After decades of looking back, of analysing every detail of their story, Emmett had finally come to the conclusion that it had been the song. That's what had set into motion a chain of events that he couldn't have even begun to anticipate. Man of Constant Sorrow was certainly a beautiful song, but what had it been about the song?
It's fate Em, that's all. Lord what fools we mortals be, et cetera, et cetera. The voice rang through his head, carefree and easy, filling him with the most delicious mixture of elation, excitement and nerves. Maybe it is fate he conceded to his subconscious. Or maybe it had been the location which had made the song so special. You didn't expect to hear Bob Dylan in a New Yoik bar? The voice was back, louder and more mischievous. Just admit it Em, fate. F A T E. Emmett chuckled under his breath, clutching the pencil in his hand. Write it down he had said. If you write it down, you'll remember it all. The happiness, the heartbreak, and everything in between. Emmett looked out of the window of the tiny cottage (how many jokes had Thorne made about him being too big to fit in his Forkes home, let alone a cottage) and regarded his view, letting it fill him up. He let his eyes drink in the lilac sky, streaked with gashes of crimson, the snow-kissed mountains in the distance and the meadows of downy grass and lavender, all coated with wisps of silken fog. Feeling inspiration ghost its fingers across his tired mind, he put the pencil to paper, casting his mind to that seedy New York bar, to the song, and to the grey eyed boy, whose eyes, even now, bored into Emmett, deeper than any others, seeing more than any others. He heard the name, the beautiful name, ringing through the snatches of conversation and laughter.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a warm New York welcome to Mr Mickey Thorne!"