Page 39 of The Ballad of a Bard

Crimson flipped the page to see the Imp, who represented the mind, oddly enough. Half of their face was painted to look like they were sane, with a broad smile and rosy cheeks. But the other half held a crazy smirk, green eyes wild. They wore an emerald and violet cap with three points that all ended in shiny bells that matched the ones on their upturned shoes. A skin tight matching suit ran along their body, hands shoved into ruffled gloves that held strings over humans.

They loved to whisper mad little nothings into people’s minds as soon as they found their wand, a cap on the end to mirror the one upon their head. They had momentary lapses of judgement, losing to the insane side of their minds with the coaxings of Imp’s tongue. A white heart was painted upon their lips.

The next drawing made her heart stutter a little bit at the handsome male she stared down at. The Heartache. His title leton enough, said to be the picture of hearts and love, pain and suffering. Scarlet red hair fell in perfect waves from his head, bronze skin with eyes of the purest blue she had ever seen. He wore no shirt, a large X scar over his heart in black.

Heartache could find one’s true love with a flick of their hands or take away the emotions with another. He rarely did the latter, always claiming that it would never be worth it. His grey pants were tattered and yet seemingly in one piece, like the heart itself. Broken time and time again, shattered and stomped, yet able to be put back together again after every beating.

The last one made her stop, unfamiliar with the blond head of hair that had been illustrated. He had his left arm filled with constellations, golden and silver tattoos that wrapped around his skin. Dark sapphire eyes framed by dark lashes, and a broken compass dangling out of his blue trousers.

The Northern Star.

Crimson pondered over the text below his worn image, finding it fascinating. This looked nothing like the male she knew to be the Northern Star.

The Northern Star. Known for always leading their patron in the truest of norths and most righteous paths. Often said to be the kindest of the Saints, with no tricks or traps up his sleeves.

She paused her reading to look at the black sleeves of his shirt that had been rolled up to his elbows.

One has to spin the compass and find their true north in order to summon the Star, and align their hopes in the purest of directions.

Sounded confusing.

But the Saints alwayswere.

“Imp thought it would be funny to portray him as a glimmering god, a star in every manner of the word.” The Empress mused as she approached Crimson from somewhere between the stacks.

One would be able to tell who this woman was from the moment one laid their eyes on her. She was stunning, in every definition of the word. Crimson felt as though she should bow or something, but the Saint continued to speak to her as though they were long time friends, instead of a sovereign and one of her mere subjects.

“So in the recorded history of Hisaith, he’s been whitewashed, I suppose you could say.” Osira Talon rolled her glorious eyes.

“But anyone who sees him, can clearly tell who he is.” Crimson protested as she shut the book, dust blooming once more. She holstered the need to cough.

“Not everyone can, surprisingly.” She huffed a light chuckle. “You just happened to see straight into his star-flecked soul. A rare thing indeed.” Osira motioned towards the books. “I’ve been working on correcting thatfoolishSaint’s tricks. That’s one of the last pieces I need to adjust it. Thank you for pulling it out.”

Crimson wasn’t sure what to say.

“Have you found what you’re looking for?” The Empress asked as she dragged her cream skirts behind her. “North tells me that you’re searching for Heartache.”

So that’s where he’d been for most of the day.

“I am.” She confirmed, feeling safe enough to answer truthfully. “But no, I haven’t.”

“What about seeking out his talisman? If you find that, you could summon him to appear before you. It might take him a few days to appear from wherever he’s hiding out in Hisaith, but it might be worth a shot.”

“According to the book, no one knows how to use it in order to get him to appear.” She tapped the cover thrice. “What good would it be to obtain it and then have no clue on how to use it?”

“You’d be one step closer to him than before, that’s why.” Osira’s eyes were the colours of lemons in the spring, fresh orange juice and the sun all wrapped up into two beautiful orbs. “But Rapscallion Voss was always a gossipmonger, so don’t believe a word he says regarding the talismans. They’re most likely untrue.” She inched closer, flipping the massive tome open and finding the picture with the terrible rendition of West. “After all, he published this ridiculous novel without checking his sources. Perhaps if he had, North would be moreaccuratelydrawn.”

She stroked her pointer finger down the drawing, tracing all the wrong angles fondly. Not in the way a lover might tend to their partner, but in a way that family did. A true family, which is what Crimson supposed they were. For those that liked each other, unlike War who remained in his dark hiding pits and Heartache who had yet to be found.

Crimson smiled, a feminine little thing. “Has he seen this picture of himself?”

“I highly doubt it. He doesn’t often find himself here, of all the places to be in the castle.”

“May I borrow this, then?” She timidly asked, trying to quell her hopes for a spot of mischief.

Osira shrugged, waving her hand in the air. “I see no reason why not, as long as you eventually return it.”

“Thank you.” She closed the book and brought it close to her chest, wrapping her arms around it. The thing was ginormous, even for a history book about the past of Hisaith.

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