Threefold Harmony Chapter 2: Only the Beginning
Sören couldn’t quite believe it even as he set three plates on the table. The elf — Macalaurë, not “Mark” — sat across from him, posture so perfectly upright he looked like he’d been born at a lectern. Nicholas, of course, had slipped into professorial host mode, fussing with wine glasses and trying not to show how thrilled he was.
Dinner itself was simple: roasted chicken, potatoes, salad. Sören caught Macalaurë studying the spread with something like amusement, as though he’d seen the same meal a thousand times in a thousand kitchens. He accepted it graciously, long fingers precise as he lifted his fork.
Nicholas was the first to break the quiet. “I confess, I am curious. You say you disguise your form to appear human to live among mortals… yet you let us see you as you truly are.” He swirled his wine and arched a brow. “Why us?”
Macalaurë’s lips curved, faint and rueful. “Normally I do not. It is easier to wear the mask. To pretend at being what you are.” His grey eyes flicked from Nicholas to Sören. “But you listened. Most people hear music and think only of themselves.”
Sören shifted in his chair. “So you… what, hide the ears? The whole thing?”
“Yes. It is not difficult.” He tapped his temple. “A glamour, subtle enough. The world sees what it expects.”
“And your people?” Nicholas asked softly.
For the first time, sorrow crept across the elf’s face. “I cannot go home again. My feet wander, my song lingers, but the halls of my kin are closed to me.”
Silence pressed at the edges of the table. Even Sören, who normally couldn’t leave a pause unteased, only toyed with his fork. Finally he said, “That sounds lonely.”
Macalaurë did not argue.
They ate in companionable quiet after that, the light in the dining room warm and golden. Every so often Sören caught Nicholas watching their guest with a historian’s hunger, filing away each gesture like a line of text. Sören himself couldn’t stop noticing the little things: how Macalaurë’s voice softened when he spoke, how he carried himself like he weighed centuries instead of pounds. Subtle hints, nothing more — but enough to leave the air charged.
When the plates were stacked and rinsed, Nicholas insisted on making cocoa. He worked with the brisk, professorial efficiency he brought to everything, whisking milk in a small saucepan until it frothed. The kitchen filled with the scent of chocolate, and when he returned to the living room, three mugs steamed in his hands.
They settled there as though they’d done it a hundred times: Nicholas and Sören sharing the sofa, and Macalaurë in the armchair, though the elf sat perfectly straight, spine unbending. Marshmallows bobbed in the cups, little islands dissolving slowly.
Snúður, the tuxedo cat, padded in at once, tail high. He circled Macalaurë’s boots, gave a delicate sniff, then leapt onto the rug and curled himself into a neat loaf. The elf regarded him solemnly. “A guardian,” he said, almost to himself. “He watches your hearth.”
Sören smirked over his mug. “He watches for snacks. Don’t let him fool you.”
But when Snúður purred, Macalaurë’s expression softened, as if some long-forgotten melody brushed his thoughts.
The conversation drifted quieter then, carried more by the lamplight than words. Nicholas mused on how myths and history blurred, how truth slipped between them. Sören stretched his legs, warming his hands on the mug, sneaking glances at the elf beside him who seemed both utterly present and impossibly far away. And for a while, nothing pressed at the edges—just cocoa, marshmallows, and the steady sound of a cat’s purr.
As it got later, Nicholas fetched his keys. “We’ll take you home,” he said firmly, as though Macalaurë might otherwise vanish into mist.
The elf gave the barest nod. “I live not far.”
The drive was quiet, the car filled with the faint scent of pine and the hum of the road. Macalaurë’s apartment turned out to be unassuming — a brick building tucked on a quiet street, hardly befitting an immortal bard.
He unbuckled his seatbelt but lingered a moment, hand on the door.
“Thank you. For the meal, and the company.” His smile was small, but real. “Will you come to me next? To share my table in return?”
Nicholas inclined his head. “It would be our honor.”
Sören grinned faintly. “Better be good food.”
Macalaurë’s laugh was soft, melodic. “I will see what centuries have taught me.” He slipped from the car, harp case in hand, and disappeared into the shadowed entryway.
