Page 92 of The Ballad of a Bard

West brushed it away as he pushed off the flat top layer of the boat and jaunted down the five steps that connected to the main deck. He causally approached her and she heard him, her chin turning ever so slightly. The bitter tang of sea and salt caressed him, dousing him in a light layer of ocean mist as the boat treaded at a firm, fast pace. It was nice, refreshing in a cold way that knocked him from his other thoughts.

The ones that studied the captivating girl that caught his attention no matter what he was doing, the one that sang to his soul as if she were connected to it and made him question everything. The one that he couldn’t put aside, not that he wanted to. Crimson, the amazing light that brightened up his life, even if he was the source of light himself.

“I wonder if he’ll be there.” She pondered out loud, fully aware that he was by her side. “If he’ll be waiting for us, like we’ve been waiting for him.”

We, not I.

West savoured the idea that they were a they, not individuals with a similar plan. It might have been foolish, but he tucked it into his very being for later. For the darkest moments when he required a reminder of all that was good.

She fixed her posture, ignoring the cry of seagulls that filled the air as her olive green and gold eyes located him. It made him stutter, as if he were in his new prime and unsure of what to say to a pretty girl, which she was.

“No one knows how to control each artefact until it’s done.” He said instead, flicking his focus out to the vast ocean before them. Seagulls dove for their next scaly meal, sweeping in and out of the sea with efficiency. “Don’t take the blame if he’s not there.”

It wasn’t the answer she was hoping for, clear on her sharp features as she looked away. A shred of hatred slashed through him at that.

“It’s hard not to when I’ve felt as though I was the reason for his departure in the first place.” Crimson admitted to him as she pulled her braid over her shoulder and began to mess with it.

“You weren’t the reason he left.” West despised the cold, dead tone that poured from her, as if she could have tried harder to make Heartache stay. As if there was anything to fault her for. She was perfect, utterly and indescribably perfect.

“You don’t know that.” She pushed back.

“Yes,” He insisted. “I do.”

Crimson shoved off the railing to face him, fury and sorrow vivid in her eyes. “I know that you’ve been around for as long as he has, perhaps a little less but it doesn’t give you the right to speak for him, to know what went through his head when he abandoned us.”

Her cheeks turned red, but not in that adorable way that he constantly found himself distracted by. It was either that, or nothing. Shame, he found there instead.

West dug deep and found everything he liked about her. “He left for his own selfish reasons. He didn’t get to understand that you are a beautiful spirit, an amazing person and a fighter through and through. Anyone would be lucky to have you in their life.”

The flush changed.

“Including you?”

“Including me.” He assured her with a weak smile. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get used to a life without you, Heartstrings. You’ve transformed it into something better. Something worth living in this lifetime.”

Crimson turned crimson.

West admired it before it could fade back into her natural tone and vanish until the next time he said something that made her heat. He enjoyed how easy it was.

“I don’t think I could live without you, either, West.” She admitted as the very tip of her nose shifted pink. “Nor do I want to.”

He liked it.

He likedher.

More than liked her, if he is being honest with himself.

And that was terrifying.

Forty Three

Muse sang softly to herself, a sweet song about maidens with honey wine that never stopped flowing. It was a sad ballad, one that ended with the fair maiden’s death and her wine ending when her blood began to flow. But it wasn’t a song, it was a ballad.

And ballads were not happy things.

They were often sad, tragic, slightly heroic in the end depending on the story tied to the music. They held sorrowful deaths, misguided actions and even unrightful murders. And yet they tended to make the best songs, the utterly captivating lyrics, the most beautiful stories. So she liked to sing those best of all.

As she wove around her chambers, sorting all the flowers that Altivar had brought for her after he’d returned from gallivanting around yesterday, she organised her chaos into something a little more controlled. Chaos wasn’t a terrible thing in her opinion, just another random outcome and a dash of excitement all bundle up into something unpredictable. She loved chaos, especially when it electrified herblood into something shimmering and bright. It was the undiluted excitement that came with not knowing.

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