“You play like an imbecile.” An old, wizened and rather angry voice echoed.

Jonatan couldn’t move. He felt as if he was swimming in the sky, laboured yet helpless to the tide of empty sludge that surrounded him.

“I suppose this is what happens when I throw away control to the winds of fate.” The voice seemed louder, bust as if it were being spoken through the matted wool of a mattress.

“You drink and fight and throw yourself from slum to slum with no regard to your potential. I shudder when I envision how you might use the gift you have now.” It grew clearer by the word. Jonatan didn’t much like the voice, too condescending and strict for his taste.

“Perhaps it would help if I showed you exactly what I gave you, you might grow up somewhat.” The voice was perfectly clear now, coming from somewhere behind him, deep with disappointed wisdom. Jonatan tried to look behind him, but his eyes remained firmly out of his control.

A hand reached out from the mist, wrinkled, practiced, stern. It gripped the back of his head, holding him tightly in place, filling the surroundings with lights and music, wrapping around itself like a spider’s web caught in a hurricane of a thousand songs.

“Hear them all, sing them all, play them all, do whatever you must, whatever it takes.” The hand pulled him so that Jonatan was looking straight into the eyes of someone he had never seen before. A wood-elf wrinkled and weathered, his gaze stabbing him like lances.

“Do not ignore this fate that I have bestowed upon you. Get strong, destroy our foes, bring us back to our former glory. Do not deny me this, do not let all that I once held dear have died for nothing, understand?” The elderly elf spoke with the intensity of a thousand roaring gods, the music that surrounded them both grew sharper and greater.

Jonatan felt himself bursting at the seams with songs that were too beautiful to be heard, but too strong to contain.

“Jonatan.”

An angelic voice ripped through him as the holy hell that surrounded him swelled together into a crescendo.

“Jonatan!”

The wood elf turned into mist, his furious glare still burning in his skin, which was music now too, as the young minstrel fell apart into nothing.

“Wake up, ya wazzok!”

A cold splash of water yanked Jonatan out of the mist, the familiar, homely wooden planks of his attic bedroom coming into focus around him. He looked around groggily, subconsciously tapping his foot to the thumping in his head. The outline of a man was standing by the side of his bed, shaking his head.

“Not like you to toss in yer sleep, lad. Someone toss nettles down yer neck?” The familiar thick accent of his father swam over him, bringing a smile to his tired face.

Jonatan sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, massaging the sides of his head, nursing his budding headache.

“Must’ve been a fun night that I can’t remember.” Jonatan chuckled, swallowing his dry throat away. Ah, the familiar aching, dry void of a glorious hangover. “Got any good stories for me, dad?”

Bill Willow, former minstrel and current incredible stay-at-home husband. Anyone who could handle the rampant temper and heart of ‘the town’s protector’, Hilda Willow, former tavern hopper, current tavern brawler and part time captain of the guard. Jonatan still didn’t know how they found each other in the first place but he was too afraid that he would learn a little too much about how he came into the world.

“Would ye believe me if a told ye that you and yer mother went at each other with wheelbarrows when ye tried to take her home?” He shook his head in a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

“The fact that we fought isn’t the unbelievable part, but rather that I survived.” Jonatan examined his body, surprised to find that he had not, in fact perished at the hands of his mother in a drunken wheelbarrow joust. He must have improved in his two years of drunken brawling, singing and trying not to die, though he was drawing blanks on how those things improved one’s wheelbarrow skills.

“Don’t cut yourself short, lad. You’re just as much a monster as her with a few ales down you. Maybe more so cause you can sing while yer at it!” Bill laughed, shaking his head. “Come down after yer feathers are shaken, I cannae keep tending that garden of yours forever.” He closed the door behind him, the muffled sound of his tuneful whistle fading into the distance.

“Amen to that.” Jonatan smiled to himself, swinging his legs off the bed and stretching off his sleeping aches and wiping the crust out of his eyes.