Sören leaned back in his seat, exhaling. “So… we just had dinner with an actual elf. In our dining room.”
Nicholas’s mouth quirked. “As you know, history has a way of becoming present.”
And for once, Sören didn’t have a smart reply. Just the echo of harp strings in his mind, promising this was only the beginning.
The apartment felt too quiet once they returned, as though Macalaurë had left a piece of his music behind in the walls and its absence rang louder than sound. Sören tossed his keys on the counter and dropped onto the couch with a heavy sigh.
Nicholas followed, ever deliberate, setting his coat neatly over the chair before settling beside him. Sören leaned sideways without being asked, tucking himself under Nicholas’s arm. The older man’s warmth and solidity eased something in him he hadn’t realized was clenched tight.
“Well,” Sören said finally, muffled against the knit of Nicholas’s sweater, “that wasn’t your average Tuesday night.”
Nicholas made a thoughtful sound, stroking absentmindedly through Sören’s curls. “As you know, history is rarely content to remain in books.”
Sören snorted. “Yeah, but usually it doesn’t walk into our park and play harp concertos.”
“True,” Nicholas conceded. His lips quirked faintly, the closest he came to outright amusement. “And yet here we are.”
They were quiet for a while, the only sound the hum of the radiator. Sören traced idle patterns against Nicholas’s ribs through the fabric of his sweater. “He seemed… sad,” he said at last. “Like even when he smiled, it was borrowed.”
Nicholas’s hand stilled in his hair, then resumed. “I noticed. Centuries of regret are not easily carried.” He bent, pressing a kiss to Sören’s forehead. “We will be kind hosts. That much we can offer.”
Sören tilted his head up, a bratty grin sneaking past the softness. “You mean you’ll lecture him into feeling better.”
Nicholas gave a mock sigh. “As you know, my lectures are riveting.”
Sören laughed, curling closer, letting the banter dissolve into silence again. Nicholas’s arm tightened around him, and for a moment the world shrank to warmth and the steady beat of a heart under his cheek.
“Hey, Nico?” Sören murmured, half-asleep already.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you dragged me out for that walk.”
Nicholas’s voice softened. “As am I.”
And under the glow of the lamp, with autumn air brushing against the windows, they drifted toward sleep together — the promise of harp strings still lingering at the edges of their dreams.
Dinner itself was simple: roasted chicken, potatoes, salad. Sören caught Macalaurë studying the spread with something like amusement, as though he’d seen the same meal a thousand times in a thousand kitchens. He accepted it graciously, long fingers precise as he lifted his fork.
Nicholas was the first to break the quiet. “I confess, I am curious. You say you disguise your form to appear human to live among mortals… yet you let us see you as you truly are.” He swirled his wine and arched a brow. “Why us?”
Macalaurë’s lips curved, faint and rueful. “Normally I do not. It is easier to wear the mask. To pretend at being what you are.” His grey eyes flicked from Nicholas to Sören. “But you listened. Most people hear music and think only of themselves.”
Sören shifted in his chair. “So you… what, hide the ears? The whole thing?”
“Yes. It is not difficult.” He tapped his temple. “A glamour, subtle enough. The world sees what it expects.”
“And your people?” Nicholas asked softly.
For the first time, sorrow crept across the elf’s face. “I cannot go home again. My feet wander, my song lingers, but the halls of my kin are closed to me.”
Silence pressed at the edges of the table. Even Sören, who normally couldn’t leave a pause unteased, only toyed with his fork. Finally he said, “That sounds lonely.”
Macalaurë did not argue.
They ate in companionable quiet after that, the light in the dining room warm and golden. Every so often Sören caught Nicholas watching their guest with a historian’s hunger, filing away each gesture like a line of text. Sören himself couldn’t stop noticing the little things: how Macalaurë’s voice softened when he spoke, how he carried himself like he weighed centuries instead of pounds. Subtle hints, nothing more — but enough to leave the air charged.
When the plates were stacked and rinsed, Nicholas insisted on making cocoa. He worked with the brisk, professorial efficiency he brought to everything, whisking milk in a small saucepan until it frothed. The kitchen filled with the scent of chocolate, and when he returned to the living room, three mugs steamed in his hands.
