Chapter 8 - To Denerim [part 1]
"Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers."
― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
9:27 Dragon, 17 Haring
The bard starts the Ballad of Calenhad the Great yet again, and Elric winces. As if it isn't bad enough they have to listen to his voice at all, now he decides to sing the longest song in all Thedas in a way that makes grand adventures sound like dust gathering by handpicking motes one by one.
Despite dubious entertainment, Dane's Refuge is packed. The din of conversations rises in waves, and the bard ups his volume until he gives a shrill note on the verse of Calenhad becoming the teyrn of Denerim, and raucous laughter fills the tavern.
Elric grins into his ale, the tension going out of his body. He has half expected the bard to repeat Calenhad's deed, only instead of uniting Ferelden under the same banner, he would have united the people in running him off the stage with food and plates turned into projectiles. As satisfying as that would be, the evening would be over, and Elric can't allow it. He promised Danal to look after his men, and that includes stopping brash behaviour and property damage.
"Here to the Captain!" Rohna, a dark-haired archer that joined the Lothering garrison only two months ago, raises her tankard.
"Here, here!" comes a discordant chorus of fellow Guardsmen as they copy her gesture, ale spilling onto the tables. They have been at it for the better part of the evening, toasting Elric every other drink, and now even usually aloof Revas, their one and only Dalish, cracks a smile in Elric's direction. Though as soon as Rohna winks at him, the scowl returns to the elf's face.
Shaking his head, Elric gives him a month. That girl is tenacious and crafty, and no matter how openly Revas disdains city elves, just yesterday Elric found him spying on her training session. And wasn't that a fun conversation to have on his first day as the Captain of the Guards?
Maker, he still can't believe Old Jory retired! Of course, he couldn't have served forever. When Elric first came to Lothering, everyone was already calling him old, and now Jory can easily change that part of his name to Ancient, but he was the only immutable point for all these years. It just feels strange not to have the old coot in the office anymore.
The crowd is getting restless again. One of the regulars shouts to Danal for more ale and to 'stop torturing our ears, you daft bastard!' in the direction of the stage. That brings more laughter and cries of agreement, spiced with half-serious threats of strangulation and several creative, if impossible, ways to do with a lute.
Stopping mid-phrase, the bard changes the tune to an upbeat rhythm, starting a half-decent rendition of Hero in Every Port. His voice has all the cheer of the condemned, but the drunks at the far table pick up the line. The Guards, not to be outdone, join too, and soon, a slurring refrain of "Nuggins! Nuggins!" booms from all sides.
Doren slings his arm over Elric's shoulders, almost deafening him with, "Tripped him an admiral, now he's our captain! Nuggins, Nuggins! For me and for you!" and Elric laughs. They clink tankards at, "Tripped up the darkspawn, and now he's a Warden!" And finish their drinks in time to sing the last stanza with everyone else.
"Oh," sighs the tavern as one. "Paraded through Kirkwall as hero and winner!" continues the song.
"Nuggins, Nuggins! Stubborn and vicious!" sing the bard and patrons. Even Danal, swept by the merriment, says the words while filling mugs with ale.
"Tripped up a viscount, now he's for dinner!" The tankards go up, hover just a breath…
"Nuggins, Nuggins!"
...And plummet onto the tables. "Of course he's delicious!"
And on this cheerful line, all customers of Dane's Refuge erupt into laughter once more.
"That was fun," Doren says into Elric's ear, the smell of garlic and dwarven ale heavy on his breath. He was the only one of the Guards to pick up the challenge of developing a taste for the viscous black liquid when Carrot and Briana issued it during the last Wintersend, and now Doren insists on drinking it at every celebration even though he always passes out after the third fill and inevitably suffers from an epic hangover the next morning. Elric can't decide if it's stubbornness, pride, or a hidden craving for punishment that prevents Doren from admitting defeat. Either way, he will never understand the Avvar.
"Didn't know the bugger has it in him," Doren adds, the tiny bells in his braids jingling.
"At least, he doesn't drone bad poetry day in and day out," Elric says, suppressing a shudder.
"True, that. I swear to Maker, if I ever hear Ode to Bees again, I'm going to turn black and yellow!"
"Oh, that one wasn't so awful." Carrot chuckles. His actual name is Carroll though, thanks to his unruly bright orange mane, nobody ever calls him that. It's a ridiculous nickname for a burly middle-aged dwarf, but Carrot doesn't mind.
