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Written for @zahrabane where Magnus and Alec meet in a Medieval Inn.
how he searches low and searches high
tears flowing from his eyes,
that person might have well have said that such great grief
had never been expressed by any other beast.
- Guillaume de Palerne.
/.\./.\
It's the year 1406, and Magnus has never been further from home, traipsing down the cobbled, filthy streets of Yorkshire instead of the vibrant docks of Kalapa.
The houses here are coated in grime, the rain sweeping the ashes of neglect away in a thick black torrent.
When Magnus had first set out on his voyage, this had not been his destination.
He'd been living on the streets, bargaining with his talent at weaving and with fabrics; but he hadn’t stayed homeless long. His life had fallen under a new light when Zheng He chose to stop in Kalapa. Zheng had sold a splendorous shower of gold and other riches; one night, as Magnus slept near the docks, there was a splash. The next morning, Zheng He was asking for a new tailor.
He'd rushed to the boat, his eyes bright, thrilled by the prospect, and, by some miracle, landed the job. The fabrics he got to work with were divine. The purest of silk dyed in the fairest of gold, looping around the crew's skin like another layer of air.
Living at sea had been exhilarating, but as they touched down in Ormuz, the last part of their voyage, the itch for freedom still hadn't settled down. The itch for a life that fulfilled him, with people who stood as permanent pillars in his life, not ones that crumbled away with a puff of wind.
It had been a meandering trail up into the British Isles. One place he’ll never forget is the twisting, enchanting streets of Paris, the soft sighs of already faceless lovers.
Yet the rain still pounded around his ears in Yorkshire even as memories flew past his mind, the building he had been searching for finally in front of his eyes. It was certainly a lot cleaner than the other buildings of the town, well cared for with wood that didn't turn to mush under the thrumming rain. Oaken wood, the door nailed in with thick lead bolts, glinting from the last drop of a peeking sun.
The roman letters above the door had once been unfamiliar. Yet now that necessity had filled his head with foreign tongues, the fact that they were done in intricate loops didn't throw Magnus off that this establishment was the local inn.
He knocked, the coins jangling in his pocket and his hair heavy with rain, though thankfully his prized fabric was protected from the relentless rain by the thick leather of his bag.
Someone was opening the door, the bolt shuddering as they cracked it open. It turned out to be a lady, who had her ebony hair done up in elaborate braids; clearly, this was someone not used to the hard drag of life.
Her accent came out thick when she spoke. “Come in,” she said, her dress sweeping the floor. “We have got one more bed left, sir. If you may.”
And then she swept inside and Magnus gently closed the door behind him, the flickering torches casting shadows against the rough walls.
“It’s my brother,” she said softly, “who lays in the bed across from the one we’ve got free. Bit grouchy, but,” she shrugged, hitching up her skirt as they went over a step, “he’s alright.”
Magnus frowned. “Then why does he sleep in one of the rooms of the guests?” he asked.
“Because my other brother is currently courting his lady and our parents think it improper to let them sleep anywhere near each other.”
“Your parents?” Magnus asked, blinking. “Do they run the inn?”
The woman laughed drily. “In theory.” She extended a hand, but she offered it side-on - the palm not tilted down, hidden from this world but to the side - so Magnus gently clasped it with his own. It was smooth, but callouses were starting to form. “My name is Isabelle, but my friends call me Izzy.”
Magnus smiled, releasing her hand. “Then call me Magnus, dear. Are your parents away?”
Izzy nodded. “Visiting someone influential or other. Owning an inn can be quite a lucrative business if you know what to do.”
Magnus pulled out his bag of coins, the sound echoing throughout the tranquil night. “What should I pay to spend one night at such a lovely establishment?” he asked.
“A tuppence,” Izzy said. “I’ll lead you to your room, now. If you follow me.”
The money was exchanged like another drop of rain; light, but with enough, there would be riches.
The service had been a delight so far, Magnus mused as he followed Izzy; certainly, no drawn out glances or barely concealed sneers. Hopefully, Izzy’s brother would turn out to be just as courteous.
Izzy led him to the end of a narrow corridor, creaking the door open until Magnus could see the room clearly from outside.
