Dol Amroth, T.A. 2970
"Ada? Ada are you there?"
At the soft knock and worried words, Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, looked up to the bedroom's door and spied the dark head and delicate features of his middle child peaking around the door.
Her bright grey eyes were somber; her usual gay, hummingbird smile was drooped into a frown, like wax that had overrun itself or rime on a winter's eave.
It had been so for days, held fast by toil and sorrow, anxious waiting and heart-felt grief.
A frown looked entirely wrong on his pretty, vibrant Fin. As did the utter stillness of his brother's limbs upon the bed.
"Come in." The wave was brief. The callused seafarer's hands that had now two full years of governing had not turned too soft-they dipped the cloth back in the cool, herb-scented water in the bowl beside the bed, shifted the already dry compress on Aglamir's flushed brow. A little febrifuge was dribbled between parched, cracking lips.
He had been doing this, doggedly, since the noon bell chimed from Tirith Aear's lofty height and now the moon had set.
Finduilas slipped in and silently shut the door behind. She took the empty chair next to his and reached out across the pale blue silk of the coverlet to take her uncle's hand. It was paper dry; like a leaf leached of all vitality, and the sight of them together so-Mir a fevered shrinking husk held desperately, silently, by his adoring 'little Fin'- made Adrahil want to howl.
He did not. Every ounce of energy was needed for this fight.
A second cloth was dipped to wipe sweat from ribs that now jutted sharply against pale skin. "Does Ivriniel finally sleep?"
"Yes," Finduilas sighed sadly and took over the little spoon. "Naneth gave her Istan's sleeping draught. She sits with her for now. We shall both go back to the Healing Houses in the morn."
"That is for the best. Sleep now is a blessing." So much was true. He knew this, felt relief pour down his veins that his eldest would be spared some hours of her heartbreak but he could not do it for himself. Every minute now was precious. Grey-faced, impatient with fatigue and worry, he had sat for the past five days tending to his brother's sickbed, suffering none other to serve. At first it had been for fear of the fever's spread but then, as he came to understand the fight, it been because of an endless clawing dread.
It is not my time, but it could very well be his.
The gift that was both blade and haft told him so. It lent a surety that he would not sicken from all these hours, but, ever fickle, it had been mute on this. He could not say his beloved 'little one' would not succumb.
Once that seemed impossible. A man full in his prime; famed for an almost Eldar strength; one who took life and fortune in his great hands and beat the odds with every cast could not be scythed by an ague. Not Aglamir. Or so his heart had said at first.
No more. Half of Minuramar's crew were dead. The first mate. The galleymen. Even the cat that kept the rats away.
"I can sit with Uncle for a little while," Finduilas offered, setting a pale hand on his arm but Adrahil bent forward to brush a little salve on parched lips that once smiled wider than all the Bay. It was his duty. Their parents had passed. Their sisters were scattered to the winds: Ivrenna to Tolfalas, Alaynne to Pelargir's foggy banks and Sulriel to Lossarnach's bursting groves. They could not come in time, even were the city not now closed.
He shook his head. "Nay my dear. I will not now leave him unless the fever breaks. Or he takes a step on the Road himself."
Finduilas looked stricken at the thought. Ivriniel had said that very thing the lifetime ago that was the early morn. "But his will is so very strong!"
'So was Rorend's' he thought but wisely did not say it loud. If only will could heal-they would be safe, Mir would be safe, opening his blue-black, great cat lashes and demanding to be let up. Announcing that there was work do and who could lie for long.
The image made Adrahil's heart skip a beat. He had dreamed this. This exact moment. About another Mir. Another fine-featured man, raven-dark disheveled hair unbraided, drenched in sweat, so still he almost seemed not to breathe. Wandering in endless fever. Murmuring Finduilas' name and another's he could not catch.
It was her son. He knew this, now, after the dreaming veil had left, when his sight was clear and true as crystal. That Mir, that man with his mother's smile and narrow brow, his fate had not been woven yet. The day had not come when Vairë's blessed hands would set it on the weft.
And all that they could do was wait.
"Strength is not enough." The truth slipped out like a dark will o' the wisp. Finduilas shook her head, hands clenched, the knuckles white. She hated impotence more than any other single thing.
"No! Ada, there must be something we can do! Some trader with a herb or portion. Some merchant who knows where they were? Who can say how this is…."
