Chapter 13: Chapter 9: Aryssa

I met Aryssa in Black Orchard, mere miles east of Lesmyne’s bank. It was a small town, reminding me of Gazmere with its simple construction and single stories though it lacked the bustle of an Elthysian settlement. Even as twilight fell, as the day’s work would have met its end, there were no children playing in the streets or merchants traveling door to door. There were no farmers driving laden carts, nor beggars slumped in darkened alleys. All around us, there were small houses built from the darkwood trees, bark verging on black, wood a grainy ash-gray. Many of them had modest gardens attached, some pens containing small numbers of livestock. As autumn wind nipped my skin, I figured the crops to be wilted, fighting for life, as the chickens and sheep seemed rather scrawny. However, this was Khaldara—the place where things teetered on the brink of life and death. I supposed that crops were no exception, sprouting in their own time, even late and limp.

Wind blew through the darkwood, not as a gale, but as a gentle breeze. And, as it passed through the town, it seemed to carry a sound. It was faint, lonely, reverent. Melodic, too—the caress of music drifting along. It grew steadily louder as we walked, until we stood before the small tavern at the north end of town. Warm light bled from its windows as rare signs of life. A creaking sign hung over the front, voicing its disrepair with every pass of the wind. And, standing ever closer, the soothing tune of a lute washed over me.

Many thoughts ran through my head. The first, an instinct to cover my horns, to hide away my tail. I had rarely bared them near civilization, and that urge to hide remained. The second, that I was likely about to meet other direlings for the first time in my life. This one tangled my heart the most, finding me equal parts excited and anxious—perhaps, after all, I would prove to only be a monster among monsters. However, the third gave me a strange sort of calm as the music seeped into my ears and wrapped my body like a cool sheet in summer.

In Elthysia, I had not been one for music. Bards rarely came to Gazmere, even then only performing in taverns where I was not welcome. Absent their poems and songs, I only knew the hymns sung to Elthys, and I need not explain why those had little sway on my heart. Standing in Black Orchard, then, I had my first taste of the beauty carried through sound.

Azareth eased the tavern door open, exposing the hearth-fire’s drifting heat. We stepped inside into ebbing lantern light barely brighter than the twilit skies. The tavern was small, merely four tables and a bar in the dining room, though it was filled to bursting. Two dozen direlings, men and women, crowded around the tables and stood in the corners, accompanied by a few children held in laps or standing on their own. All of them had the familiar wrinkles and demeanor of farming people despite the horns standing off their skulls.

The four of us earned odd stares as we entered. Suspicion, skepticism, even a glare or two of open hostility. But none lashed at us with words or fists, and rather than make ourselves known, we settled into the quiet as four more observers. Music continued to touch the air, settling gently into every corner, and I turned my eyes to the bard that had this town enraptured.

She was alone, sitting on a stool in front of the hearth such that her body was cast in shadow. Her fingers meandered up and down a weathered lute’s strings, pulling and strumming with casual dexterity. I placed her age a few years beyond my own, face without wrinkles aside from gentle laughter lines. Her chin was soft, nose hard, lips thin and pink. Her hair was as black as tar—blacker, even, than mine—tied behind her head with dark ribbon as bangs and loose strands framed her face. Her eyebrows stood out like black brushstrokes on her skin’s pale canvas, tapering to delicate points. Her horns were somewhat small, subtly curving like those on an adolescent goat. Her eyes flicked to mine. Even from that first moment, I admired their particular color.

They were green. Greener than the forests of Elthysia. Green like a brimming meadow mere moments after a summer storm, when the clouds have just broken and the sun shines through unfettered. A moment, impossible to capture, glinting as light meets the life-giving rain. Their color could not be diminished by the twilight, by the shadows dancing across her face, nonetheless gleaming like priceless emerald.

Her clothes were slim and practical, crafted of sweat-stained cotton and old leather. A collared shirt veiled her shoulders and arms, clinging to her flanks and ending in a tapered, ruffled skirt that draped over her slender tail. Beneath it, she wore slender trousers tucked into well-worn boots. Her hands were bound in bracers of leather and cloth, though her fingers remained uncovered to better touch her instrument’s strings.