Elric asked him about it once, back when he was a newbie at the outpost and Carrot was his superior officer. The dwarf shrugged, calm as ever, and said, "It could have been worse but isn't, now. You have to earn it and grow into the name," not pausing for a second in sharpening his enormous two-handed axe. To this day, Elric has no idea what he meant by that.
"You are lucky you haven't heard the one about 'Deep Dwarven Riches.' That was a one of a kind experience I don't care to repeat." Carrot shudders and downs his ale to wash away the memory.
"As I recall, it got Minstrel Lucien a black eye from our esteemed healer and sent him out of Lothering altogether. Isn't that right, Sila?" Elric raises an eyebrow.
"Aye, aye, Captain!" She salutes him with a tankard, goes to take a sip, and pulls a face. "You can thank me by getting me a refill. Ser!"
"I think we all owe you a drink," Elric says. That bard was dreadful, even worse than the one before him. At least, Tamlik, after unsuccessful attempts to promote his own creations, usually defaulted to Dane and the Werewolf, not to a poem about bees of all things. Though even that got old really fast. "Who else wants more while I'm at it?" he asks, getting up.
Half of the Guards do, so with two empty tankards in each hand, Elric makes his way to the bar. It's slow going: at every table, someone stops him with a clap on the shoulder or a toast in his honour. Everyone want to congratulate him in person, even random strangers who stopped in Lothering on their way to other destinations. They all seem happy for him, glad that their safety is assured. It's flattering, heartening, and a little baffling, so Elric smiles, and nods, and thanks, and smiles again, feeling like he is wading through a loud, well-meaning molasses.
"I see your men managed to restrain themselves this time," Danal says, the wry twist of his lips barely visible under his bushy moustache.
"For now," Elric agrees lightly, "but fear not, if this bard continues to be a bore, their patience will eventually run out."
Danal snorts, taking the empty mugs and starting to refill them.
"What's the talk around the town? Any rumours?" Elric asks. When it comes to gossip, barkeepers and merchants are the first people to know anything of use, and Danal is invaluable in that regard. He provided several tips that led to swift justice. Quite often, his tales prove golden, but sometimes—
"I hear the Queen of Antiva took up with a Crow and declared their order her official law enforcers from now on," Danal says, lowering his voice just a little, as if a mere mention of the Antivan Crows might bring a silent assassin on his head.
—they are outrageous.
Trained by years of friendship with Kylon and raising Stiles, Elric keeps a straight face effortlessly. "Anything else?"
"Bryland Cousland's prize mabari gave birth to a litter of fine pups. Thing is, everyone thought it was a sire, not a bitch. Nice surprise, that, I imagine."
"Uh-huh." Elric eyes the last empty mug. Not that it's not interesting, but the Teyrn of Highever's new puppies don't even make it near his priorities list.
"Oh, and I hear" — Danal's voice drops to an ominous whisper, or to what can be reasonably passed as a whisper in a bar full of loud drunks — "the bloodhound of Kinloch Hold is on the trail and her road might bring her to Lothering." Danal pauses, waiting for a reaction that Elric refuses to provide and, handing Elric a loaded tray, finishes at a regular volume, "That's what I heard, anyway. Make of it what you will."
Unpleasant shivers run down Elric's back as he thanks the barkeeper and returns to his table. The Guards take new drinks with much enthusiasm, but Elric's jovial mood has evaporated like morning mist under the sun. Apostate hunters spell bad new, always, and Rylock is the worst of them. If her reputation is to be believed, she can sniff magic and spot maleficarum with a passing glance, hence the nickname.
Spotting Ser Bryant, Elric catches his gaze. The templar waves and raises his tankard, and Elric excuses himself and goes to join him for a drink.
"I hear the bloodhound is on the prowl," Elric says, once the first two rounds of toasts are out of the way. "Let me guess —" he scrunches his forehead, mocking a deep thought process; then, his expression clears, his eyes going wide "— it's Anders again."
Bryant laughs along with his companion, a pretty elven woman he introduced as Elisa. "You knew." He shakes his head. "That mage is nothing if not persistent."
"It's what, his third attempt?"
"Fourth, and I'm sure it isn't the last. Anders is lucky he passed the Harrowing," Bryant says in a more serious tone, "or he'd be made tranquil by now. Though, just between you, me, and the gatepost, Ser Rylock still insists on it." He leans over the table closer to Elric, creating an air of confidentiality. "She terrifies new recruits into stuttering."
