Before exiting Ambria, Reigna makes her last travel preparations. She stops by a general goods store to gather more loose parchment, a few bottles of black ink, a new sewing kit and eight days of rations. I have to stay on top of my writing and repair that hole in my sleeping bag, and enough food to accommodate for any potential setbacks. Once outside the main gate and on the road east, she slides a silver ring onto the tip of her tail and dangles a shining steel triangle off the end before draping her tail over her shoulder. As she walks she snaps her fingers and claps rhythmically, tapping the little triangle every so often.
Reigna listens closely to the sounds she’s making, trying to carefully time them to the sound of leaves dancing over the ground in the early autumn breeze and the creak of the wheels of passing carts. Everything is music if you listen closely, Reigna. She hears the echo of her father’s voice, a memory of a memory and her feet slide and tap along to the song in her mind. She can hear the pulse of the organ, the rumble of drums, the trill of flutes. It all stops, she slides a piece of parchment from a pocket on the side of her bag and produces a pen from her belt pouch and begins scribbling down notes. This could be something, I just can’t think of a title, but that’s fine.
As the morning gives way to mid afternoon, Reigna finds herself alone on the road following the tracks of many other feet and wagon wheels that have long passed her. She takes the opportunity to step off the dirt road and into the soft grass alongside it to sit and have a drink. She unbuttons a pouch on her belt, slides a silver flask out of it and uncaps it. Gods bless whoever created the everwater flask. She muses to herself as she takes a deep drink, her eyes unfocusing as she stares into the middle distance ahead, quietly drinking in the warm solitude of the empty road.
Both sides of the way are flanked by soft grass and tall trees in the process of shedding their leaves for the coming winter. The almost bare branches spread out for miles, creating a kaleidoscope of colors on the horizon. The browns, oranges, and reds of the remaining leaves bleed into the greys and browns of the exposed branches and patches of the blue sky with its white, puffy clouds can be seen in the spaces between. The expanse of autumnal colors under a clear blue sky is nature’s stained glass mosaic. Reigna sits, taking deliberate, slow breaths. I suppose this isn’t the worst way to start a journey, I’ve certainly had worse. She takes another slow, deep sip from the flask before sliding it back into its pouch and rising to her feet.
Once on her way again, Reigna taps the triangle on her tail three times and calls softly “Come and join me Lyraax.” A puff of purple smoke erupts on her shoulder with a loud poof! And suddenly sitting there is a small pudgy dragon. His body is covered in iridescent blue scales that cast prismatic light when struck from the right angle. From his back sprouts two large, butterfly-like wings made of tough, leathery, greyish-blue skin covered in darker markings. He closes his eyes and throws his head back in a rapturous yawn, or at least what would pass for one had he been a full sized dragon. Instead his yawn sounds more like the cry of a large field mouse that had quite the night on the town.
“Sweet morning, Lady.” He says, chewing the words between a few more escaping yawns.
“Sweet morning, Lyraax. Enjoy your time away?” She asks, scratching him under the chin with a finger.
“Quite, so. Many friends dancing in the Nymph gardens. Much fruit and cream for feasting. You’d have enjoyed it, Lady. Perhaps you will join next time?” He asks, a mischievous glint in his tiny amethyst eyes.
“Oh no Lyraax, thank you for the invitation, but as nice as it sounds I shouldn’t go visiting the Faelands.” Reigna says, sounding wistful at the idea.
“Oh, but Lady, one visit couldn’t hurt.” He hums, rubbing his snout against her neck like an affectionate kitten.
“The first visit is always free, it’s the ones that follow that hurt. No thank you.”
“I’ll get you there one day.” He says, his voice deepening. “You’ll want to see it eventually.” He laughs.
“Unless a job brings me there, no you won’t.” Reigna says flatly. This was a routine she and her familiar had settled into years ago when their contract was signed. He lends her his magic to amplify her performances and to help her refine certain ideas since the Fae are skilled musicians and storytellers, in exchange he gets to return to his lands for one week every month for the length of their contract. Each time he returns, he tries to entice her to join him on the next return. Once she’s denied him thrice he tends to drop the subject.
Lyraax may be small, but he is still a dragon. Fae Dragons never grow larger than a cat or small ferret but, much like their pure-blooded kin, they’re intelligent and functionally immortal so long as nothing kills them, and much like their bigger kin they are notorious hoarders. Their hoards are much more diverse, however. A Fae that’s lived as long as he has, tends to have a hoard of everything be it gold, magical items, or labeled jars and bottles of all the beauty and skills Reigna’s predecessors traded him over the years.