The song she played was a different sort from the hymns of Elthys. It was pensive, slow. The minor key gave it a mournful air—even moreso when she started to sing.

My life has many journeys tread,

My eyes have many vistas seen;

Least of all, the weary dead,

The creatures born of things obscene.

I thought them damned, of hellish urge,

Arisen from our fathers’ purge,

And as if by my own crusade,

I bid them die on iron blade.

When once through eastern peaks I rode,

In shadow of the demon-king,

Where viscous streams of fire flowed,

There was reprieve, a living spring.

Its waters slaked my thirst and more,

But from its depths I did abhor

The ruthless hunger of the dead;

My blood went chill, my heart like lead.

I thought myself consigned to die,

Dragged deep below the blackest waves,

When, as if from the violet sky,

Arrived the Usher of the grave.

The Father, horned, of demon’s kin,

Gave mercy to this thing of sin,

And bade it find eternal rest,

Its burdens light, its faults confessed.

Allayed, the dead returned below.

My body, soul, my life now spared,

I turned away from undead foe,

And faced the Father, horned, black-haired.

He told me of the dead returned,

The grief and sorrow of the spurned;

He greets them not with steel made bare,

But peace and patience, grace and care.

I found, in him, the solemn truth;

His wisdom pierced my iron heart.

As penance for my errant youth,

I learned from him the Dreamer’s art.

That, as the dead, the living may

Be cleansed of doubt, despair, dismay;

That I, by way of faintest heart,

Could solace to my kin impart.

Her voice was breathy, high, distinctly feminine. It had a hint of a rasp, too, unlike the dulcet tones of the Rising Sun’s choirs. Flawed and imperfect, though composed of an honesty far more beautiful. She held each note with a subtle and unwavering strength, even as her timbre first seemed as fragile and fleeting as light through stained glass.

When the lyrics came to an end, her lute soon also faded. In the silence that followed, her eyes found my own once again. Still wrapped in the cloak of her voice, I struggled to find the wherewithal not to stare. Even then, she offered a full-lipped smile.

Behind me, Azareth began to speak with the innkeeper. The two of them grumbled out negotiations, and I managed to break my eyes from the bard’s glistening green. The crowd offered hushed applause, but her next chord quickly rendered them quiet. This one was airy, light, absent the sorrow of her previous song. She strummed again, a major key, then stood as she began to frantically strum. The crowd came alive, seeming to recognize the tune, and as she took breath to sing, her elegant voice was smothered by the gruff and grumble of all others joining in. Those carrying tankards lifted them to be filled, managing to drink in the song’s few lulls. The single barmaid swept around the room, obliging, weaving in and out of the patrons who decided to dance. Her motions mirrored the musician as they both made their rounds, light of feet and smiling like two women in a capricious ballet.

The exact lyrics were lost in all the din, but the drinking song represented a rather drastic change in the energy of the room. Azareth seemed to struggle in speaking with the innkeeper, but by the time a few verses had passed, the two men had come to some arrangement. He handed Hemma and Luran the key to one room, then palmed the other and turned to me. We met each other’s gaze, and he seemed to find something about the moment amusing.

“Welcome home,” he said, smiling as Hemma and Luran moved to their own room. “I’ll leave the door unlocked. Try not to wake me when you come in.”

I hesitated, unsure whether or not his smile was sincere, then decided that it didn’t matter. I nodded appreciably, content to linger a while longer—a direling among direlings for the very first time.

The thought brought a small smile to my lips. Then I looked to my hands, felt the scars burn on my back, and the feeling fled as quickly as it’d come.

Even so, the night continued. The drinking song seemed to have a hundred verses, and at some point, I found myself humming along though I lingered in the corner far from those who danced. The bard twirled in her performance, hair and skirt billowing as two perfect circles, then sweeping and wrinkling as she stopped. Her tail glided behind her, as energetic and emotive as another dancing limb. Sweat flew off her brow, loose hairs sticking from the moisture. Still, she kept up the energy, grinning the entire time she sang.

