Chapter Text
The air curled up from the ground, hot, dusty, and thick with old battle-dirt. Stefen let Melody pick her dainty way down the rocky path back toward the border town he was currently frequenting, fair aching for a good meal and a mug of ale. And possibly more, if Declan is free for a candlemark. It felt somewhat ironic to be thinking of Declan when riding Melody, but if he were to pause his life for all that Vanyel had gifted him, he’d be walking in slow, unpleasant circles. And he’s the one who turned me away. I offered my heart…
That still rankled, five years later. He had been so sure that his feelings were not unrequited, that he had seen glimpses of attraction and more in Vanyel’s eyes. But the second he’d mentioned love, Vanyel had shut down entirely. He was so cold about it all, methodical and mechanical, explaining my own feelings to me: “you’re obviously infatuated.” How arrogant.
He dropped the pointless thoughts; he could never stay mad, at any rate, nor shake his damnable attraction. Every time I glimpse him at Council, my mind betrays me. Those months they’d been close friends blurred in his memory, soft, warm, and golden-lit with an intensity of want and feeling he’d never imagined before or since. My flirtation with a demi-God. He had known then and knew now, with a bone-deep certainty, that he had been in love. Worse, that I would have been more fulfilled with him—more complete—than with anyone else. Yet the depression he’d sunk into after the rejection, coupled with the nail-biting months of waiting to hear whether Vanyel was alive or dead after his excursion to the northern border were… nothing I’d ever want to go through again. When he did finally return, he barely had two words for me. Or anyone save Savil and Jisa, after Randi and Shavri...
So he’d moved on, made himself useful, left Haven and its comforts behind. He dropped back in to Bardic every so often, composed songs about his travels, gave a few exceptionally well-received recitals, then went on his way again. With the Karsite border heating up unexpectedly, Treven had actually given him a mission this time, hoping his voice and gift could keep the troops in better spirits. Nobody wanted to go through this damned war a second time. His thoughts almost strayed to Vanyel once more, in their traitorous nature, but he stopped them short. If I happen upon him out here, so be it. I can’t avoid him forever.
The clay roofs of the village dotted the horizon red, the odd houses sharpening into their dome-like forms as he drew closer. Finally. That’s the last time I step out for a ride without knowing the way. Judging by the angle of the sun, he had but a bit of time to himself before the soldiers poured into the town’s main tavern—now its only, as the proprietors of the other two had fled potential conflict. They’d be thirsty, tonight; boredom and heat combined to make a restless company. It’s almost like they’re hoping for real fighting—dreading it, too, but this endless waiting is a different sort of torture. Rumor has it we’ll attack within the week.
He threaded the streets with practiced ease; all these towns were made the same, concentric circles about a market square. A few soldiers in dusty blue nodded at him and he smiled back. I do like this work, though. You can’t help but feel incredibly useful, enough to forget anything but the moment. Reining Melody in as he reached the square, already thronged with people, he dismounted and headed to the large central building he currently called home. No time for myself after all, I don’t think. There’s far too many here already. Ah, well. At least it’ll be a lively night!
A candlemark later, he was starting his third set, hands and voice warmed up by the eager audience and two mugs of fairly decent ale. He took a long drink from his glass and strummed his gittern in a well-known, upbeat melody.
“Well?” He called out to the crowd.
“Demonsbane!” One soldier yelled, raising his tankard.
Dear Gods, no.
Another hand shot up. “Demonsbane!”
A group by the bar looked over with interest, beginning a sort of chant.
“Demonsbane! Demonsbane!”
In for a sheep… “Fine. Your wish is my decree,” he echoed back, playing the first bars and working out the tricky fingering. He was focused enough not to really register the disturbance at the back of the room, to only be peripherally aware of it, as he drew into the opening bars and the full breadth of his gift.
When he began to sing, he knew what he was projecting.