"That woman is scary," Elric agrees with a lopsided grin glued to his face. He only met Rylock twice, thank the Maker. Both during Anders' escape attempts. The first time happened about six months after Anders had been carted into the Circle: somehow, he made it all the way back to Lothering, only to be caught right before the mill. Poor boy didn't even get the chance to see his mother. Were it possible, Elric would have helped him, but so long as the templars have Anders' phylactery, there's nothing to be done.
"You didn't hear it from me," Bryant says, "but rumour is, the First Enchanter hired a mercenary to beat her to Anders. She'll be in the foulest mood, I gather. Ha, and Rylock actually likes you! Maybe you will cheer her up when she swings by your station to congratulate you in person. We are expecting her in six days." He accompanies his words with a wink.
Elric's face must be comically startled because Bryant bursts out laughing. In different circumstances, Elric would have found it amusing, he supposes, but with Rylock being the lady in question, he is hard pressed not to grab Stiles and run for the hills, praying to the Maker to hide them very, very well.
"Pity I won't be here to greet her, then," Elric says, thinking fast. No way is he going to risk that bloody zealot coming across his son. Besides, he hasn't seen Kylon in a long time. "I'm needed at the Denerim headquarters. Official busyness, you understand."
"I'll drink to that!" Bryant smiles and raises his tankard.
Soon after, Elric leaves the templar to his date. He makes rounds around the tavern, keeping an eye on his men, but his thoughts are thousands of miles away. The evening is irrevocably ruined.
-[break]-
The next day, Elric starts preparations for the journey by telling Stiles about it.
"How do you feel about celebrating First Day in Denerim this year?" he asks, leaning back in his seat.
Stiles chokes and coughs, small bits of porridge flying out of his mouth.
Elric patiently hands him a cup of weak tea. They are running low on red berries, and he decides to go to the market later. Maybe he will even see—
"Way to spring the news, Dad," Stiles says between gulps. "What brought this on? Did something happen?"
"I'd like to go over some paperwork left by Old Jory. He's leaving for Highever in a fortnight, going to live with his daughter and her family there. Danal says Lord Cousland's mabari had puppies. Hm." Elric scratches his chin. It would be nice to have a dog. Maybe— He wrenches his thoughts back on track, gaze snapping to Stiles. "Do you think the Hawkes will accompany us to Denerim?"
Stiles' spoon friezes near his mouth. He blinks. "And you wonder at my non-sequiturs. What's really going on?"
Elric picks up his own cup and takes a sip. The tea tastes like barely flavoured water. "Nothing. I just think it would be good for them to change the scenery. Leandra hasn't been herself since Malcolm died, and…" Elric sighs. "I'm worried about the kids."
"Gareth is an adult now," Stiles points out.
Elric gives him a look.
"All right, all right, old man." Stiles raises his hands. The spoon dangles from his fingers, dribbling sticky off-white blobs onto the table, and he hastily plops it into his bowl. "I'll ask. Beth said they've never been there, so they'll probably agree."
They fall quiet. Elric drinks his tea, his gaze unfocused. Stiles chews the last two spoonfuls, drains his cup, places it into the bowl, and moves it away. The rough ceramic drags on the table, and Elric winces but doesn't reprimand his son. The silence persists. Then,
"So will you tell me what's up now?"
"Stiles." He can see a headache on the horizon, inevitable like the sound of thunder after a bolt of lightning splits the sky.
"Da-ad."
They stare at each other, both equally stubborn. No one wants to give in. Stiles' fingers waltz across the freshly scratched wood and snatch Elric's cup. He surrenders it without resistance. It wasn't doing anything for him, anyway.
"You know that if you don't tell me now, I'll just ask around later, right?"
Sighting, Elric rolls his eyes, his shoulders slumping. "Fine. Your curiosity will be the death of me."
"Nonsense!" Stiles waves a hand. Tea splashes over his fingers. He glances at it with some surprise and puts the cup down. "You will die of old age in a comfy bed, surrounded by grand-grandchildren. Now, Dad."
"Ser Rylock is coming to Lothering," Elric says. "She is unhappy."
"You mean more than usual?" Stiles arches an eyebrow. Apparently, he remembers her more than well enough, even though he met her only once, long before his gift manifested. Small mercies.