Eventually, she struck a final chord and quickly bowed before anyone could offer another verse to the song. The resulting cheer rang my ears and shook my chest. When the noise died down enough, she shouted above what was left. “I must take an intermission,” she laughed, a lilting, endearing sound, eyes glinting as the crowd complained. “You wouldn’t want me to lose my voice so early! The night is still young.”

That settled the audience. Their myriad voices fell into conversation rather than song, and I made myself look busy. Even though I lingered, I was not typically in the business of socializing with strangers. So, even among my horned kin, I kept to myself, fidgeting in the corner.

“You’re not from Black Orchard, are you?” a voice asked, cutting through the commotion and startling me to attention. My eyes flicked up, locking onto that perfect, impossible green. The musician stood a few feet in front of me, hands on her hips, head tilted, smirk on her lips.

I blinked, dumbfounded. There was something about her that I couldn’t quite pinpoint—something that set my heart to racing. In part, maybe it was her confidence. Her naked horns, tail resting unabashedly on the floor. Maybe it was simply because she was a direling, like me… or that she had certain features I found superficially appealing. Maybe it was only her eyes, brimming with life like Elthysia’s greenest vale.

In truth, it was all of those things. They held my tongue. They brought heat to my cheeks. Her eyes narrowed a bit, and she took a step closer.

“One look at that sword, and I know it to be true.” She nodded toward my hip where Elegy rested in its sheath, mithril subtly gleaming in the lantern light. “Where a blade like that falls, legends are sure to follow.”

I flushed a deeper shade of red. My scars similarly burned. Silence endured between us as I desperately searched for appropriate words. She held my gaze expectantly. And, hand on Elegy’s hilt, I could only remember what my father had said about the blade.

“There’s a certain sorrow… in something so cruel,” I muttered, silently glad that I’d managed to say anything at all.

She gave me a curious look. Her ears perked, mouth opening, smile fading as it seemed it was her turn to struggle for words. A few moments, and I regretted what I’d said. My shoulders drooped, and my fingers tightened around Elegy.

Somehow, she was not deterred. She extended a hand for me to shake, all apprehension seeming to vanish. I pressed my palm against hers, and she smiled in earnest. “My name is Aryssa,” she said simply. Her skin was soft against mine, grip gentle and warm.

I almost forgot to respond. “Valhera.”

“You’ve come from Elthysia, then. Wasn’t Valhera one of the first Divines?”

I hesitated. “Yes. Though… I don’t quite take after her.”

A playful spark came into her eye. “Hardly surprising. It would be easier to step through the eye of a needle.”

“What do you mean?”

“That one can’t help what they desire. A direling, walking the path of Elthys’s light… I may be wrong, but I don’t think it’s in our nature.”

I realized I had become very tense. A deep breath in, then I sighed as I let myself relax. Tracing the patterns etched on Elegy’s hilt, I, as ever, thought of my father.

“You’re right,” I managed to say. Though Aryssa seemed to sense the tremendous weight behind such simple words.

She came a step closer. “Come on, Valhera,” she said, reaching to take me by the arm and tugging on my gambeson sleeve. I bristled, first, at the touch, but allowed it. “Maybe a drink will help you unwind.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“Then drink on my tab.” She smiled reassuringly.

I was reluctant to leave my corner, but decided to follow her anyway. She hailed the innkeeper, held up two fingers, and leaned patiently on the bar. Within moments, there were two frothing cups set before us. Aryssa took hers, then nudged the other in my direction. Hesitant, my fingers curled around it.

“Cheers,” she said, clinking her tankard against mine. “To another daughter of Gilgaroth, come home at last. To our people’s dark and damnable nature.”

I looked at her dumbly, and her smile spread wider. Her mirth, I found, was rather infectious, though humor had been difficult in the days and weeks since my departure from Gazmere. Aryssa pulled me from the bar to find a place less overrun by patrons.