Fought? Oh my child. If only you were right. He set down the latest cloth and pulled her close, tucked her head underneath his own and willed his calm take root. They had searched. Even as the ague felled man after man, officer and swabbie alike. 'East', said the second mate, 'past' Khand' said another, to a place where the stars stood on their heads.
"Brother where did you go?" he whispered, the deep voice that got attention against a running gale or amidst the clang of clashing swords, rough with climbing grief. "Where have you been that you brought more than birds and new maps to our shores?"
In the first, pained, restless days before the fever's fire sapped everything, a raving Aglamir had spoken here and there-just fragments, snatches of familiar orders, bits of sea shanty, and even battle cries. As the hours slipped with each day's westering sun the words had grown less and less. Their father's name. Their mother's. Once an apology for his wandering. Once, a gentle smile and a fond meleth.
And last: 'Brannie'.
It was a name Adrahil did not know. "Little queen' it meant and oh but he wished to know its source. Who was she? What siren not of the waves could make his little brother's famous roving heart admit to love, want settle for a while, but then, there was no time.
Aglamir spoke no more. Sometime, after his own beloved Firiel took her sleeping daughter Finduilas from his arms, the Kindler's stars began to wane. And the ghost quiet, bare steady breaths became a hollow rattling.
~~~000~~~
Lofnui, T.A. 2968…
'There's a new ship limped into t'port."
A flutter of excitement raced about the Bluebell's battered walls with Larick's nonchalant announcement.
The ex-seaman with the missing ear propped up the bar with a knowing grin, took a swig of his foaming mug and puffed out his chest, waiting with quite evident anticipation to be asked for more.
'Limped' meant damaged and obviously so. A damaged ship could be work for the blacksmiths and the lumbermen who rode the vast booms that sailed down river out of Gelin's timbered hills. Good news if true. Better if not exaggerated.
The details could encourage the curious (or the enterprising) spot the bearer a pint or two.
Larick grinned and turned about to face outward to the audience. He scratched at his scar and waited for the first question to break the dam.
"Been drinking Lar?" "Seen a mermaid, too?" He let those pass. The boys who thought themselves a funny lot would come to no good for sure-they were already pickling their insides six nights of the week.
"Any cargo to salvage now?" A sensible question from Malik who traded tools and crockery and bits and bobs to the lumberers upriver.
Larick frowned. He'd only stumbled upon the sleek dark hulk coming back from rifling the beach's nightly wrack, but he needn't tell them that. "No. She wasn't taken at the water line."
A third of the audience turned away and so it was left to old Tom Bolgen to ask the question on all their lips. "What's 'er name?" he growled amiably enough from the fireside.
"Don't know," admitted Larick, mulishly, "but she's a beaut. Brigantine with twelve oars a side."
This was more useful. Behind the nicked and scarred bar of lacquered pine, Alain, the barkeep, raised a shaggy brow skeptically at the news. Larick was known to be lightfingered with both coin and truth. The rest of Bluebell's denizens-sailors hoping for some warmth, hard bitten merchants and the young bloods who rolled the logs, shrugged and went back to their games of dice and cards; nursed their resentments and their beers.
The Bluebell was not old, nor was it delicate like its namesake, named for a flight of fancy by Alain after his Lizel's favourite bird. It was a boxy place-weathered on the outside by Langstrand's relentless rain, but inside a simple open square with all of the draftiness but none of the more intriguing hidden corners that gave the town's other fine watering holes their air of dangerous authority. Beyond the low stone lintel, the ceilings fairly soared and the great hearth took the edge off winter's chill; dispensed the gloom that could struggle through the endless cloud.
Next to the Drake, it was the most welcoming and reputable spot in Lofnui's modest jumble of old houses that clung like barnacles to its rocks. Welcoming up to a point. Alain, barrel-chested and proud of his place and carefully selected kegs, let no girls in the upper rooms and suffered no fights on his flagged stone floors.
A body came to Bluebell for drink or talk or games, sometimes a little harping of a rainy night, or even to forget.
Larick polished off his first and banged the glass jar back down with enough force to make the nearby drowsing oldsters jump. "Oi, Branwyn. Fetch me another."