He decided against opening the shutters for fear of reinvigorating his headache, and made his way downstairs, trying not to stomp like a hill giant. He passed by his parent’s bedroom, the bed all neatly made and clothes neatly folded, besides the crumpled mass of muscles, pyjamas and snoring that was his mother. He never got tired of watching her clumsiness bring about unintentional comedy.

It was a relatively small house, three rooms on the ground floor and storage in the attic which Jonatan decided to make his den. He had repurposed the tool shed into a berry-growing paradise and ale-mixing haven. Not that he would tell anyone otherwise all the taverns on this side of the world would never give him any rest.

Junipers, cherries, every colour in the rainbow growing over evenly spaced and meticulously maintained growing nets and barrels of liquid gold with stacks of mixing tools laying on racks at the side, labelled and polished. It was this shed that he felt most at home, at least when he was sober. It was slightly wilder than he remembered, but he smiled to himself when he thought of the work his father put into maintaining it for him.

By the time he had finished pruning back the stray vines and excess leaves, picking the ripest and sweetest fruits and mixing together a batch of cherry rum that would blow the hat off a dragon, and subsequently refilling his 3 hip flasks in preparation for a surprise party that never seemed to happen, left the small building with a childlike grin spread over his face.

“You’ve been in there for hours, kid.” A deep voice called out from the back door of the house, tired and dry. Jonatan looked up to see his mother yawning in the doorway, a comfy, handknit blanket around her shoulders and a steaming mug of soup clasped in her sizable hands.

“You recover from a night of drinking by feeling terrible, while I recover by preparing for the next.” Jonatan shook his head, jokingly shaking his finger at her.

“Keep yapping like that and I’ll give you a reason to recover.” She grumbled, smiling under her messy dark hair. “At least I would try.”

“Oh come on, I may have been out in the big bad world for a bit, but you’d still destroy me.” He jokingly punched her arm, skipping past her to the kitchen. “Besides, wheelbarrows are one of my specialties!”

Jonatan felt his chest grow warmer. He left home to travel and try to earn a living with his music almost exactly 2 years ago, but still his home felt exactly like it always did. Crazy and wild, but loving and exciting at every moment of the day. He could pass entire days sitting by the fire with his parents talking about the boring nothings of life and it would sound like an epic tale with no ending.

Of course, he had a few things to do today and had to try and had to try and hide this new voice of his for fear of the entire town thinking he had been replaced by some angel-voiced body snatcher.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“So Jon, what the ‘ell is goin’ on with yer voice?” His dad asked, sipping his home-brewed tea.

Damn.

“You want the truth or my attempt to convince you in a way that is vaguely convincing?” Jonatan shrugged, defeated.

“Both, should be fun either way.” His mother cracked her neck, leaning forward expectedly.

“Well, a songbird flew into my drink and I swallowed it, and now I’m part bird.”

“That’s something he’d do.” Hilda nodded in agreement.

“Aye, I can see tha’.” Bill kicked another log onto the fire-pit.

“How about this then? I climbed the singer’s hill for some fresh air, sang a song that I heard coming from the sky, fell asleep, woke up sounding like this, then my rental lute exploded.” Jonatan made an active effort not to laugh at the absurdity of his own story.

Both his parents looked at each other, silently conversing as all married couples seemed to do. The silence spread out for an uncomfortable length of time, pierced only by the crackling of the flames and the mid-afternoon breeze echoing down the chimney.

“Just to be certain, you’re serious?” His mother looked at him with a probing gaze.

“I’d never lie about something this clearly stupid.” Jonatan looked to the ground, a splinter of shame biting at him.

“But it was a rental, Jon. You’ve gotta pay for that now!” Hilda shook her head, bringing her palm up to her face.

“I know, I hate it more than you!” Jonatan lowered his head in apology.

“Rental aside.” Bill raised his voice slightly. “Are ya saying that you’ve been…Magic’d or something?” He stared in mild disbelief.