The tables were all crowded, so we settled for a narrow bench by the fireplace. I doffed my cloak and hung it by the mantle, then unbuckled Elegy and laid it gingerly against the wall. Tankard in hand, Aryssa kicked up her feet and rested them on a hearthstone. I settled next to her, relishing her proximity. Looking at her, I mused that her hairstyle gave her an honest, haphazard look. And, closer to her, I saw that she was thin. Not quite skin-and-bones, but lean and long-legged, carrying little in the way of excess muscle.

“Valhera,” she said, taking a deep drink and seeming to find it to her liking. “I thought there weren’t many of us left in Elthysia.”

“There aren’t.”

“Then you grew up among humans?”

I inspected my tankard, watching a streak of foam slither down its side. “I did.”

She took a second draft. “I can’t imagine that was easy.”

I met her eyes. I expected to find pity there, but something else glinted in her green.

Stolen story; please report.

“It’s all I’ve ever known,” I said.

“Did you have a family, at least?”

I looked to the mantle, to my inherited cloak and mithril blade. “Only my father. That sword… it was his.”

“Tell me, is that… mithril?”

I traced my finger around the tankard’s rim, slowly dipping my head in a nod.

“How does a direling get ahold of something like that?”

Inwardly, I winced. “He was a paladin. A… human paladin. Just about as faithful to Elthys as anyone could be.”

Understanding spread across her face. Her eyes flicked to my horns, too large to be half-blooded. My tail, even now, hidden away behind me. Her fingers tapped, restless, as if debating how to react.

“A human, adopting one of our own,” she finally said. “Most would’ve thrown you in the river.”

“He’s a good man. He loved me… as only a father can.”

“Then I’m glad you had him.” She sighed, then easily smiled. “It’s good to know not all humans are rotten. Cheers to him.”

She tapped her tankard against mine once more, then took another long drink while I continued to watch the foam in my cup. The smell of it wafted upward, wrinkling my nose.

She had no questions to follow. Silence endured between us, and while I was accustomed to silence, I sensed that it was finding her restless. I searched for something to say, to keep the conversation alive, but found it difficult to continue talking about my father.

Instead, I thought of her, singing when I’d first entered. Her voice, like nothing I’d ever heard. I imagined her singing again, and found myself longing for the image.

“You have a beautiful voice,” I said, cringing the moment the words left my mouth.

Her smile returned, wide and white. “Thank you.” Rather quickly, it became a more bashful look. “Though to be perfectly candid, I’m afraid I’m not much of a bard.”

“To be perfectly candid, I disagree.”

She laughed, and I savored the sound. It twinged at my heart, and once again, my eyes found the diminishing volume of my drink’s yellowish foam.

“Sure, I can sing your hymns, epics, idylls,” she said. “But there’s more to being a bard than singing other people’s songs. We’re the ones who keep our people’s history. I don’t know how things are done in Elthysia, but here, every song serves the single purpose of preserving a moment in time. Rather… like the stains that linger long after someone is dead and gone.”

I pondered on that for a moment, recalling the lyrics of her song. “Doesn’t singing… keep that history?”

“It does. But on top of recalling the past, a bard records the present.” She paused, wringing her hands. “They add to our species’ repertoire. Too long, I’ve struggle with that particular charge.”

I furrowed my brows. “I don’t quite follow.”

“I suppose I’ll put it in plainer words, then. I could sing all day and all night—even then, I wouldn’t be able to write my own song.”

I thought of my swordplay, my drawings. While in both, I had learned from the wisdom and ability of those who had gone before, in both I had found a way to make them my own. I had taken my father’s techniques and given them a more aggressive bend—so too had I taken the myriad images of Elthys, learned what I’d been able, and begun to render an image and style more suited to myself.

In both regards, I had good reason to partake in my arts. My father and I had found our common ground in the sparring yard, and I had poured every deep and dark corner of my heart onto the page, scrawled in ink and charcoal. Perhaps both had started from places of loneliness, of despair, but each had lightened their respective burden… if only a little bit.