The young woman he addressed ignored him, refusing to be rushed. She shook out and retied her linen apron, pulled up her chestnut hair and wrapped a piece of linen round. Three years and many, many jars had taught Branwyn of Lofnui to take no guff, to be mouthy when she had to be and sweet when a man was truly low. She knew the lonely ones who tipped for a sympatheitc ear and the angry ones who railed at being thrown up on Befalas' bleakest shore.
Sometimes drink made them easier. Sometimes it did not.
"Give it here." She sidled up to the taps for Alain had gone to fetch the night's batch of wine-dark, steaming stew, deftly refilled the jar in question and neatly wiped the drips for twas a waste to clean more than she already did.
Larick pulled it in, noisily slurped without acknowledgement. She hadn't expected any. The man could be as a sour as his smell.
Branwyn pulled another larger jug, set it on a clean cloth on a tray and jutted her hip just so, taking a turn about the room. This was the part that she enjoyed the most. Catching the patrons' stories; hearing their tall tales from other less misbegotten ports; dreaming of markets piled high with spices and exotic fruits coloured like a rainbow fell to earth.
She was a dreamer. Her mam always said it would never do her any good but still she couldn't stop.
Across the nearest table a short man with a scrap of Dol Amroth flag twisted round his fair greying hair looked up from casting dice, rattling the bones in a scarred meaty hand. "'ere Brannie, blow on 'em for luck."
With a smile and wink she complied, shaking her head fondly at Kale who had dared to ask and pocketing his surreptitious tip. A good man. And one who took his luck more seriously than most.
Their empty jars were swiftly filled and the dust and spills swiped at, but still she lingered just a bit for old Wordan was on a winning streak.
That was when the normally lugubrious mariner spoke the most.
"No name. No introduction. Summat's off, " he announced with authority as the table groaned. Malik had lost the roll and Wordan, eyes glinting, scooped his winnings up. "Takes men to man a brigantine. T'was one in Cobas afore. Dark sails and a crew could pinch a Corsair's wheel before the captain had time to piss himself. What colour are her sails?"
This last was addressed to Larick sitting high on his stool to nurse his third. The tharni that joined his few greasy coppers wasn't going to be enough. "Couldn't see. Were dark. And they hungs in rags."
The room whistled low. A bad run gone afoul of Ossë's rage. The first gale of winter's start had been particularly fierce—blowing washing and folk about, keeping the ragtag fishing fleet in port. A few made the sign of the Lady of the Sea to ward off any splashing of ill luck.
Larick, knowing when he had caught the room, opened his mouth to give them more, but then a gust of wet and cold blew his chance away.
The tavern door banged open and a knot of men walked in.
"Close the door!" boomed Alain into the sudden suspicious quiet. He set his pot to swing on the firehooks, hastened to the front and waved the newcomers inside, shutting out the night's unpleasantness.
The new crew, or so Branwyn assumed, for there were no other strangers at harbour and they rolled with a seafarer's easy grace, stopped in the mellow lantern light and looked curiously around.
They were tall; so tall that the sweet cicely hanging from the smoked stained rafters brushed the tops of their sodden kerchiefs. Their wet coats were dark as the night outside; their jaws unshaven and high hobnailed boots scuffed and worn.
Seaman most definitely, but no everyday traders who plied Langstrand's long half empty coast. There were thin swords swinging easily at their hips and wickedly curved daggers tucked into heavy leather belts.
"Good man, have you food and whiskey?" asked the eldest, politely enough, shaking the streaming wet out of hair brindled black and grey and tied with winking shells and beads. His vowels were long—the sound of Dol Amroth or the farther sunshine shore. But that was not unusual enough to count.
"Aye, we do, if you have coin," answered Alain. His eyes were wary but his shoulders were down and loose. He was always a good judge of men- and for some reason Branwyn couldn't see he liked the look of them. For all they looked fierce enough to out the entire patronage.
The man who spoke looked down a long, somewhat Numenorean nose and shrugged. "We do. Castars, or coppers if you prefer."
That was good enough. Alain saw them to an empty table not too far from the fireside and served them himself, asking Branwyn to fetch the screech, the raw, pine-scented, mouth-seering spirit that passed for whiskey in those parts. She was quick about it, excited by the thought of something new in an otherwise humdrum night. This time of year, once harvest was taken in, all the traders went home to port; took their wheat and barley and heavy logs back to bigger Lefnui or Cobas, sometimes even Dol Amroth's shining, bustling docks.
