and water.”
Sören flushed. “You’re writing me into your music?”
Maglor blinked. “You think I haven’t?”
There it was again—that hush of wonder, the look Sören always gave him when the centuries behind Maglor’s eyes softened into something fragile and entirely mortal. It was the look that had made Maglor stay. Not because he was worshiped, but because he was known.
“Come,” Maglor said, rising with a stretch. “I heard there’s a rooftop café where the hummus glows.”
“That can’t be sanitary.”
“Magical realism, meleth. You’ll love it.”
They wandered the promenade hand in hand, harp case slung across Maglor’s back like a bow of light, Sören carrying Snorri the camel like he was royalty. They bickered over the route, tripped over a scooter someone had left irresponsibly in their path, and paused to take photos in front of a mural of wings painted on a wall. Sören insisted Maglor pose with them.
“You’re an actual myth,” Sören said, snapping the photo. “Might as well live up to it.”
Maglor tilted his head. “And you, my flame and fountain?”
Sören smirked. “The pretty distraction.”
Maglor kissed his cheek. “The anchor of my joy.”
They found the café. The hummus did, in fact, glow. The server winked and called Maglor “moon prince,” and Sören did not let him live that down the rest of the afternoon. They drank something with rosewater and mint. Maglor sketched new runes in the condensation on the glass.
Later, back in their suite, with city lights blooming below like constellations rearranged for mortals, Maglor sang.
Not of loss. Not of exile.
But of love that came quietly in a snowy square in Reykjavik and turned into something louder and brighter than any lament. A melody of fire and water, sand and silk, laughter and plush camels and the knowing look in a man’s eyes that said:
You are not your sorrow anymore.
Maglor finished the song and looked at Sören.
“I wrote that one for you,” he said.
Sören was already curled up with Snorri in one arm and Maglor’s book in the other, but he smiled sleepily and said, “Took you long enough, glitter boy.”
And Maglor, Prince of the House of Fëanor, bearer of sorrow and songs, climbed into bed and let himself laugh.
Because love, at last, had rewritten him.
And the night, like the harp’s strings, shimmered with joy.
They named the camels Buttercup and Rage.
“I just feel like she has a gentle spirit,” Sören said, patting his camel’s sandy neck as it chewed serenely on nothing. “Buttercup fits.”
Maglor glanced at his own mount, which had tried to bite a tourist, stole a hat, and was currently glaring at a falcon. “Rage, then.”
They were halfway through a guided camel ride near the edge of the city, the white sand dunes rolling out like an ocean made of sunlight. Behind them, the Burj Khalifa stabbed upward toward the sky like one of Maglor’s sharper metaphors. He’d written a poem about it earlier. It involved lightning. And longing. Sören told him it was hot.
They were alone now—sort of. Their guide had wandered ahead with a walkie-talkie and an expression of someone paid to deal with creatures more dramatic than camels.
Maglor adjusted the strap of his travel bag. The harp nestled inside shifted slightly, and the glowing cover of his journal—a slim volume with the Star of Fëanor—flashed like it had something to say.
“Stop narrating, please,” Maglor said aloud to the book.
Sören laughed. “Is it recording again?”
“It’s enchanted to note ‘important experiences.’ Unfortunately, it has no taste.”
Sören tilted his head. “I don’t know. I think this is pretty damn important. You. Me. The desert. Your terrifying murder camel.”
“Your camel is falling asleep.”
“She’s meditating, thank you.”
They plodded forward, the sun pressing gently on their backs, the white sand glittering like powdered pearl. The city behind them grew small and soft-edged, as if politely stepping back to let them have their moment.
And it was a moment.
Maglor turned to watch Sören, who had taken the water bottle from the pouch and was now sipping with the slightly smug air of someone who had thought ahead.
The tattoos gleamed on his arms—flame on the right, water on the left—bright and precise, the swirls dancing as the sunlight caught them. Not glowing, but alive somehow. Like Sören himself.
Maglor had written symphonies for less.
“You’re staring,” Sören said, recapping the bottle.
“Correct.”
“I’m sweaty.”
“Still correct.”