“You need a muse,” I said, surprising myself by breaking the silence.

“A muse?” She laughed. “Valhera, I’m no stranger to muses. It’s rather trite, don’t you think?”

Color rose to my cheeks. She noticed, and it gave her pause. I shook my head. “Fine, then… why do you sing?”

She took breath to reply, but hesitated. The answer, it seemed, was rather more complicated than her initial reaction.

“I enjoy it,” she said after a moment passed.

“I enjoy steak and potatoes. I’d hardly call it a passion.”

She chewed on her lip, falling deeper into thought. She twirled a finger through a wayward strand of hair. I returned my eyes to my tankard, embarrassed at how charming I found her mannerisms. “Passion,” she started, laying lower on the bench. “I’d consider myself a passionate person.”

“Have you been passionate about any particular muse?”

She sighed, tired and long. “I suppose I haven’t.”

“Then maybe you haven’t found the right one.”

She pursed her lips then spread them in a smile. She leaned forward into my line of sight, a playful spark glistening in her absolute green.

“Valhera, darling,” she began, loose hair drifting across her slender face. “Are you flirting with me?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. Goosebumps prickled my skin, and I nearly fumbled my tankard. I managed to keep my hold on the thing, but I would’ve been a fool to think my reaction was anything but glaringly obvious.

Even so, I shook my head. It was the truth—I didn’t know the first thing about romance, courtship… anything of the sort. “No,” I said. She maintained her smile, but the spark in her eyes seemed to fade. “Muses… aren’t necessarily people. It could be an idea, or… a dream.”

“Careful, Valhera. Dreams can be dangerous things.”

My scars burned, hot enough that I winced. I recalled the scenes from my nightmares. The things I had drawn to better settle with them.

“Even so,” I said. Aryssa narrowed her eyes, seeming to peer deep into my heart.

She shook her head, then, leaning back to her supine position. “I’ll say, Valhera. You are not what I expected you to be.”

“Pardon?”

She drank from her tankard, long and deep before responding. “Don’t be so dour. I know a fair bit about your company. Even on this side of Lesmyne, the Order of Eventide has a fair bit of influence… if one knows where to look.”

I blinked at her, recalling Azareth’s words the night prior. “You’re our guide,” I said.

She spread her arms as if to bow, even sitting down. “At your service.”

“Are you a necromage?”

She laughed again, brushing aside her hair. “No, I’m afraid there’s little more to this bard than what meets the eye. Though in my line of work, I’ve encountered men and women of every color and creed. Among them… are Dreamers. I suppose to you, they’d seem similar to necromages, but I’d keep that comparison to yourself.”

I tilted my head, giving her a look of curiosity. Perhaps she found it endearing, smirking as she continued. “Dreamers are blessed with the ability to see the stains of the past—the memories, emotions, the ghosts left behind by the dead. They may guide others to these things as well, though while treading beyond the Veil, they may encounter each other if only by happenstance. I think in many ways, their purposes are aligned with necromages, and I had the good fortune to befriend a talented Dreamer years ago. One who, it seems, had contact with your Elthysian friend even halfway across the world—one who turned to me when the Order of Eventide declared they had need of my particular talents.”

I thought on that for a moment. “You must know your way around Khaldara.”

“I do, in a way few others could. Such is the bard’s burden.” She smacked her lips, pausing as she raised her tankard to her lips and found it empty. “An unquenchable wanderlust.”

“That sounds lonely. Not having a home.”

“I have a home, Valhera,” she said, shaking her head. “The darkwood groves, the lichen-ridden caves. My home… is wherever the starlight shines.”

I envisioned it. “Rather poetic.”

“Well, Valhera, I am a bard… no matter how badly I need a muse.”

She held my eyes, holding her wide grin. She tilted her head, and beside me, I felt a chill as something brushed up against my tail. I managed to keep myself from flinching, just barely, then looked and saw her own tail resting flush with mine.

