Threefold Harmony Chapter 4: Fun At the Big E
The drive west was brisk, Nicholas at the wheel, Sören sprawled beside him with an energy drink in hand, and Macalaurë in the backseat, silent but watchful. His harp wasn’t with him today—Sören had asked, and the elf had simply said, “It is not that kind of gathering.”
Traffic thickened the closer they came to West Springfield. Banners flapped, cars spilled into lots carved out of fields, and a tide of humanity streamed toward the gates. Sören twisted around in his seat to grin at Macalaurë. “Welcome to the Big E. Chaos, fried, and served on a stick.”
Inside the fairgrounds, the world was color and noise stacked on top of itself: neon rides whirling, the thud of bass from a stage, the smell of fried dough colliding with grilled corn and livestock hay. Macalaurë took it all in with that unsettling stillness of his—like a statue dropped in the middle of a parade.
They began on the Avenue of the States, weaving through crowds with drinks in hand. At Maine’s house, Sören bought a blueberry pie wedge, warm and messy, and shoved it at Macalaurë. “Eat. It’s cultural.”
Macalaurë lifted it delicately, as though it might sing. He took a bite. His eyes widened. “Blueberries,” he said, as if naming a new star.
Sören barked a laugh. Nicholas smiled faintly into his coffee.
From there, it was a whirl of stalls: Vermont maple candies, Rhode Island clam cakes, a detour past New Hampshire’s syrup display. And then—Amy’s Sweet Treats. A booth with a line of teenagers daring each other to try the infamous Pickle Sundae: a giant dill split like a banana, topped with soft-serve vanilla, chocolate drizzle, and rainbow sprinkles.
Sören’s eyes lit up. He turned to Macalaurë with mock solemnity. “If you’re gonna hang with us, you gotta do one thing completely stupid. That’s the rule.”
Nicholas murmured, “Sören—” but it was too late. Sören had already bought one, grinning like the devil as he handed over the monstrosity.
Macalaurë accepted the paper boat as if he were receiving a ceremonial offering. The crowd around them snickered. He examined it, touched the melting swirl with one long finger, then—without hesitation—took a clean, measured bite.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
He chewed. Swallowed. Considered. Then said, in his even, melodic voice: “The salt brings out the cream.”
Sören nearly dropped his soda. “You—you actually like it?”
Macalaurë took another bite, perfectly calm. “I have eaten stranger things in stranger times.”
Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe this is my life.”
“Better believe it, professor,” Sören said, clapping him on the back, laughter spilling out of him.
They carried on, weaving toward the barns where children pressed sticky hands against pens of bleating goats and polished cows wore ribbons on their halters. The air was thick with hay, manure, and warm animal breath.
Sören leaned against the railing of the piglet pen, smirking. “Bet they’ll sing if you ask nice.”
Macalaurë crouched, hands resting loosely on his knees. A cluster of piglets nudged against each other, squealing. One broke away, tottered forward, and sniffed at his outstretched hand. He didn’t move. His expression softened—just barely—as the little creature rooted against his fingers. Then another came, and another, until he was ringed in a noisy, wriggling halo of piglets.
The barn had been loud, but in that pocket, sound bent. Even the animals quieted, pressing in as though they recognized something not-quite-human in their guest. Children fell silent, watching. Nicholas’s throat worked once, but he said nothing. Sören, for once, didn’t make a joke. He just felt the hair prickle on his arms.
Macalaurë stroked one small back, then rose slowly, and the spell broke. The piglets scattered with squeals, the crowd’s chatter rushed back in, and the three of them moved on. But the moment stuck—like harp strings still humming after the song was done.
Later, as dusk began to settle, they wandered past the rides lit up like fireflies. Sören bought a ridiculous stuffed bear by nailing a milk-can toss. He shoved it at Nicholas, who sighed but held it anyway.
On the ferris wheel, they shared a car. The city stretched in twilight, the fairgrounds glowing below like a galaxy in miniature. Macalaurë leaned back, eyes half-closed, the wind stirring his hair. Nicholas sipped quietly from the thermos of coffee he’d smuggled in. Sören leaned his head against the metal bar, looking between them—the man of centuries, the man of books—and felt that thrum again, the one he couldn’t name.
When they climbed off, sticky-fingered and weary, Macalaurë looked almost—almost—reluctant to leave.
“It sings,” he said, softly, of the fairgrounds behind them.
Sören grinned, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Told you.”
Traffic thickened the closer they came to West Springfield. Banners flapped, cars spilled into lots carved out of fields, and a tide of humanity streamed toward the gates. Sören twisted around in his seat to grin at Macalaurë. “Welcome to the Big E. Chaos, fried, and served on a stick.”