Sören grinned. “What’s going on in that beautiful, brooding brain of yours?”
Maglor sighed, a little theatrically. “You remember when I used to sing of grief and war and the echoing loneliness of immortal sorrow?”
“Sure do. Still have the playlist.”
“I think I’m writing a new cycle.”
Sören arched an eyebrow. “Of songs?”
“Of joy.”
They let that sit for a moment. The kind of silence that wasn't empty, but woven—threaded with memory and golden sun.
“You’re not going to title one of them ‘Camelride of Bliss,’ are you?” Sören asked.
“Not anymore.”
Their camels began to descend a shallow slope between two dunes. The wind kicked up a curl of fine dust, and Sören squinted.
“Okay,” he said. “Desert magic check: is it just me, or do the dunes look like they’re breathing?”
Maglor looked. He tilted his head.
“They are.”
“Cool cool cool,” Sören said brightly. “I love when the land becomes animate.”
“They’re just stretching. The desert sleeps lightly at this time of day.”
“Tell it I respect its space but would like to be excluded from digestion.”
“You’re not food, you’re music,” Maglor said without thinking.
Sören blinked, then flushed. “You can’t just say stuff like that out loud.”
“I can and I do.”
“Every time I think I’ve caught up to your level of poetic, you one-up me with, ‘you’re not food, you’re music.’ What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Blush. Possibly kiss me.”
“Tempting,” Sören said. “But I’m currently riding a meditating beast of burden, so let’s table that.”
Rage snorted. Buttercup sneezed.
The wind shifted. Maglor felt it first—a tug on the edge of his senses, like a note just at the edge of hearing.
The air grew warmer. Then cooler. Then impossibly soft.
And in the next instant, they weren’t just in the desert—they were in the desert, capital-T, capital-D. The myth-space version. The Realer Than Real version.
The dunes now glowed faintly with ancient runes. The camels’ footsteps didn’t press sand but disturbed light. The city in the distance was still there, but its skyscrapers shimmered with translucent wings, and the Burj Khalifa was a spire of crystal, humming a high sweet note only Maglor could truly hear.
Sören’s tattoos flickered—not with magic, but with purpose. Recognition.
“Okay,” Sören whispered. “So we’re in it now.”
“Yes,” Maglor said.
“Any danger?”
“No.”
“Are you just saying that to calm me or because you know?”
Maglor looked to him, solemn. “The desert likes you. It’s listening.”
Sören blinked. “Well, I am delightful.”
“You are,” Maglor said, voice quiet and sure.
They rode in silence for a while longer—though not the kind made of absence. This was the kind where the world rearranges itself gently around two people who love each other.
At some point, Buttercup made a happy sigh noise. Rage growled at a passing shimmer that may have been a sand spirit wearing a sunhat.
Eventually, they stopped atop a high dune. Below them lay a shallow basin where the sand had gathered into the shape of a heart. Whether wind or intention had done it was impossible to say.
Sören tilted his head. “Romantic, or cursed?”
Maglor dismounted. “Yes.”
Sören followed, groaning exaggeratedly as he slid off Buttercup with all the grace of a sleepy toddler.
Maglor reached into the bag and pulled out the harp. He sat on the sand, which molded itself into a soft seat beneath him.
Sören dropped beside him and leaned into his shoulder. The air here was warm with cinnamon, cool with eucalyptus, and just a little fizzy—like champagne for the soul.
Maglor began to play.
No sad song. No dirge.
This was a tune made of sunlit afternoons, stolen glances, and inside jokes. It carried the sound of shared showers and arguments about socks and the way Sören sometimes accidentally summoned butterflies when he sneezed. It was a melody made of five years' worth of warmth blooming where grief used to grow.
Sören closed his eyes and listened.
And when the song was done, he reached up, cupped Maglor’s cheek, and kissed him.
Slow. Sure. Familiar. Sacred.
Then he pulled back and said, “I think Rage is jealous.”
Rage made a noise that absolutely could have been a scoff.
Maglor smiled. “Let her be. She’ll get over it.”
They sat there a little longer. The desert held them like a promise, the kind you didn’t need to speak aloud.