“Aryssa,” I began, regretting the words I intended as my mouth and throat ran dry. She perked at hearing her name, and I spoke in a quieter voice. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Oh, Valhera. What the hell do you think?”

I took in her smile, spread ear to ear. The mischief held in her eyes, marvelous and green. The ribbon in her hair, subtly swaying with the draft.

Some small part of me yearned to take her cheek in my hand. To touch her neck, her shoulder, her side. To pull her close, to smell her smell, to taste her tongue. But that part was small. There was another, far larger, that spoke of bloodshed, of cruelty, of demon-fire. And, even as blood roared in my ears, as I found that I enjoyed the touch of her tail, the latter voice could only smother the former.

I looked away. Eyes fixed on my still-full tankard, I watched her in my peripheral vision. She lay still moment, then sighed and sat up a little straighter.

“Even the mightiest walls give way to water and wind,” she said. Her tail, rather than lift away, curled a bit to better envelop my own. “Time and persistence… may turn the tallest mountains to little more than dust.”

I met her eyes again. Her smile had faded, but that spark remained in her eye. She brushed a hair from my face, even as I tensed.

“I’ll crack that heart of stone,” she whispered. And, even dull, cold, and gray, my blood ran scalding hot.

I shuddered. I withdrew. I pulled my tail from under hers and tightened my fingers around my tankard. And, even as the smell unsettled my stomach, never having acquired a taste for ale, I busied myself with taking a sip.

It burned on my tongue, fire crawling down my throat. The taste was abhorrent, just as I remembered it from my few times tasting alcohol. But, even then, I found some small relief in its other effects, subtle as they were with so little ingested. Time passed, I sipped again, and as I turned my eyes to the bustling tavern, I found it rather difficult to ground myself.

Even so, I sought my center. I breathed in deep, the smells of smoke, ale, and the evening’s stew. I passed my fingers over the grainy wood of the bench as if to etch each rivet and snarl into my skin.

I calmed. I looked to Aryssa. Arms folded, she met my eyes, then scanned me head to toe. I sighed, slouching to mimic her posture and running a hand through my hair.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “These past few weeks… have been anything but pleasant.”

“Only the last few weeks? I figure you must’ve been gregarious as a child.”

I grimaced, eyes growing distant. A few moments, then Aryssa spoke again.

“I’m only teasing. Truthfully… I can’t imagine what it would be like. A direling in Elthysia. Like a fish in the fucking desert.”

She offered a wan smile. And, from the look in her eyes, I somehow knew the sincerity of her compassion.

“It wasn’t so bad.”

She raised her brows. “Then why have you come to the land of the dead?”

“I thought you knew. The Order’s mission.”

“I do.” Her finger traced the rim of her empty tankard. “But I didn’t ask about the Order. I asked about you, Valhera. I like to think I have a good eye for story, and something tells me yours could be an exceptional tale.”

“What, is it the sword?”

She leaned closer, spreading her smile. “In a way. But in your hand, isn’t it a bit more than some crass lump of iron?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that. Shaking my head, I supposed it didn’t matter. “I’m nothing. A girl from a farm.”

“The Undying of old had humble beginnings. So, too, the Dead God. But there comes a time in every hero’s life when a greater purpose calls. Something larger… than the life they led before.”

“I… had nowhere else to go.” My voice felt weak, leaving my lips. I cringed, feeling the fire in my twisted flesh. “That’s it.”

“So you decided to enlist with the Order?”

I went quiet for a while. The truth, of course, was not easy to talk about. And, I figured, Aryssa was a stranger. A pretty stranger, possessed of uncommon kindness—at least to me—but a stranger nonetheless. Watching the drink in my hands, I ruminated. To a stranger… I would not bare myself so brazenly.

Rather, I supposed that the sting of the past was commonly numbed by alcohol. So, rather than answer, I lifted the tankard, held my breath, and drained every drop. A little gasp escaped Aryssa’s lips, and even as my throat felt on fire, I kept the liquid down.