Jonatan shrugged, scratching the back of his neck, which always seemed to get itchy in tense situations.

“Maybe it’s worth dropping by Sylvia in that god-awful tower of hers? You two get on like a dog and a dagger, but she’s the only person here with any magic knowledge. You’ll need to convince her though. I would say take some gold for her, but you’ll be spending all yours on that rental.” His mother sighed, getting up from her stool to get some water.

“What exactly do I give someone who doesn’t leave a tower and has no hobbies besides reading and looking down on everybody?” Jonatan raised an eyebrow at his mother as she passed him, earning him a chuckle from her.

“Well, far be it from me ta make a suggestion about gifts and romance, but why don’t ya just ask her?” Bill shrugged, his face completely serious.

“Last time I tried to ask her something, she froze me, covered me in grease then threw me down a hill. I don’t think it’ll be that easy, dad.” Jonatan winced at the memory, subconsciously massaging his past bruises on his knees.

“It’s been years since that ‘appened. Turn on some of your charm, pick her some flowers, find a funny looking rock, I don’t know how to woo Wizards!” Bill threw his hands up in exasperation.

“I could bribe the guards to write a search warrant, I’d be able to get in that way.” Jonatan suggested.

“Good luck getting those lot to do anything useful.” Hilda came back in, wiping some stray drips from her chin with the back of her hand. “And if you want to break the law, please do it somewhere I cant hear.” She rolled her eyes, stoking the fire.

“Then what ideas do you have, oh great captain of the guard that hasn’t gone on patrol in the last decade.” Jonatan leaned back, throwing his arms wide with sarcasm.

Hilda sighed, sitting back down.

“She’s a Wizard, right? Try finding something she doesn’t know, and offer to trade it for some help.” She suggested.

Jonatan exchanged confused glances with his father.

“That was uncharacteristically intelligent of you, mother.” Jonatan applauded. Then subsequently fell on the floor as Hilda swept the legs out from under his stool with her muscly leg. “I deserved that didn’t I?” He coughed.

“That ya did, son.” Bill nodded solemnly.

“Then why did you agree with him?” Hilda glared daggers at her husband, who averted his eyes, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“Sorry, gotta dash.” Jonatan bolted from his prone position, dashing out the door, snatching his boots from the ground and sprinting down the dirt road with the sound of his mother raising her voice and his father cursing Jonatan for making him take the lecture alone.

Jonatan ran several houses further down before stopping to actually put his boots on. He never much liked getting lectured, then again who did really. Even so, arguments in his house often ended in one of two ways: Jonatan being sent up to his room, serving some sort of civilian house arrest, and Jonatan being sent out of the house for his parents to work through their emotions in a mature fashion.

He didn’t understand what that meant when he was younger, but now he willingly left the house the moment that terrible, terrible thought reared its head.

His laces newly tightened, he sprung to his feet, looking down the road. Sylvia’s tower was at the end of the road, maybe a ten-minute walk at most. The sun was still relatively high, 3 o’clock Jonatan guessed. He had plenty of time to do whatever he wanted, but he would feel guilty if he didn’t visit the music shop soon.

He sighed, walking down the middle of the road at a leisurely pace, whistling a casual and relaxed tune. He was surprised at himself. A run from his house to this part of the street would have made him slightly tired, made his chest heavy at least, but he felt lighter than usual, more powerful even, as if his body had been given a boost of sorts.

While Jonatan was busy being distracted by himself, he didn’t notice the person walk out in front of him, looking around for a sign for the tavern, who also didn’t notice Jonatan.

The two collided, Jonatan hit his forehead off the other figure’s causing both of them to yelp out and spring back from the other. Jonatan rubbed the bump, blinking the stars out his eyes, searching for the cause of his pain, but he didn’t quite expect what he saw when his vision cleared.

