Maglor in the 1848 French Revolution by Aprilertuile

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January 1847 – rejoining civilization

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1847, in January, Maglor decided to give up living alone and join civilization again. He had lived in isolation for long enough this time around and felt the need for conversation again, for mingling and company and… the inevitable heartbreak that follows.

Because the situation would lead to heartbreak. Either he’d need to leave the people he would grow to know and love, or they’d die on him. Time and time again, it happened. Always it led him to swear “never again”, and always he came back. He was a social creature after all.

Maglor entered Paris more or less by accident after a couple of weeks of travel.

Well, accident wasn’t quite the right word.

He didn’t plan it, but it was surprisingly hard to find a steady job in the small cities he usually visited.

Also, everywhere had protests of some sort going on. Maglor didn’t want to be singled out as a foreign person intruding where he wasn’t welcome.

Paris tempted him; in such a large city he would find it easier to find a job, and to stay anonymous. Large cities were usually the best places to stay an unknown figure, forever in shadow and never remembered.

Maglor always found himself surprised when he entered a human city. Humans had an interesting dynamic with the world surrounding them, and Paris was no exception:

It was… An impressive city.

Impressive, but disturbing.

You could walk through narrow streets with poor people of little education; easy victims of illnesses, famines, and abuse from higher ranking people…

Only to cross a corner street to find yourself walking next to impressive buildings owned by rich people, who enjoyed all the advantages money could offer.

It was a study in contrasts.

Poor and rich.

Ill and healthy.

Harassed and powerful.

At the mercy of criminals and walking around fearlessly.

Children working desperately for the chance to get a bit of bread, and children who had never known a moment of work or privation in their lives.

And as usual, as if to prove that money and power meant nothing in the end, the most generous people Maglor found were not among the rich.

For yes, not even a day in Paris and he had managed to find a job at a tavern. He’d tend tables and play music for the patrons of the tavern in exchange for food, and a place to sleep in the kitchen.

The owner of the place had pitied him, clearly.

She was a plump woman with a tired face, wearing dark dresses of simple design. She looked tired, and yet when she found him, he was in the process of deciding whether or not to risk sleeping in the street that night and whether or not to go play his music in a richer part of the city to earn something to eat… And she had taken a look at him, and put a piece of bread in his hand.

The bread was clearly a bit stale, and yet it tasted better than the banquets of his youth did.  Admittedly that was the first meal he had in… Far too long probably.

“You wouldn’t happen to be looking for help in your establishment?” Maglor had asked, just in case.

“I can’t pay you lad. Can’t pay anyone these days.”

“I’d take work against food and shelter.”

That had the woman take a good look at him.

“Only shelter I can promise is a mattress of sort in the kitchen. Rooms are all taken for me and the paying guests,” she grumbled.

“I don’t mind.”

“I suppose the kitchen is a damn sight better than the streets, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

She snorted at that. She could only offer terrible work with impossible hours, and a place to fall asleep in exhaustion in the evening. Only promise she could make, he wouldn’t be in the cold in the streets.

“That sounds good, right about now.”

“Alright, you’re hired then. Start by cleaning those tables here.”

Maglor chuckled but caught the rag she threw at him and went to work. He wondered briefly if it was actually cleaning or just pushing the same grease and alcohol around, but decided it wasn’t really his problem.

Seeing him working diligently, the woman went back to the kitchen to cook. Maglor found it curious that she was alone to do everything. Women in these time tended to be heavily dependent on their parents and husbands, for some reason.

By the end of the evening, an evening filled with grumbling patrons, drunken arguments, and cleaning, the woman led Maglor toward the kitchen.

“What’s your name, Mr Mystery Worker?”

“Ah… Max. You can call me Max.” Maglor answered, caught by surprise.

“Short for something?”

“Of course.”

“Are you on the run from something?” She asked with suspicion

“Sort of.”

From a few millennia of lives ago, from memories, from murders, and the loss of his family, and of all the people he had come to know and love over time.

“Did you do something illegal?”

“Hm… No I haven’t.”

In recent memory, that was.

“My name is Ismérie. You’re welcome to work here. I want no fighting, and no problems. When you want to leave, leave, but tell me before you go.”

Maglor nodded.

“On Thursdays there will be students coming in. Don’t let them order anything expensive, they can’t pay for it.”

“Noted.”

“And if you see a soldier coming, come and tell me.”

Maglor raised an eyebrow and wondered briefly if he shouldn’t be the one asking if she was doing something illegal.

He nevertheless agreed, and she left him in the kitchen with a bare mattress on the floor in a corner.

Maglor sat down on it heavily, wondering for a moment what he got himself into. But he knew himself well enough to know he had always liked seeing and listening to so many people, and so many stories. He will probably enjoy his time working in this tavern.