The next chord he strummed came in an
almost irritatingly beautiful tone. He
faced the opposite side of the small grove, his ears tuned to the sound of the
instrument, which bore a striking resemblance to some sort of lute, leaning in
the crook of his elbow. He frowned,
picking the strings individually as if he was in the middle of deciding
something.
A woman sat on the other side of the
grove, twiddling with a large, plumy quill pen while staring at a blank piece of
parchment.
She tapped her fingers on her knee for a
few moments before her cavernous dark eyes lifted to address her companion,
“Eanrin, whichever way you want to end the tune, it sounds beautiful, but I
cannot write anything until you tell me the words.”
The man acknowledged her with a smile,
“Well, shall I serenade you with the ballad of Rose Awaits the Moonlight so far, then?”
Dame Imraldera sat on an immense fallen
log with the parchment propped on a large book for ease of use. Her inkwell was nested in a knot on said log
as she prepared to pen another one of his pieces. For now, they had chosen a small outcropping
of trees in relative distance to the festivities so Eanrin could allow his
creative spirit to “breathe” before he would have to escort a young audacious
prince back to Parumvir.
The poet readied his voice and strummed
the first chord, and Imraldera prepared her pen.
Dark
was the night upon which begins
A
tale of passion to rouse the soul
Queen
mother bore child ‘cross the gates
Atoning
for acrimonious sins
Or
so the tale’s been told.
Oh,
beauteous girl
How
deep is thy skin
That
thy mother should leave thee
With
world of beasts therein
Amongst
the Wood for many long years
In
shadow of a mischievous prince
So
frozen and dark that no one could see
Past
the mask that veiled the tears
And
such it has been ever since
Oh,
beauteous girl
How
fair is thy skin
That
thy prince should banish thee
To
broken world of thy kin
King
father didst thus prepare the night
With
which he was to seize a dream
To
redeem lives from a most gruesome fate
Knights
and princes did pursue to fight
For
lady whose eyes did gleam
Oh,
beauteous girl
How
deep is thy skin
That
many would see thy zeal
And
seek for thine heart to win
Mischievous
prince arrived to give his life
For
lady fair who would become queen
When
reunited the prince spoke many things
To
one who may become his wife
Or
so has yet to be seen
Upon
his parting the prince obliged
To
sweep her from her feet and then
Bestow
a gift upon the young queen’s lips
To
profess truth instead of lies
And
journey through forests Golden.
“Eanrin!”
He raised his head to her, his eyebrows
high on his head, “Yes?”
“That last part didn’t happen.”
Imraldera had stopped writing. She was regarding him with a very slightly
amused frown, that, of course, he could not see, but probably felt nonetheless;
especially considering the impish smirk that was curling across his face.
“It makes for such a wonderful tune,
though, does it not?”
She sighed, “Eanrin, were that the world
was a perfect place…”
“The dragon-eaten rascal most certainly
should have stepped up as a man would have done.”
The woman raised her eyebrows, “Oh, you
mean like you?”
“Of course.”
Though there was very evidently much to
say on the subject, he said nothing more about it and moved on, “So, what do
you think?”
Passing off the subject and attempting
to focus, she tapped her chin with the feathery end of her quill. Licking her lips, she considered her words to
the famous musician carefully, “It’s beautiful, Eanrin, but it’s certainly
different from the usual.”
“Oh?”
Narrowing her eyes to pinpoint her
focus, she spoke again, slowly, “Well, the musical style’s a little
different. You are direct and to the
point through most of it, normally you have a tendency to babble on whatever
subject the work is about.”
He scrunched his nose, “What does it
matter now? The tale will go down in
history and be known for its—”
“Bizarre rhyme scheme?”
Feigning offense, he pressed a hand to
his chest and scoffed, “Now, now, old girl, you should really know by now that
jealousy is quite unbecoming.”