Inside the fairgrounds, the world was color and noise stacked on top of itself: neon rides whirling, the thud of bass from a stage, the smell of fried dough colliding with grilled corn and livestock hay. Macalaurë took it all in with that unsettling stillness of his—like a statue dropped in the middle of a parade.
They began on the Avenue of the States, weaving through crowds with drinks in hand. At Maine’s house, Sören bought a blueberry pie wedge, warm and messy, and shoved it at Macalaurë. “Eat. It’s cultural.”
Macalaurë lifted it delicately, as though it might sing. He took a bite. His eyes widened. “Blueberries,” he said, as if naming a new star.
Sören barked a laugh. Nicholas smiled faintly into his coffee.
From there, it was a whirl of stalls: Vermont maple candies, Rhode Island clam cakes, a detour past New Hampshire’s syrup display. And then—Amy’s Sweet Treats. A booth with a line of teenagers daring each other to try the infamous Pickle Sundae: a giant dill split like a banana, topped with soft-serve vanilla, chocolate drizzle, and rainbow sprinkles.
Sören’s eyes lit up. He turned to Macalaurë with mock solemnity. “If you’re gonna hang with us, you gotta do one thing completely stupid. That’s the rule.”
Nicholas murmured, “Sören—” but it was too late. Sören had already bought one, grinning like the devil as he handed over the monstrosity.
Macalaurë accepted the paper boat as if he were receiving a ceremonial offering. The crowd around them snickered. He examined it, touched the melting swirl with one long finger, then—without hesitation—took a clean, measured bite.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
He chewed. Swallowed. Considered. Then said, in his even, melodic voice: “The salt brings out the cream.”
Sören nearly dropped his soda. “You—you actually like it?”
Macalaurë took another bite, perfectly calm. “I have eaten stranger things in stranger times.”
Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe this is my life.”
“Better believe it, professor,” Sören said, clapping him on the back, laughter spilling out of him.
They carried on, weaving toward the barns where children pressed sticky hands against pens of bleating goats and polished cows wore ribbons on their halters. The air was thick with hay, manure, and warm animal breath.
Sören leaned against the railing of the piglet pen, smirking. “Bet they’ll sing if you ask nice.”
Macalaurë crouched, hands resting loosely on his knees. A cluster of piglets nudged against each other, squealing. One broke away, tottered forward, and sniffed at his outstretched hand. He didn’t move. His expression softened—just barely—as the little creature rooted against his fingers. Then another came, and another, until he was ringed in a noisy, wriggling halo of piglets.
The barn had been loud, but in that pocket, sound bent. Even the animals quieted, pressing in as though they recognized something not-quite-human in their guest. Children fell silent, watching. Nicholas’s throat worked once, but he said nothing. Sören, for once, didn’t make a joke. He just felt the hair prickle on his arms.
Macalaurë stroked one small back, then rose slowly, and the spell broke. The piglets scattered with squeals, the crowd’s chatter rushed back in, and the three of them moved on. But the moment stuck—like harp strings still humming after the song was done.
Later, as dusk began to settle, they wandered past the rides lit up like fireflies. Sören bought a ridiculous stuffed bear by nailing a milk-can toss. He shoved it at Nicholas, who sighed but held it anyway.
On the ferris wheel, they shared a car. The city stretched in twilight, the fairgrounds glowing below like a galaxy in miniature. Macalaurë leaned back, eyes half-closed, the wind stirring his hair. Nicholas sipped quietly from the thermos of coffee he’d smuggled in. Sören leaned his head against the metal bar, looking between them—the man of centuries, the man of books—and felt that thrum again, the one he couldn’t name.
When they climbed off, sticky-fingered and weary, Macalaurë looked almost—almost—reluctant to leave.
“It sings,” he said, softly, of the fairgrounds behind them.
Sören grinned, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. “Told you.”
Their home was quiet when they returned, the night pressing against the windows. Sören dumped the bear on the couch, collapsed beside it, and kicked off his sneakers. Nicholas hung up his coat with habitual neatness, then joined him.
For a long minute they sat in silence, just listening to the radiator hum. Then Sören let out a low whistle. “He hugged pigs. Like, actual pigs. And ate a pickle sundae. Today was wild.”
Nicholas allowed himself the faintest chuckle. “And you laughed more than I have seen in weeks. That is worth the price of admission.”
Sören tilted his head back against the cushions, eyes half-shut. “He’s… different here. Not the elf on the balcony. Just—someone who let a pig chew his shoelace.”
Nicholas folded his hands in his lap, gaze steady. “Even exiles deserve reprieve.”
They sat with that thought for a while, soft and heavy. Finally Sören nudged him with an elbow. “So. Corn dog lecture, still coming?”
Nicholas gave a mock sigh. “As you know, pedagogy is a tireless calling.”
Sören laughed, curling against him, the warmth of the day still in his chest.