Eventually, the shimmer faded. The dunes lost their glow. The skyline returned to glass and steel.
But the heart-shaped hollow remained. The camels nuzzled each other.
And Sören leaned into Maglor’s side and whispered, “I want a thousand lifetimes like this.”
Maglor smiled into his curls. “You’ll get one. I’ll make it enough.”
And the wind—gentle now, a ribbon of gold—seemed to agree.
“I just feel like she has a gentle spirit,” Sören said, patting his camel’s sandy neck as it chewed serenely on nothing. “Buttercup fits.”
Maglor glanced at his own mount, which had tried to bite a tourist, stole a hat, and was currently glaring at a falcon. “Rage, then.”
They were halfway through a guided camel ride near the edge of the city, the white sand dunes rolling out like an ocean made of sunlight. Behind them, the Burj Khalifa stabbed upward toward the sky like one of Maglor’s sharper metaphors. He’d written a poem about it earlier. It involved lightning. And longing. Sören told him it was hot.
They were alone now—sort of. Their guide had wandered ahead with a walkie-talkie and an expression of someone paid to deal with creatures more dramatic than camels.
Maglor adjusted the strap of his travel bag. The harp nestled inside shifted slightly, and the glowing cover of his journal—a slim volume with the Star of Fëanor—flashed like it had something to say.
“Stop narrating, please,” Maglor said aloud to the book.
Sören laughed. “Is it recording again?”
“It’s enchanted to note ‘important experiences.’ Unfortunately, it has no taste.”
Sören tilted his head. “I don’t know. I think this is pretty damn important. You. Me. The desert. Your terrifying murder camel.”
“Your camel is falling asleep.”
“She’s meditating, thank you.”
They plodded forward, the sun pressing gently on their backs, the white sand glittering like powdered pearl. The city behind them grew small and soft-edged, as if politely stepping back to let them have their moment.
And it was a moment.
Maglor turned to watch Sören, who had taken the water bottle from the pouch and was now sipping with the slightly smug air of someone who had thought ahead.
The tattoos gleamed on his arms—flame on the right, water on the left—bright and precise, the swirls dancing as the sunlight caught them. Not glowing, but alive somehow. Like Sören himself.
Maglor had written symphonies for less.
“You’re staring,” Sören said, recapping the bottle.
“Correct.”
“I’m sweaty.”
“Still correct.”
Sören grinned. “What’s going on in that beautiful, brooding brain of yours?”
Maglor sighed, a little theatrically. “You remember when I used to sing of grief and war and the echoing loneliness of immortal sorrow?”
“Sure do. Still have the playlist.”
“I think I’m writing a new cycle.”
Sören arched an eyebrow. “Of songs?”
“Of joy.”
They let that sit for a moment. The kind of silence that wasn't empty, but woven—threaded with memory and golden sun.
“You’re not going to title one of them ‘Camelride of Bliss,’ are you?” Sören asked.
“Not anymore.”
Their camels began to descend a shallow slope between two dunes. The wind kicked up a curl of fine dust, and Sören squinted.
“Okay,” he said. “Desert magic check: is it just me, or do the dunes look like they’re breathing?”
Maglor looked. He tilted his head.
“They are.”
“Cool cool cool,” Sören said brightly. “I love when the land becomes animate.”
“They’re just stretching. The desert sleeps lightly at this time of day.”
“Tell it I respect its space but would like to be excluded from digestion.”
“You’re not food, you’re music,” Maglor said without thinking.
Sören blinked, then flushed. “You can’t just say stuff like that out loud.”
“I can and I do.”
“Every time I think I’ve caught up to your level of poetic, you one-up me with, ‘you’re not food, you’re music.’ What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Blush. Possibly kiss me.”
“Tempting,” Sören said. “But I’m currently riding a meditating beast of burden, so let’s table that.”
Rage snorted. Buttercup sneezed.
The wind shifted. Maglor felt it first—a tug on the edge of his senses, like a note just at the edge of hearing.
The air grew warmer. Then cooler. Then impossibly soft.
And in the next instant, they weren’t just in the desert—they were in the desert, capital-T, capital-D. The myth-space version. The Realer Than Real version.