A roll of the eyes accentuated her
words, “So what’s the reason for the directivity, Eanrin? I know you are not fond of Lionheart, but
must the entire tale be boiled down into a single song? I would have thought you would have written a
few of them, at least.”
He huffed again, “Really now, this is a
masterpiece for the amount of time I had.
I had to have something before I lose the rest of my sanity taking
Prince Felix back to the Near World.”
A smile crossed her face, “And the last
part of that song, Eanrin? I would hate
to have to write in the scrolls that you lie in your music as well.”
His expression flashed with something
strange for just a quick moment, almost too quick for her to catch, but she
knew better. If she asked him about it,
he would undoubtedly state once again that a man is entitled to a few secrets,
so she need not bother. Eanrin’s devious
smirk returned, “As far as I am concerned, that is what happened, and that is
all.”
Placing her quill to the side, she
responded, “Why must you insist on taking these things to extremes?”
The musician sighed and shook his head,
a smile still on his face, “Do you not know, my dear, that one day, the world
shall be mine?”
Her smile widened, “Oh really? Is this your new conquest, oh notorious
musical one?”
He nodded, “Of course. And when I do, everything will be as it
should. Lads will become men and profess
their undying love, whisking their ladies into a world of happy endings.”
This time, she nearly choked on her
laughter, pressing a hand to her mouth to hide its sound, “You know, Eanrin…”
Imraldera’s abyssal eyes held on him,
and he inclined his head most slightly to listen to her without making it
obvious to the untrained eye.
Her grin was badly hidden, “I do believe
you are slightly delusional.”
It
was unclear whether Eanrin took her seriously or not, for the pout that hung on
his lips was characteristically vague.
He crossed his arms, his instrument in one hand as the other hand
clenched around his bicep, waiting for her to continue.
She did, “As the self-proclaimed Prince
of High Romantic Verse, you show nearly no emotion for yourself. I must say, I begin to wonder if you have any
at all; perhaps your music is your way of trying to adopt others’ emotions as
your own?”
This time, his golden mane visibly
bristled, “Really, old girl. And how,
might I ask, are you going to prove this one?
I am not a man to run from a challenge.
Very well. Find proof of your
plight and I will concede.”
It was a little difficult to try not to
have a little bit of fun at this point.
She had to consider all her options with the most care. He would undoubtedly try to argue with the
Gleamdren excuse, but perhaps that would do her argument more good than
harm. A thought came to her.
It was a sad thought, and if she had
been alone for a few days, it probably would have hurt a great deal.
In this situation, however, in a setting
fresh from festivities and loved ones, she felt perhaps it was a thought that
could easily be passed from her mind until a later date when she was once again
relatively alone with words and flashbacks spiraling about in her head.
With the warmth of those loved ones
nearby and the comical nature of the challenge, Imraldera felt more intrepid at
the thought of saying such things. And
because the notion was a bit painful would be exactly why she would emerge the
victor.
So the woman took a deep breath and
answered the challenge, a calm expression, save the curious raised eyebrows,
settled on her face.
“Eanrin?
When…was the last time you sang to me?”
When he made to object, she finished,
“Not for me, Eanrin. To
me.”
It was evident then that both knew
exactly what she was asking. It had been
a frightfully long time, if at all, since the poet had ever written a thing
concerning or directed at her.
However, Imraldera was sadly mistaken to
think that this would secure her victory in this challenge with her companion.
Eanrin’s voice had spluttered. And as Imraldera’s dark eyes found their way
to his face, his whole hand was clasped across his mouth and nose, the skin
under his eye patches visibly heated.
His eyebrows were low and drawn together, and, though he couldn’t see
her, he turned his head away.
Enveloping the man’s face was an
altogether flustered and troubled expression.
To see the epitome of grace and charm
fumbling like a disconcerted boy over her suggestion, Imraldera was sure she
was seeing things.
Then the blind poet uttered a feral
growl, his voice barely above a murmur as he seemed to concede on an entirely
different notion of defeat, “Dragon’s teeth, woman.”
Fin.