The thought was dizzying. Maybe they were from Pelargir up Anduin?! Or Lebennin? Or Harlond?
She shyly set three glasses down and poured the amber liquid in. "Thank you mistress, we've needed this," said the youngest cryptically, raising his in toast, tossing it back in a single gulp.
He choked on the prodigiously lethal stuff. His seatmates burst out laughing, thumping him hard upon the back. "Ror, that is exactly what you need!" teased the tallest who sat his chair turned back to front, one long leg vibrating like a saw. "Cough up some sea water while you're at it!"
They laughed some more and the young one shook his head good naturedly. Branwyn marveled at the sight. The little winkle shells rustled in his hair-they were pale green and shining, like none she had seen down on their golden sands, and what was more his blue kerchief was indigo, not Dol Amroth blue like a Prince's man.
Indigo was said to grow in Khand on a precious and rare bush worth its weight in gold. His was stiff and salt-stained from many weeks at sea.
Valar.
She heart yearned to listen in, to strike up a conversation, and mayhap get their names, ken something more of where they'd been, but that would be surely wishing on a fleeting star. If the men had not offered their names by now, nor their ship's, nor their home port, they wouldn't once the hooch seared their speech.
And more sobering, they might be brigands best left alone. Not every ship plying the Strand's sleepy shore was honest, though Wordan might say even a pirate had a code of honour. There were many many coves in the tawny limestone past Edhelhond. And many ships that did not want to draw attention.
Alain caught her gaze and jerked his head back toward the taps. Branwyn followed suit, taking in the empties, tidying as she went, sneaking back looks when she could. They looked very odd indeed. Once they'd unwound their wet caps and removed their sodden coats their straight locks shone with elvish braids at temple, tied off with more beads and even golden clips. Haradi ones. Of gold that shone brassy in the firelight. They were fake of course- but twas a funny thing to affect.
Branwyn puzzled as she went about her work. The wind brought in more folk wishing for a warming jar and soon she was run off her feet- swaying neatly between the crowded tables with tray held high, pouring ale and wine and even the spiced mulled cider that Alain kept to warm a body up when the stew ran low.
By the time bell for last call rang, her feet were sore and her apron was creased and stained. She wiped a hand across her brow as she pulled the last few taps.
"Get me another one, Branwyn, there's a girl." Larick desultorily shoved his empty jar across the bar, leaving a trail of wet behind. The coins were gone and his bleary gaze was focused somewhere on her bodice top. She'd long got used to wanting to yank it up.
When she didn't move he blinked a little muzzily. "Come on gell. Ye, know I'm good fer it." A roughened hand shot across and grabbed at her own. "Branwyn. Yer tha pretty and I'm a good man. A braw man. Do me right and I'll make you a fine husband."
She shook him off and rolled her pretty green gold eyes. If a barmaid poured another pint for every sot who propositioned her, she'd be a bigamist thrice a night. "That is your seventh Larick," she said flat and firm. "You'll get no more from me. Get your coat and take yourself on home."
He didn't like it. She didn't expect it, and of course he'd make a scene. Larick had come thinking he'd drink on others coin and now had none to show. This time when he caught Branwyn's thin wrist, his eyes darted about the room, daring anyone to react. The thrill of a new and possibly rougher audience had put some steel in his normally willow-waving spine.
Branwyn did her best to stay still and calm and drawl from the depths of a bottomless boredom. That usually did the trick. "Don't make me bother Alain to put you out," she warned, reaching with her free hand to pass Malik his allotted change.
The trader raised his brows in query but she swiftly shook her head.
"Another!"
"Nay, you are cut off." Branwyn was finally losing patience. She tugged hard and fast and the jar shot straight out of his fingertips.
Malik laughed has he turned to go. "When you're weaker than a tiny lass, my friend, tis time to seek yer bed."
"You little slat!"
"Enough!" Alain's broad palm smacked down on the bar. Larick jumped. Those busily pulling on coats and hats eagerly stilled, wondering if there would be an entertaining scene.
Alain jerked his head toward the door, brows crashed together like a thunderstorm. ""Out! You do not speak so to anyone, you hear?"
Larick opened his mouth to protest and but another heavy smack had him backing down like a beaten dog. The drunk slunk from his stool, grumbling about how the beer was watered and the dice loaded bad. He'd tell folk so. He'd have the council down on Bluebell's head but none took it seriously.