"The First Enchanter had—"
"Pissed her off in a huge way?"
"Stiles." In just one word, Elric expresses all his parental disapproval. This skill came naturally with being Stiles' father and was reinforced by a lot of practice. "But yes, you are right," he says, moving on. "She is out for blood. More than usual."
"I'll make sure Gareth gets it in case Leandra doesn't want to go places," Stiles says slowly, his eyes wide, and Elric nods. They understand each other.
-[break]-
The morning crawls along as expected. Thanks to Revas' barbed tongue, Sila refuses to dispense the remedy, and Devin, their other healer, will sooner walk into a High Dragon's maw than go against his wife's wishes, so most of the Guards suffer hangovers of various intensity, much to Elric's amusement.
When the bell finally tolls midday, he can't put the paperwork away fast enough, which is, of course, why he overturns an inkwell. A large black spot spreads over the desk. The half-filled report on the use of medical resources Elric spent hours composing rapidly soaks it up.
"Maker's hairy balls and ugly buttocks!"
The door opens. A light, melodious jingle announces his visitor before Doren's head appears in the doorway. "You all right, Boss?" His eyebrows disappear into his hairline as Doren takes in the scene. "Again?"
"Fine," Elric says, giving up salvaging the paper and using it to clean the tabletop instead. He sighs. "I hate this flimsy Orlesian thing. I swear, it's trying to sabotage my work. And the scary thing is —" Elric glares at the egg-shaped glass vial "— it's succeeding."
"It can't be too bad," Doren says, coming in to help. His forehead creases. "Can it?"
"This is the fourth time today!" Elric makes a grab for the inkwell, wanting to hurt it at the wall, but aborts the motion before his fingers close on the delicate porcelain. His shoulders drop. The way the day is going, he'll hit one of Stiles' drawings, and that'd be a tragedy. He's only put up his two favourites — one with stick figures of their family when Stiles was three, and another a charcoal sketch of a raven. The bird perches on a branch, watching the room with a black eye, startlingly realistic. Stiles made it under Malcolm's tutelage not long before the mage died. He and Elric weren't exceptionally close, but his absence left a void in all of their lives that's taking its damn time to seal. He sighs, pulls a rag out of the lowest drawer, glances at the bane of his existence, also known as a present for his promotion, and starts mopping the rest of the ink. "I can't even throw it away because when Sila finds out about it, I won't get any healing, ever. She'll leave me to die on the battlefield."
Doren, who managed to obtain a vast collection of potions that can put any herbalist to tears of envy, shrugs. "Tough to be you, Boss."
"Your sympathy is noted."
Doren snorts, disposing the last of the ruined documents into the bin. Elric straightens up and, frowning, expects his stained fingers.
"Off to the market?" Doren asks, offering him a handkerchief smelling faintly of lavender and soapwort.
Elric splashes it with the leftovers of his tea and sets to work. "As a matter of fact, I am. What of it?"
"Oh, nothing, really." Clamping his lips shut, Doren looks away. "I should go check on" — his gaze meanders to the window and to the training grounds where a young dwarf circling their Dalish elf suddenly disappears in a cloud of grey powder — "Briana, see that she doesn't maim Revas. Much." He chuckles.
Elric's eyes narrow, but— His shift is over. The faster he gets out of here, the less chance something comes up and forces him to stay. He picks up his coat from a peg and shrugs it on.
"Don't burn down the stables."
"You got it, Boss!" Doren's jovial voice promises.
The building housing the Guards is on the smaller side. Four desks, weapon and armour racks lining the walls, and a cot in a secluded corner crowd the main room, leaving an aisle wide enough for two people of average size to walk shoulder to shoulder from the entrance to Elric's new office. The sounds of a quill scratching a parchment and a whisper of a pestle against a mortar follow Elric as he strides along. At the last moment, just when he's about to step outside, Sila calls after him from her station,
"Say hello to your lass for me, Captain!"
"I have no idea what you are talking about," Elric says and lets the door drop closed behind him, cutting off Sila's laughter. Without consulting with his head, his hand goes to the inner pocket of his coat and pats it. The familiar oval shape is here, lying against his breastplate.