“The truth is,” I began, hesitating as the first hint of drunkenness fumbled my tongue. I set my tankard down, making a point to avoid Aryssa’s hypnotizing eyes.

“The truth,” I muttered, heat twinging along my back. The truth wasn’t something I was ready to share. Bloody hands, bloody blade, carved like livestock and made into something little more. Servant to a man such as Azareth, indentured beneath such a burden… No. My wounds were still red and raw, and I would not poke them on the whims of a stranger, no matter how enchanting.

“Azareth saved my life,” I finally said. “The… necromage. He saved my life.” I wiped the foam from my mouth. “So I owe him a debt.”

She was silent awhile, smile fading away. “Alright,” she said. “So it might take more than a pint to get past your defenses.”

I held her eyes. “I don’t know you.”

“Hmm. And yet, you haven’t pushed me away.”

I shrugged. “Free drink.”

“Right. It’s obvious how much you enjoy that particular vice.”

I snorted, running my thumb along the chilly steel of my emptied cup. It was far too tarnished to reflect anything beyond the lantern light, though I imagined my own reflection. The same woman I’d always been, perhaps… though with an exhaustion in her eyes. Regret manifest in every pore and wrinkle. I wondered what Aryssa saw. If she found me as attractive as I, helpless, found her. My offhand meandered to touch Elegy’s hilt, and I pondered its exquisite craftsmanship. How it existed companion to my father’s words, concerning the blade.

I wondered if Aryssa, like him, saw the sorrow held in something so cruel.

“You’re right,” I muttered, following too long in silence. Head bowed, I laid the sword across my lap, finding comfort in the feel of its now-familiar edges and etchings. “I’m here… for more than a debt.”

I looked at her. On her face, I found patience. Tact. And, perhaps, against all hope, a strange and budding affection.

“I don’t know who I am,” I said. “What I am. I… want to know.”

“Ah.” She smacked her lips. “I’ve heard this one before. A young woman braves the wilderness, intent to find the meaning of it all. She meditates, she muses. Then is promptly eaten by a bear.”

I couldn’t help but allow a smile to eat at my lips. Even so, I looked away. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

I thought of my hands, stained bloody red. The fury in my blood, aching to be unfettered, to slash and slaughter like it had that harrowing night. I thought of Gath Levy’s words, and those of every other closed-minded Elthysian—those who had written me off as a monster, a defiler. How those thoughts, even now, had a way of underlying everything I did… how my crimes could only stand as confirmation in my lightless eyes.

I wondered if I held something more in my heart. Something more… than my sorrow, my cruelty. My doubt. But I didn’t know how to tell her that. How to manifest it in words, rather than an indescribable ache.

I looked at her, helpless. She looked back, waiting a moment, before extending one slender hand. She touched my arm, holding firm even as I bristled. I held her eyes, and found it difficult to interpret the particular way they gleamed.

I bit my tongue, trying to stem the tears that started to form. I tightened my muscles, fending off the burning of my scars. Both endeavors, it seemed, could only be futile. I wept. I sniffed, dipping my head as if to hide the fact beneath a curtain of hair. Aryssa maintained a reassuring presence, quietly rubbing at my upper arm, sitting close enough that I could feel her body’s heat.

It was not unwelcome, even if I found myself unable to relax. Soon, she hailed the barmaid and nestled a second drink in my hands. Even amid the tears, I couldn’t help but laugh.

I met her eyes again once the floodgates closed. She took her hand from my shoulder and leaned, close enough that I felt her breath.

“I knew it,” she said, eyes earnest, alight. “No common tale would move a warrior to tears.”

I blinked, finding that I, too, had leaned an inch closer. The space between us would have been easy to close, but for the paralyzing thoughts nestled deep in my brain. Maybe she waited for me to cross that final distance. Maybe she ached, finding my eyes to be of comparable beauty to her own. Maybe… she did not.