When they had met, Lyraxx had shown Reigna his tiny palace and impressive hoard. Mind you, what passes for a tiny palace to Lyraax is the average mortal’s dream home, complete with scantily clad servants and many acres of lush gardens. He had shown her his treasure room where she had signed on as his partner. There was enough gold and platinum in that room to keep the national treasury running for centuries with no inflation, and artifacts that would make a lich giddy as a schoolgirl. His prized possessions were threefold: a music box which played a concerto the world would never hear, but which the composer had traded for the affection of man he pined after for most of his life. A Collection of stories the author never wrote because he’d traded his skill with a pen for money to pay back his creditors. And a bottle which appeared empty which Lyraax assured her came from a woman who wanted to be a talented singer so he gave her the voice in exchange for her passion so she’d easily be the greatest singer, but wouldn’t care for it.
When Reigna had asked him then why he’d taken those things from these people he’d responded “Mortals are foolish and fickle, they want easy answers to difficult problems, and the creative types are the most disappointing to me. They seek fame, fortune, or simply to spite other creators. When they come and ask me for such frivolous things, I give them what they want and tell them the cost, and for these three in particular, I scryed their futures and saw that what they’d asked me for would’ve have been theirs regardless had they kept what I had taken, but they just couldn’t wait.” He hadn’t said it with malice nor with glee. He’d seemed legitimately saddened by it. He had asked her then
“What do you want, little Larkspur?”
“Just your assistance, Lyraax.”
“With what?” He pressed.
“I just want to be the best I can be at my craft. I want to write music and tell stories that move people and make them feel.” she’d told him, it all sounds naive and sophomoric in retrospect.
“What’s it worth to you?” He’d asked, she could tell he was waiting to be disappointed again.
“Travel with me, as a partner. Help me refine my act and my ideas, and maybe lend me your magic as stage effects?” his eyes glittered at the idea.
“And what do I get out of it?” he asked finally.
“When my time comes and I leave the world behind, you can keep a copy of all of my best stories. I want that to be the crown jewel of your collection, proof of everything I was and everything I am, not the empty shell of what I could’ve been.”
“You’ve got quite the spirit, little one. Fine, I shall be your assistant.”
He’s been her most consistent companion since that day.
As the sun begins to set, Reigna climbs a nearby hill and pitches her tent. Lyraax sits beside her bag on the ground and daintily takes the parchment she had been composing on earlier out and lays it on the ground before him.
“Hmm, something new you’re working on, Lady?” He asks, thumping his tail to the rhythm noted on the bar of music.
“Yes, I was going to have you look it over as we ate.” She stops to watch him as he sways in place, his tail keeping rhythm all the while. “Do you like it?” She asks.
“It has a nice bounce to it, certainly dance-able.” He says, blinking slowly. “It could be dancier though.” He says with a smirk.
“What would you change?” She asks, crouching beside him as he snags another sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal from the bag.
“Well if you want it to be a slower dance, but maintain that bouncy rhythm we go to cut time and take it to a 2/4 rather than a 4/4 signature.” he says, scratching down a new bar of music. “For the sake of consistency and rhythm we can drop the flutes, double down on percussion and have two layers of strings with a violin lead, piano accompaniment, and a plucked lute. We can make room to improvise some solos over scales in the key as well.” He says, never raising his eyes from the parchment.
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“Do we have to forgo the flutes?” Reigna pouts. “I really wanted it to capture the feel of walking down a quiet city street on a lazy autumn afternoon.”
“Well, if you’re adamant about a woodwind presence in the piece, perhaps an oboe or clarinet to fill that role without disturbing the harmony?” He says, gesturing to her with the piece of charcoal pinched between his chubby, clawed fingers.
“Can you give me an idea as to what it sounds like?” Reigna asks.
Lyraax nods and purses his lips into an ‘’O’’ shape before taking a deep breath. As he exhales, his mouth and throat flex to mimic the sound of the instrument and he plays along to the music he has written. It follows a swaying, side-to-side motion and at times he improvises a little, fluttering trill that reminds Reigna of the way leaves dance over the ground when caught in the breeze. She sways a little in place, imagining the other instruments. The sound is smooth and sensual, the kind of thing that makes you pull a partner close on the dance floor so that when you pull apart, every sinew of their body aches to be held again.