A boy, who didn’t look older than 16, due in part to his young face and the several inches of height he was below Jonatan, with a long mop of dirty, unwashed, apple-red hair dangling down just below his eyebrows. He was kitted out in well-worn leather armour, a dusty set of travelling clothes, a dirty and patched travelling bag, and two very well used scimitars hanging at his hips, which he had his hands placed upon with practiced ease. There were also several small daggers strapped to his belt, seeming no less intimidating.

His most defining feature, however, was his eyes, or rather, his one eye. A pretty shade of magenta glittering with a cocktail of fear, adrenaline and exhaustion filled his left eye, while a stained brown leather patch covered his right. He looked like the child of a pirate and a monarch. And by his pointed ears and the mild gold tint to his skin, that very well may be the case.

How else would a half high-elf, half human be born considering the hatred between the two races?

Jonatan blinked, collecting his thoughts for a moment, before clearing his throat.

“Sorry, berry-head. Wasn’t looking where I was going. New here in Mirth?” Jonatan gestured to the town around him.

“Berry-head?” The boy tilted his head at the comment, clearly confused. He took his hands off his blades and began fidgeting with one of his armour buckles. “Uh, yes. I’m looking for the inn. Could you tell me where it is please?” His voice was surprisingly deep and hoarse, as if he hadn’t rested in weeks.

“Polite aren’t you? Down that road takes you to the centre, signing’s pretty clear from there.” Jonatan chuckled, pointing the directions out to the boy. “I’m heading somewhere close, so I’ll let you tag along.”

“Thank you.” He nodded, quietly looking around the various buildings as if looking for ghosts. He occasionally glanced at Jonatan as they began walking, who had resumed his whistling. “Excuse me.”

“What’s up, kid?” Jonatan didn’t look at him, instead picking the gardening soil from under his nails.

The boy sighed rolling his eye.

“Your voice, it sounds familiar.” He spoke quietly, almost a whisper.

It was Jonatan’s turn to look at him with a confused look.

“Really? Where from?”

The boy’s expression became unreadable as he scanned Jonatan’s face. The boy raised his hand and touched Jonatan’s cheek, as if checking to see if he was real.

“Is my cheek interesting or something?” Jonatan looked genuinely lost at the situation.

The boy took his hand away, and started to walk ahead, fidgeting with his armour more intensely.

“What is it, red-head? What is it about my voice?” Jonatan jogged to catch up with the boy. He gripped the half-elf by the shoulder, turning him around to talk to him. He was met with the same guarded expression.

“Your name, what is it?” The boy spoke with surprising assertiveness and force, taking Jonatan by surprise, knocking his sarcasm off rhythm.

“Uh…Jonatan Willow.” He opened his mouth to ask the boy more questions, but he was met with him raising his hand and stopping him before he started.

“Jasper. Jasper Rhys-Elluin. I would like to talk with you further, but I haven’t eaten or slept at all in the last week, so I’ll take this up with you tomorrow.” He turned on his heel and walked away briskly towards the town centre, leaving Jonatan behind in a perplexed gaze.

“Yeah. Sure. Nice to meet you too.” He looked around to try and understand what just happened. While in this daze, his eyes brushed over the sign to the music shop, and his heart sunk. “Oh no. I’m going to get lectured again aren’t I? Let’s hope he doesn’t charge me double for a new one.”

Jonatan took several deep breaths before entering the shop where he would lose the entirety of his savings paying for damages and being forced to outright buy a new lute for fear of furthering tarnishing the shop’s reputation by using his instruments as drunken bludgeoning tools.

Jasper, meanwhile, pushed through the creeping agony of his hunger and the darkening of his vision as he strode through the town centre, swiftly darting his gaze to the nearest bounty board. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the certain bounty he was terrified to see was not there, then used the last of his energy to find the nearest inn and get his belly filled and his head a pillow to fall on.

Unbeknown to both of them, a package containing new bounty posters to be placed in every town and on every corner had been delivered mere minutes before. This stack of papers would change the course of both their lives in an extreme way.