The dunes now glowed faintly with ancient runes. The camels’ footsteps didn’t press sand but disturbed light. The city in the distance was still there, but its skyscrapers shimmered with translucent wings, and the Burj Khalifa was a spire of crystal, humming a high sweet note only Maglor could truly hear.
Sören’s tattoos flickered—not with magic, but with purpose. Recognition.
“Okay,” Sören whispered. “So we’re in it now.”
“Yes,” Maglor said.
“Any danger?”
“No.”
“Are you just saying that to calm me or because you know?”
Maglor looked to him, solemn. “The desert likes you. It’s listening.”
Sören blinked. “Well, I am delightful.”
“You are,” Maglor said, voice quiet and sure.
They rode in silence for a while longer—though not the kind made of absence. This was the kind where the world rearranges itself gently around two people who love each other.
At some point, Buttercup made a happy sigh noise. Rage growled at a passing shimmer that may have been a sand spirit wearing a sunhat.
Eventually, they stopped atop a high dune. Below them lay a shallow basin where the sand had gathered into the shape of a heart. Whether wind or intention had done it was impossible to say.
Sören tilted his head. “Romantic, or cursed?”
Maglor dismounted. “Yes.”
Sören followed, groaning exaggeratedly as he slid off Buttercup with all the grace of a sleepy toddler.
Maglor reached into the bag and pulled out the harp. He sat on the sand, which molded itself into a soft seat beneath him.
Sören dropped beside him and leaned into his shoulder. The air here was warm with cinnamon, cool with eucalyptus, and just a little fizzy—like champagne for the soul.
Maglor began to play.
No sad song. No dirge.
This was a tune made of sunlit afternoons, stolen glances, and inside jokes. It carried the sound of shared showers and arguments about socks and the way Sören sometimes accidentally summoned butterflies when he sneezed. It was a melody made of five years' worth of warmth blooming where grief used to grow.
Sören closed his eyes and listened.
And when the song was done, he reached up, cupped Maglor’s cheek, and kissed him.
Slow. Sure. Familiar. Sacred.
Then he pulled back and said, “I think Rage is jealous.”
Rage made a noise that absolutely could have been a scoff.
Maglor smiled. “Let her be. She’ll get over it.”
They sat there a little longer. The desert held them like a promise, the kind you didn’t need to speak aloud.
Eventually, the shimmer faded. The dunes lost their glow. The skyline returned to glass and steel.
But the heart-shaped hollow remained. The camels nuzzled each other.
And Sören leaned into Maglor’s side and whispered, “I want a thousand lifetimes like this.”
Maglor smiled into his curls. “You’ll get one. I’ll make it enough.”
And the wind—gentle now, a ribbon of gold—seemed to agree.
They returned to the city just before sunset, the sand warm underfoot, the skyline golden and trembling with heat.
Buttercup walked with the poise of a seasoned yogi. Rage kept trying to outpace cars.
Maglor, serenely glowing like he always does after playing a song he actually likes, had his harp strapped safely back in the bag and the Star of Fëanor journal humming contentedly like a sleepy cat.
Sören was holding the water bottle again. But he was also holding something else.
A lizard.
To be precise: a tiny, iridescent desert lizard wearing a fez.
It had apparently leapt into Sören’s lap somewhere near the edge of the dunes and curled up like it had paid rent. Rage had tried to bite it once and been immediately peed on, which Sören took as a sign of courage and named it Fizzgig.
“It chose me,” Sören insisted as they walked past a café patio full of startled tourists.
“It also tried to eat your sandal,” Maglor said.
“It was hungry.”
“It tried to eat my sandal.”
“It has excellent taste.”
Fizzgig stuck out its tongue. Maglor raised an eyebrow at it. It blew a smoke ring.
“Is it… magical?” Maglor asked, eyeing the now-slightly-scorched strap on his left sandal.
“Probably,” Sören said. “I mean, it hasn’t spoken yet, but it does tap its tail to the beat when I hum Michael Jackson songs.”
They stopped by a vendor selling fresh juice. The vendor didn’t blink at the elf, or the tattoos, or the lizard in a fez. This was Dubai. Stranger things happened before breakfast.