The market is bustling with activity. Every winter, starting at the first week of Haring, merchants slowly trickling to Denerim inevitably stop in Lothering for a day or two, so all month long the public square is flooded with wares from all across Thedas. Though the day is chilly — Elric's breath clouds in the air — Fereldan unpredictable weather granted them a respite from a long stretch of overcast sky and flurries dumping snow on their heads. The wind died down sometime in the night, and the sun has been shining since early morning, filling roads with slush. With a wry grin, Elric predicts a fun afternoon for the Guards on duty, full of helping to pull stuck wheels out of the mud.
With a grocery list on the forefront of his mind, he meanders between carts, pausing now and then to examine a trinket or haggle over a price. His eyes, however, are drawn to every dark-haired woman with a long plait he sees in passing. He checks the final item off the list, handing the coins to the vendor, when the subject of his search says,
"Hello, Guardsman."
Elric nearly drops the sack of turnips the merchant is giving him. He fumbles with it as he turns.
"Morrigan!" Taking her in, his eyes widen. The road mud welcomes his turnips with a slurping sound. "I didn't…" See you goes unsaid. His gaze skipped right over her just minutes ago, but that might not be the wisest thing to voice. "You look —" she arches her eyebrows, a small smile playing on her red lips "— cold," Elric finishes and curses himself a fool.
Her eyebrows go even higher. "I am not, I assure you."
Elric nods, bowing his head slightly. Instead of a sensible tunic laced up to the collar, she wears a flimsy contraption that barely covers her breasts, its purple fabric held together by leather cords. His gaze travels to the exposed skin of her midriff almost against his will, and Elric valiantly wrenches it back up. At least, she didn't forgo the cloak, though she left it open. "If you are sure. Um… You cut your hair," he says, mourning the loss of her long silky braid.
"Indeed." Morrigan's delicate fingers toy with her short ponytail; the sleeve of her cloak slides up to expose a thin wrist. The ends of her hair are uneven as if the witch used a knife instead of shears. She probably did. She looks at Elric from under her eyelashes. "You don't approve?"
"No, no! It suits you." The merchant clears his throat — loudly — and Elric finally bends down to retrieve his purchase. "Have you been here long?" he asks, stepping away from the vegetable cart and irate vendor. He ambles down the road.
"Long enough to find most of the wares I need," Morrigan says, keeping pace with him.
Tilting his head to the side, he asks, "Have you eaten?"
Her smile returns, wider this time. "What do you have in mind?"
Elric smiles. She hasn't turned down an offer of food even once since they started meeting at the market. Elric's best guess is that she's sick and tired of Flemeth's cooking.
"Nevarran cuisine." When Elric spotted it earlier, the smells alone made his mouth water and stomach growl, and not only because he had forgone breakfast. Leading Morrigan to a stall in the next row, Elric presents it with a grand gesture. "Ta!" he says, startling a man standing near it into biting his own fingers instead of his meal.
Throwing her head back, Morrigan laughs.
"Eh. Sorry, mate," Elric says to the man, who shrugs in return, no hard feelings.
The vendor, a stoic man whose face might as well be made of stone for all its expressiveness, takes their order. Money exchange owners and they stand aside, now with a hot pita bread, full of juicy spiced meat and finely chopped vegetables in hand. They eat in comfortable silence, watching people go about their business, then, by unspoken agreement, continue their walk.
"I'm glad you could make it today." Elric glances at her profile — the jagged fringe will take some getting used to — and sighs. "Ser Rylock will be here by the end of the week —"
Morrigan doesn't let him finish. "Worried about me, Guardsman? You shouldn't be." She pointedly hefts her simple wooden staff, decorated with leather straps and feathers. Coupled with her clothes, it makes her look Chasind. Wild and dangerous. "I can take care of myself."
"I do not doubt your abilities," he says with an almost undetectable measure of exasperation. It is not a lie. He just doesn't believe she'd last long alone against a group of templars. Of course, Elric knows better than to say that aloud. "However, I'd prefer to avoid unnecessary bloodshed in the market. Scares the merchants off, you know?" he adds with a wry grin, which she answers, just barely. "I was going to say that I'm taking Stiles to Denerim."
"Oh." Morrigan looks away. A slight blush colours her cheeks. "I see."
Changing the topic, Elric says, "I've received worrying reports from the Ostagar outpost. There have been darkspawn sightings."
"'Tis nothing new." Morrigan looks at him from the corner of her eye. "I have seen them twice this year myself."
"Four incidents in a month, and it weren't only lone stragglers, either. Our patrols came upon a large group just this week."
