When Agnes had nightmares, her mother heard her panting and held her, and stroked her hair, and sang a lullaby. Agnes held in her hands a piece of music, the words her mother always sang.
"Je, liuliai dukreli," she hummed, "Liuliai ruteli…"
Thibault entered the room, brow quirked. He ran a hair through his tawny hair and asked, "What song is that?"
"Hjordis used to sing it to me," she said. "It's in this book."
He frowned solemnly, and Agnes settled into a chair, reading over the lyrics. She could recall the tune clearly, it was only the words she struggled with. Then, "Byes-byes my girl, byes-byes my rue, sleep my dear dawn, sleep my flower."
It was strange to think that her mother was calling her a flower, and comparing her to a sunrise, when she was disrupting her sleep so regularly. Thibault was silent, settling into an armchair by the fire. He rocked unconsciously in his seat, and Agnes continued the tune.
"Je as greit suverpsiu plonai linelius, Isausiu tau drobelas, Isausiu tau drobelas," she sang softly, remembering her mother's touch and proud but gentle voice. Her mother was a good singer – she had to be. She was a bard, and to Agnes' knowledge she was a very good bard. She sang like a bird – far more delicate than she had any right to be. "Je vai as isausiu baltas drobelas, pasiusiu marskinelius, pasiusiu marskinelius."
Her own voice was soft, and raw, because she was choking on tears. She closed the book and set it on the table, and left for her bedroom. Thibault usually left her be when she needed to cry, since she hated showing emotion, but he followed and stopped at the door. Once again she hugged her pillow and started to sob into it.
Mother wasn't here to hold her. Mother wasn't there to sing to her.
"Agnes," he murmured into the door.
"Go away."
He was quiet, but by the lack of footsteps she supposed he hadn't left. She tried to keep her sobs contained, but it was difficult to say the least.
"I'm not much good at this," he murmured against her door, "But I can try."
"Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot, prete-moi ta plume, pour ecrire un mot," he sang, his voice cracking with dry laughter. His voice was not pretty nor strong, he could barely hold a note without an accompanying quiver. He was no bard, and he was no Hjordis. But Agnes never expected him to be. "Ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai plus de feu ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l'amour de Dieu."
Though Agnes hated to admit it, she stopped crying, and though she had been dwelling on her mother, all she could do was laugh at Thibault.
"What does that even mean?"
"Nothing important," he sighed, rubbing his temple. He smiled, and entered her room. "Do you feel better?"
She smirked. "Now that you've stopped singing I do."
"Ah, that's hardly fair," he laughed, taking a seat at the table. "You're comparing me to Hjordis again."
"At least I'm not comparing you to what Hjordis said you were," Agnes countered, smiling to the Breton. She stood, sat at the table, and they talked for a time.