Tomorrow it would be the same again.
Branwyn forgot all about the tustle as the last patron wobbled out into the night. The rain had stopped but the night was starless. A whip cold wind was blowing heavy cloud across Ithil's brighter face and she'd have a cold walk home.
Once the tables were wiped and chairs flipped up, she shrugged on her cloak and pulled it closer like a blanket, bidding good night to Alain. There was one last chore to do. With expert hands she rolled the last pair of empty casks beside the shed, set them lying down.
Done. She could go home to the rooms she'd rented since her da had passed and mam had followed him of heartbreak. They were small but warm. And hers. No sharing. A careful eye to saving and scrimping had allowed her to make her way, to turn down the smug idiots and older earnest sailors who assumed she'd jump at the first man.
Her heart was not for sale.
She turned the latch upon the gate but then something shot out of the dark. A hand. It reached over and clapped hard upon her mouth while a familiar warm stinking breath huffed against her ear. Larick. It had to be, and now a tendril of cold fear like rain trickled down her neck.
"Nowt so brave now are ye, lass?" he hissed. "Not when your boss isn't looking." The other hand pulled her roughly back against his heavy chest, pinning her in place.
Branwyn squeaked but did her best to conquer the fear. His hands were surprisingly strong for one three sheets to the wind-she couldn't break his iron grip, couldn't get a bite of his palm or an elbow to his gut, and so she played along, tried to sooth his pricked and wounded pride.
"I'm that sorry I spoke ye wrong Larick," she mumbled, muffled in his grip. "I'll not again, I promise. Let me get…"
"Shut yer trap, ye bitch!" The hands shook her hard and rough, his lips brushing her chilled cheek this time. The bastard. He wouldn't would he? Larick was a coward. He was, every soul knew it so, but sometimes that made it worse.
She whimpered, now truly beginning to doubt what he could do. Inexplicably, hideously, that calmed his rage right down. "Aw Brannie I didn't mean it. I know you. You're a fine maid. As pretty a piece of tail there is round here," he purred. "Let's call us equal. You won't give me a drink, you can give me taste instead."
Yavanna's mercy! No!
She struggled in earnest then, writhing with all her might, twisting this way and that, trying to stomp his toes but her leather shoes were no match for his working boots. He had her pinned and fast. Hoarsely she cried into his hand, desperate to be heard, sobbing in frustration as it began to rain. Gods Alain, please come out. Please. Someone! But no one came. The light of the tavern had gone dark. Alain was in the back sorting out the take by candlelight and only a pair of rats nearby, nibbling at a slice of moldy bread, took notice.
Larick, emboldened by the silence but for the calling of the kittiwakes, tried to pull her deeper into the shadows. A foul-tempered curse burst from his lips as she landed something with her flailing, but he simply clutched harder, dragged faster, raking her shoes through the mud.
Just when she thought her luck run out and he gave a strangled cry. "Aihhh!"
The grip let go. Branwyn staggered and almost fell, pulled by sodden skirts caked with mud and wet from struggling. They dragged her down but before she could hit her knees another pair of far gentler hands caught her about the waist.
A smell of spice, and ship's tar, and a strange sharp earthiness coiled up. "Lady?!"
She turned, poised to raise her fists, but found she had to crane her neck. Her saviour stood all but invisible in the dark; she could just make out a furious glint in his gaze and a silvered dagger in his fist. It was the stranger. One of the three. The other two were at the shed making short work of Larick's coat, trussing him like a chicken with it inside out.
"You are unhurt?" asked the man courteously but her tongue was stubbornly stuck in place. From somewhere near the door a torch flared and she shivered, for though it had ceased to spit, the wind came whistling in.
The seaman reached slowly up to pull up her torn and ragged sleeve and carefully settle her cloak back in place. She let him. An impression of carefully coiled strength, of muscles sliding, sleek and menacing below skin, flared, but she was not afraid. In the wan light a short black scruff framed a proud and narrow face, unlined but for a spray of laugh lines about light eyes. The neck of his cloak lay open, his dark blue coat was worn and faded from many hours in the sun and spray; his glossy raven hair was tied in more braids than his fellows.
One of them was twined with a shell carved like a dolphin leaping in the waves.