Maglor ordered pomegranate and mango. Sören got lemon-mint.
Fizzgig tried to climb into the blender. Sören caught him with reflexes born of living with a millenia-old elf who could out-drama an opera house.
Back at their hotel suite, the lizard made itself at home on the windowsill, watching the sun melt into the ocean of glass towers. Maglor tucked away his harp and ran a hand through his hair.
Sören came up behind him, wrapping tattooed arms around his waist.
“So,” Sören said softly. “Today was…”
“Alive,” Maglor finished.
“Yeah,” Sören said. “That.”
Fizzgig snored.
They kissed again, there by the window, city lights flickering like stars that hadn’t yet decided where to fall.
Later that night, as Sören slept, Fizzgig climbed onto the journal with the glowing star and curled up on top of it.
The book sighed and flipped open to a blank page.
A new song began to write itself, in silver ink:
He rode through dunes, through golden heat,
Beside the prince with singing hands.
He met a lizard, proud and small,
Who wore a hat and made demands.
The desert shifted, hearts unmasked--
A soul once broken, now aglow.
And laughter joined the ageless song…
For joy had found the son of Fëanor.
And on the next page, a tiny doodle of Fizzgig giving Rage a smug thumbs-up appeared in glowing ink.
Maglor would pretend he didn’t draw it.
Sören would know better.
Buttercup walked with the poise of a seasoned yogi. Rage kept trying to outpace cars.
Maglor, serenely glowing like he always does after playing a song he actually likes, had his harp strapped safely back in the bag and the Star of Fëanor journal humming contentedly like a sleepy cat.
Sören was holding the water bottle again. But he was also holding something else.
A lizard.
To be precise: a tiny, iridescent desert lizard wearing a fez.
It had apparently leapt into Sören’s lap somewhere near the edge of the dunes and curled up like it had paid rent. Rage had tried to bite it once and been immediately peed on, which Sören took as a sign of courage and named it Fizzgig.
“It chose me,” Sören insisted as they walked past a café patio full of startled tourists.
“It also tried to eat your sandal,” Maglor said.
“It was hungry.”
“It tried to eat my sandal.”
“It has excellent taste.”
Fizzgig stuck out its tongue. Maglor raised an eyebrow at it. It blew a smoke ring.
“Is it… magical?” Maglor asked, eyeing the now-slightly-scorched strap on his left sandal.
“Probably,” Sören said. “I mean, it hasn’t spoken yet, but it does tap its tail to the beat when I hum Michael Jackson songs.”
They stopped by a vendor selling fresh juice. The vendor didn’t blink at the elf, or the tattoos, or the lizard in a fez. This was Dubai. Stranger things happened before breakfast.
Maglor ordered pomegranate and mango. Sören got lemon-mint.
Fizzgig tried to climb into the blender. Sören caught him with reflexes born of living with a millenia-old elf who could out-drama an opera house.
Back at their hotel suite, the lizard made itself at home on the windowsill, watching the sun melt into the ocean of glass towers. Maglor tucked away his harp and ran a hand through his hair.
Sören came up behind him, wrapping tattooed arms around his waist.
“So,” Sören said softly. “Today was…”
“Alive,” Maglor finished.
“Yeah,” Sören said. “That.”
Fizzgig snored.
They kissed again, there by the window, city lights flickering like stars that hadn’t yet decided where to fall.
Later that night, as Sören slept, Fizzgig climbed onto the journal with the glowing star and curled up on top of it.
The book sighed and flipped open to a blank page.
A new song began to write itself, in silver ink:
He rode through dunes, through golden heat,
Beside the prince with singing hands.
He met a lizard, proud and small,
Who wore a hat and made demands.
The desert shifted, hearts unmasked--
A soul once broken, now aglow.
And laughter joined the ageless song…
For joy had found the son of Fëanor.
And on the next page, a tiny doodle of Fizzgig giving Rage a smug thumbs-up appeared in glowing ink.
Maglor would pretend he didn’t draw it.
Sören would know better.
Vibrant Visionaries #10: Camel, Water, Book Happy, Gold, Dubai, Elf