There on a thin bed sat a man, pursuing a slip of a book, a candle flickering in the corner on an old wooden table. The other bed sat opposite; just as bare, but at least free of lice and lashings of rain.
The man looked up as they slipped inside. “Izzy,” he said, and Magnus had never seen a smile so soft. His eyes - this fascinating colour which the Europeans called hazel - flickered up to Magnus. “Is this our last patron for the night?”
“It is indeed. This is Magnus.” She walked back towards the door, but it was not a long walk as the room was small. “And this is Alec,” she added just before she slipped back out.
Alec blinked, before putting down his book. “The weather is harsh tonight,” he commented as the water dripped onto the floor from Magnus’ coat. “As it is almost every other night, but you grow to love the rain here.”
“It is violent,” Magnus agreed, setting his bag down behind his bed and taking off his coat. “But no more violent than being at sea.”
The colours in Alec’s eyes shifted along with the flickering light, from the brightest gold to the deepest brown. “I must say, that wanderers from afar are not a common occurrence here. I do not think that I have had the pleasure of meeting you before.”
“I did not know of your town’s existence until tonight,” Magnus admitted, “as I do hail from Kalapa.”
Alec frowned. “Is that in Asia?”
“I think it is,” Magnus replied, “you must forgive me, I am not familiar with your customs, especially the odd names you craft for our lands.”
Alec shook his head. “No apologies needed, as I am not much better. But this poem is from France, so at least I am trying to learn a little about the culture of the countries near my own.”
Magnus couldn’t stop a frown from emerging as he loosened his shoes. “But aren’t your two countries currently at war?”
“Perhaps,” Alec said, a wry smile slipping through, “but I never said I wasn’t a rebel.”
“Could you read it to me?” Magnus asked, tucking his shoes under the bed.
Alec smiled. “Of course. Do you speak French?”
“Bits and pieces,” Magnus said, trying to quell the nostalgia rising up beneath his skin, “I spent a few weeks in Paris, but I’m afraid it is quite rusty from disuse.”
“That is perfectly understandable. My Italian is falling to pieces."
"Italian?" Magnus asked. "I did not think it customary for your people to study the languages of others. French makes sense with the proximity and the war, but Italian?"
Alec smiled, but this time it was tight. "It is not, but my parents insisted. But I do not like Italian, and they are scarcely here, so I seldom practice the language. I quite honestly prefer French."
"French is a beautiful language, but unfortunately it has been slipping from my mind as I try to get a grasp of your language, this elusive English," Magnus said, unfolding the rug that lay on his bed.
Alec laughed, and this time it was free. "I do not envy you. Certainly, it is one language that twists the tongue. However, I must still speak this passage in English, if your French is rusty, as its beauty lies in the entirety, not the fragments. This is a snippet from Guillaume de Palerne, a story about a prince who was kidnapped by a werewolf as a young boy.”
Magnus lay down on the bed, the thick thatched rug covering him, curling onto his side to watch Alec, who was watching him delicately, almost fondly.
“No one should hide or be silent,” Alec read out, his eyes glued to the curling page as his voice curled across the room. “If he knows something which might please others.”
He laughed a little to himself, shaking his head. “Would you prefer to read this by yourself? I am afraid that my voice is not very pleasant to listen to. I do not mind scribing out the translation.”
“No,” Magnus said, his heart already singing for the narrative which was leaving Alec's lips like a swan, “do not feel like you have to stop. Your voice is, indeed, incredibly beautiful.”
Magnus wasn’t sure if it was his words or the candle’s light that brought the fiery tinge to Alec’s face, but Alec ducked his head almost in shame before nodding.
“Of course,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “It is truly a beautiful yet tragic story. Please do tell me when to stop, if you do indeed enjoy the sound of my voice.”
Alec picked up right from where he had trailed off. “But he does not explain it clearly; for he truly conceals and wastes his knowledge…”
The rain still slid down the outside walls with frightening pace; Magnus was still lost in a world much larger than his own, but as he listened to the lilt of Alec’s voice under the warmth of candlelight, Magnus wondered if maybe he had finally found a place with people who would not just tolerate his presence, but one with people who would go beyond to personally welcome Magnus in with loving arms.