"Lady?" he prompted once again, eyes widely worried. She nodded mutely through the sudden chattering of her teeth. "Uinen's mercy." The oath was low but earnest. The captain (for surely he was so) sagged a little in relief and turned to the youngest of his men who stood to one side with Larick pinned below his boot.
Apparently the swords were for far more discerning threats.
"Geroff, " wailed a sodden and suddenly sober Larick. He got another swift, ungentle kick. "You've broke my hand, ye bastard."
"No. It only feels like so. Be thankful that I took care."
The Captain looked back to Branwyn again. The wind had mercifully began to die but still little shivers ran across her skin. His eyes were beautiful. They were grey as morning mist and deep enough to drown in, fringed by lashes of the bluest-black. "Ror, what shall we do with him?" he asked over his shoulder, frowning with concern. "The bottom of a bottle is the surest measure of a man. I say that he is trash to be thrown into the sea."
"Aye, Captain, but I doubt the sharks would have him." With a laugh and a flick of the wrist his older mate had Larick up, held by the scruff, shivering and sweating in new fear.
"The lock-up then."
The two men nodded, began to melt back into the shadows of the lane, carrying their objecting prize like a fallen log. "Wait!" The word was out before Branwyn could hardly think.
Soon they-the strangers-would be gone and she would still be there and needed to think of all of the future consequences.
She shrugged off the warm strong hands that she had not noticed were holding her up, crossed the few feet of yard and without so much as a warning, swung and punched Larick full in the gut.
"Oof!"
He doubled over. The beer and rotgut that had fueled his rage came back, spewed liquidly, spectacularly, over his trews and shoes.
Served the bastard right. Branwyn defiantly pulled up her torn sleeve again and stood over the groaning wreckage, breathing in great draughts of freedom. Her knuckles hurt, but gods that had been satisfying. The two mates stood in admiring shock, mouths open and catching flies but behind her the captain began to laugh in great unfettered gusts. Tears rolled down, streaming from his eyes so much that he had to wipe his face; bending double to put hands on knees, wheezing all the while.
When he could chain his breath again, he looked up, eyes twinkling merrily. "Oh mistress. That was absolutely the best, bloody brilliant thing in a day of utter insanity." He shook his head, sending the shells and beads tinkling musically. "First the squall and then the mizzen mast. Bailing like lunatics before we sank and rowing two to an oar past your menacing rocks to make the breakwater. I never thought…." A tatoo'd hand once again wiped at his cheeks. "I never thought to see such a sight."
He held out his hand to shake. Waves and sea creatures and a curiously pointed star in blue danced about its sinews. "What is your name fair one?"
"Branwyn," she answered, blushing, thinking it would be rude to not accept a hand when he had possibly saved far more than her dignity.
The long fingers on hers were firm and gentle and scented with spice and salt and sweet remembered sun on sail. A new thrill of curiosity coiled not unpleasantly within her chest.
'Branwyn." He bowed, gesturing with an outstretched arm that bulged with wiry muscle honed by climbing rope. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Tis a queenly name for a queenly lady. My name is Mir. My first mate over there is Carn. And my second is Rorend." The two men bowed over their protesting package. "May I escort you home?"
She hesitated. Her knees were wobbly as a newborn fawn's and her knuckles throbbed insistently. The idea of trudging up the narrow cobbled streets was uninviting. Alain would, if asked, let her pull up an armchair chair and blanket, safely locked in for the night.
She bobbed something like a curtsy. "I thank you, sir, for your kind offer and assistance, but it is an awful long ways up the hill. And I fear I need a drink." Lands, where did that bit of honest truth come from? She watched a wry half quirk play along his lips though the light grey eyes above were serious. She stood transfixed awhile, mouth dry and heart beating like a tambor while he searched for something in her face.
What he found she had no idea. "A good brawl does that to the best of us," he murmured at last, nodding slowly. "Would you, perchance, like some company?"
Did she? Shining sea and sun. Flashing swords and running gales. Wild jungles and prowling cats. Oh, the stories he could tell.
"Yes, " she answered. "Yes, I think I do."
Thanks so very much everyone for commenting! I am pleased to say that Carawyn has guessed the song :) It is Brandy by Looking Glass... you might know it best from the Guardians of the Galaxy 2 soundtrack :)
Thank you to Carawyn, Annafan and Altariel for comments and catching typos!
Did I say shorter? Who was I kidding?