In that half-moment, I considered many things. Ever since I’d been old enough to harbor such feelings, I’d found myself charmed by women far more than men. It was a secret I’d held for just as long—one that I had not revealed even to my father, even as I knew his perspective of me would not have changed. Often times, I had wondered if he’d known, but my romantic prospects had never been particularly fruitful with either sex. And, had rumor spread concerning my preference, it would have only been another reason for our neighbors to despise me. The Rising Sun holds that as life is sacred, so too is its creation. So too is the act of creation. And, were I to court another woman, we would both be essentially barren.

It was one of the many reasons I had rejected my father’s doctrine. Years ago, I had decided to accept a lonelier life, knowing that no companion waited for me in Elthysia. But here, with Aryssa, I wondered for the first time in years if my isolation was not a foregone conclusion. If, perhaps, direlings were different. If, just as I had no need to hide away my horns… so too could I wear my desire.

These thoughts were only a single flicker of flame, lost in the larger inferno. While my heart twinged with such questions, it also thundered in ruinous answer. My anxiety, at being what I am. My doubt, unfounded, ever-present, that one such as I could not find joy. That even my father, as much as he had loved me, had always harbored a hatred for my horns, my tail, my deeds and desires.

In such a moment, I could only pull away. I could only return to my drink. I could only sit in silence, fending off my thoughts by way of sights, smells, sensation.

“You know, Valhera,” Aryssa said, “if I’m to guide your company, we’ll be spending plenty of time together. If there comes a point where you want to talk about your real reasons for being here… a bard’s heart is open to every sort of story. It doesn’t matter how banal… or how tragic.”

I tensed. “My life’s no tragedy.”

“I didn’t say that it was. I only meant… that I would be a far worse bard if I didn’t know how to listen, as well as sing. There are stories worth telling in every corner of the world. On farms in Elthysia. About little girls getting eaten by bears.”

I laughed. I wiped away the tears on my cheeks, the snot on my lip. I settled back on the bench, finding it rather easier to relax. And, as I rested, Aryssa moved to rise from her own seat.

“Be that as it may, my audience is growing restless,” she said, fixing her hair as her tail idly curled behind her. She faced me, reaching to take my hand in one of hers. Bowing, she planted a kiss on my knuckles, endearingly over-theatric. “Tonight, Valhera” she said, straightening again, “you will be my muse. Let my music welcome you home.”

I blushed, hoping the color was less obvious among the similar red of my deepening drunkenness. Rather than respond with words in kind, I waved my farewell.

“To the song begun between us,” she said, stirring a great longing within me.

I wondered if she knew the effect those simple words had. Either way, I took a deep drink, hoping to hide such relentless infatuation behind my tankard and inebriation.

The crowd took notice of her, cheering her on as she lifted her lute and settled it under one arm. The room fell silent as she played a few notes, tuned a few pegs, and strummed a resonating chord. And, in that silence, I found myself nearly quivering with anticipation, longing to once again taste the breathless serenity of her voice.

That night, Aryssa played. Most of the songs were slow, melancholy tales of fallen heroes, the Undying, or Gilgaroth himself. There were songs about passion and love, strong enough to endure past untimely death. She sang about the old wars between us and Elthysia, the tragedies and heroism entwined therein. Her voice, as before, was beautifully raw. Her fingers did not dance on the strings, fast and rapid as thundering rain, but rather moved in careful crescendos and slurs like the unyielding current of a slow-moving river.

Even as the hour grew late, I longed to stay. Even as my eyes grew heavy as ingots of iron, I remained in my seat. And, as sleep unwillingly took my tired body, even then did her music drift into my dreams.

That night, she struck a chord within me. Just as she had played great songs on her lute, she had begun a melody between us, one far more tender and evocative than all the hymns of Elthys. For me, leading the life I had, that night was a rare thing. Later, I would tell her these things. The way her songs had touched my heart, like how her expert hand touched her strings.

She would scoff and call me a terrible poet. The fact remained that leaving my father had left a void within me. That living in Elthysia had taken its toll, carving my heart into a ravenous chasm. And, even for a night, for a single moment, she had given me what I lacked.

It was only natural that when I dreamed, I dreamed of her.