This stops her in her track. "'Tis bad news, indeed." She bites her lower lip, thinking, and Elric watches her expression harden. "Mother has been saying strange things lately."
"Flemeth, cryptic? How unlike her."
Morrigan huffs. "'Food is not worth having if someone else has chewed it first.' Same as knowledge —"
"You have to come to a conclusion yourself. Yes, I get it. Doesn't mean your mother isn't frustrating." He hasn't actually seen Flemeth in years, but from what Morrigan tells him, she could stand to be less vague.
"That she can be, yes," Morrigan says with a smirk, then frowns, a shadow falling over her face. "It might be nothing, but…" With a faraway look in her eyes, she starts walking again, murmuring, "No, 'tis definitely a possibility."
"Morrigan?"
She flinches, startled out of her thoughts. Their gazes cross. Her pupils are dilated, black almost swallows the yellow of her irises, and with a startling clarity, Elric realises that she is scared. "Soon, we might face a Blight."
Villagers part around them like a river flow confronted with a large rock. A child laughs, pointing at something on the other side of the square; a customer haggling over a swatch of fabric hurls insults at a merchant, the conflict threatening to escalate further. Caught by Morrigan's mesmerising eyes, Elric pays them no mind. Gently, he squeezes her upper arm, lingering too long to be polite, lets go.
"Let's hope it won't come to that." But even as he says it, doubt creeps into his heart. Looking around, he sees a stall with mulled wine and, trying to dispel the mood, buys them drinks. They spend some time making small talk: Elric tells her the news and rumours while Morrigan offers comments in her usual acerbic manner that, after dealing with bureaucracy all morning, he finds pleasantly refreshing.
Finally, Elric decides it's time to give her a tightly wrapped bundle he carried everywhere for the last three days. Inside his gloves, his palms are sweating. "This is for you. Happy early First Day."
"A gift?" Morrigan feigns surprise well. "How thoughtful of you."
Elric smiles. "You say it every time."
"Consider it a tradition." She, too, gives him a bundle that — he knows without looking — contains two large vials: a healing potion and Quiet Death, same combination as every previous year. They share an appreciation of the symmetry.
Morrigan's surprise turns genuine, however, as soon as she unwraps his present. "A golden mirror." Her tone is one of wonder. "I… Thank you." Holding it reverently by the handle, her fingers caress the beautiful floral ornament of the frame.
Elric releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. "You like it. Good."
"Yes, it is… wonderful." She looks at him, a gentle, fragile smile on her face, and Elric sees wetness in the corners of her eyes. "When I was a girl, I ventured to the edge of the Wilds in an animal form," she says. "Once, I happened upon a noblewoman by her carriage, adorned in sparkling garments the likes of which I have never seen before. I was dazzled. This, to me, seemed what true wealth and beauty must be." She pauses to gauge his reaction and, seeing his interest, continues, "I snuck up behind her and stole a hand mirror from the carriage. 'Twas encrusted in gold and crystalline gemstones, and I hugged it to my chest with delight as I sped back to the Wilds."
Elric frowns. He can see it all too vividly and can't imagine Flemeth as an indulgent parent. "This story doesn't have a happy ending, I take it."
Morrigan raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Depends on your perspective. Flemeth was furious with me. I was a child and I had risked discovery for the sake of a pretty bauble. Flemeth took the mirror and smashed it on the ground. I was devastated." She swallows. "But for my younger self, it was a valuable lesson. Beauty is fleeting and has no meaning."
His frown deepens as she speaks until his expression is close to thunderous. Cursing the old hag in his head, Elric says, "I wish your mother could have found a gentler way of teaching it."
"'Tis no matter, now." Morrigan shakes her head as if to brush off the memories. "This mirror is exactly the same." Her free hand finds his, intertwining their fingers. "I will treasure it, Elric."
The use of his name, added to the sincerity of her words and the vulnerable look in her eyes, make his heart stutter and skip a beat. His chest feels too tight and at the same time painfully open. She is not a young girl he met in the Wilds anymore, but their relationship is a careful dance, full of little steps and long stretches of time between meetings. They are… friends. For now. Perhaps, forever.
All Elric says as he runs his thumb over her knuckles is, "You are welcome."
Quiet Death is one of the most potent poisons.
The minstrel with bee fixation recited different Odes to Bees, including Ode to Bees by Pablo Neruda, which while to my unrefined taste is fine poetry isn't fit for a medieval tavern audience.