They settled there as though they’d done it a hundred times: Nicholas and Sören sharing the sofa, and Macalaurë in the armchair, though the elf sat perfectly straight, spine unbending. Marshmallows bobbed in the cups, little islands dissolving slowly.
Snúður, the tuxedo cat, padded in at once, tail high. He circled Macalaurë’s boots, gave a delicate sniff, then leapt onto the rug and curled himself into a neat loaf. The elf regarded him solemnly. “A guardian,” he said, almost to himself. “He watches your hearth.”
Sören smirked over his mug. “He watches for snacks. Don’t let him fool you.”
But when Snúður purred, Macalaurë’s expression softened, as if some long-forgotten melody brushed his thoughts.
The conversation drifted quieter then, carried more by the lamplight than words. Nicholas mused on how myths and history blurred, how truth slipped between them. Sören stretched his legs, warming his hands on the mug, sneaking glances at the elf beside him who seemed both utterly present and impossibly far away. And for a while, nothing pressed at the edges—just cocoa, marshmallows, and the steady sound of a cat’s purr.
As it got later, Nicholas fetched his keys. “We’ll take you home,” he said firmly, as though Macalaurë might otherwise vanish into mist.
The elf gave the barest nod. “I live not far.”
The drive was quiet, the car filled with the faint scent of pine and the hum of the road. Macalaurë’s apartment turned out to be unassuming — a brick building tucked on a quiet street, hardly befitting an immortal bard.
He unbuckled his seatbelt but lingered a moment, hand on the door.
“Thank you. For the meal, and the company.” His smile was small, but real. “Will you come to me next? To share my table in return?”
Nicholas inclined his head. “It would be our honor.”
Sören grinned faintly. “Better be good food.”
Macalaurë’s laugh was soft, melodic. “I will see what centuries have taught me.” He slipped from the car, harp case in hand, and disappeared into the shadowed entryway.
Sören leaned back in his seat, exhaling. “So… we just had dinner with an actual elf. In our dining room.”
Nicholas’s mouth quirked. “As you know, history has a way of becoming present.”
And for once, Sören didn’t have a smart reply. Just the echo of harp strings in his mind, promising this was only the beginning.
The apartment felt too quiet once they returned, as though Macalaurë had left a piece of his music behind in the walls and its absence rang louder than sound. Sören tossed his keys on the counter and dropped onto the couch with a heavy sigh.
Nicholas followed, ever deliberate, setting his coat neatly over the chair before settling beside him. Sören leaned sideways without being asked, tucking himself under Nicholas’s arm. The older man’s warmth and solidity eased something in him he hadn’t realized was clenched tight.
“Well,” Sören said finally, muffled against the knit of Nicholas’s sweater, “that wasn’t your average Tuesday night.”
Nicholas made a thoughtful sound, stroking absentmindedly through Sören’s curls. “As you know, history is rarely content to remain in books.”
Sören snorted. “Yeah, but usually it doesn’t walk into our park and play harp concertos.”
“True,” Nicholas conceded. His lips quirked faintly, the closest he came to outright amusement. “And yet here we are.”
They were quiet for a while, the only sound the hum of the radiator. Sören traced idle patterns against Nicholas’s ribs through the fabric of his sweater. “He seemed… sad,” he said at last. “Like even when he smiled, it was borrowed.”
Nicholas’s hand stilled in his hair, then resumed. “I noticed. Centuries of regret are not easily carried.” He bent, pressing a kiss to Sören’s forehead. “We will be kind hosts. That much we can offer.”
Sören tilted his head up, a bratty grin sneaking past the softness. “You mean you’ll lecture him into feeling better.”
Nicholas gave a mock sigh. “As you know, my lectures are riveting.”
Sören laughed, curling closer, letting the banter dissolve into silence again. Nicholas’s arm tightened around him, and for a moment the world shrank to warmth and the steady beat of a heart under his cheek.
“Hey, Nico?” Sören murmured, half-asleep already.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you dragged me out for that walk.”
Nicholas’s voice softened. “As am I.”
And under the glow of the lamp, with autumn air brushing against the windows, they drifted toward sleep together — the promise of harp strings still lingering at the edges of their dreams.