“Ah quite the feeling, right?” Lyraax smirks at her.
“Were you in my head again?” She asks, glaring down at the small dragon.
“No, I could tell by your face that you were somewhere else, but I’m glad you like it.” He puffs, scratching down more bars of music. “What made you want to write this anyway?” He asks.
“I was on the road east from Ambria and the sounds lined up in just the right way, I had to write it down. Also.” She pauses for a moment. “I was thinking back to when I met you and you had shown me your most prized items.”
“Oh?” He says turning his full attention to her and curling up like a round loaf of sourdough. “Was there one in particular?”
“You said one of the artists you met before traded his greatest, unrealized concerto for the affection of another. So I tried to imagine a song to inspire that kind of longing. A song that makes someone look into another person’s eyes and think ‘I may never see you again after this dance, but I need to hold you just for a little while.’ Is that too cheesy?” She asks, laying down some stones to light a fire.
“Not at all. Music inspires bodies to move and hearts to sing.” He hums wistfully. “The beauty of any given moment is the fact that it won’t last forever. Writing a song to inspire others to reach out and hold each other close, as though it’s the last time is a beautiful sentiment.”
“Well thank you Lyraax, I do appreciate your feedback.” She nods, admittedly happier than she thought she’d be.
“Do you want to know what I saw when I took that concerto from him?” Lyraax asks, an unclear tone creeping into his voice.
“Um, sure if you’re willing to share.”
“He had told me that there was a man he loved, who had come to many of his shows. Sometimes this other man would simply sit outside the venue and listen to whatever crept through the walls.” Lyraax was recounting the story, his eyes narrow and cloudy with an indiscernible emotion, wherever this memory had taken him, he wasn’t here anymore. “He was afraid this person, whom he had grown so accustomed to, would leave with another and he would be alone. I had asked him then what price he was willing to pay for love. To which he had responded that no price was too high.” Lyraax stops as Reigna ignites the fire. His eyes scan the flames as though there are words inscribed on them that only he can see.
“I told him that I would take his greatest composition. A song that the world had not yet heard and would never hear. This song would be the one to solidify his name in annals of history and without it, he would die in obscurity.” He continues. “He hesitated and asked which of his songs I would take and produced a notebook of things he was writing. I had to explain that what I was taking from him was not yet a seed in his mind’s garden, it was etched into his destiny. The very thing he was put here to contribute to the world at large. He told me to do as I must.” He stops to shake his head. “He was a fool. In his future, I saw the song, heard its melody. He was going to write it for the man he loved, play it on a fateful night and it would lead to a mutual confession. They would marry in Port Medan, the Lover’s Port and his new husband would learn to play it too, despite not being a man of musical talent.
“The song would outlive him and become a staple in Medan’s taverns and chapels and they would live a long and happy marriage. Without it, the affection between them gradually soured. He was still successful, but felt he had cheated his lover out of his ability to choose. He confessed to ‘having a faerie put the man under a compulsion to love him.’ their relationship ended and he died alone, in squalor.” Lyraax stops to take a deep, mournful breath. “He would’ve had what he’d asked me for and then some had he just waited. That man already loved him. Damn fool.” He says, there’s a somber finality to the way he says it.
“Do you ever regret taking that from him?” Reigna asks, sliding a small cup of peppermint and chamomile tea and a buttered roll over to him.
“Not at all.” Lyraax says coldly as he sips his tea. “People always think they know what they want and firmly believe they know when they’re ready to receive it. I have no pity for him.” he pauses for a moment. “I am mostly sad that no one else will ever hear that beautiful music.”
Reigna adds some chopped veggies and dried herbs to the pot she has hanging over the little fire as Lyraax quietly sips his tea and nibbles on the buttered roll. He is seldom this quiet. As the soup comes up to boil in the pot, Reigna slips her lute from the larger compartment of the bag, as she does the bag makes a sound like little wind chimes being teased by the afternoon breeze. I spent good money to have this extra space, I don’t completely regret it. Well most of the time, anyways.
She props her bag against a tree and leans against it, her eyes locked onto the fire caressing the underside of her cooking pot. Her fingers pluck the lute strings and she hums a bit to herself. Lyraax buries his snout into the bottom of the tea cup to get at whatever remains of the undissolved honey. He sits back up to watch Reigna as she plays. Her eyes are clouded, much like his were moments before.
“Where are you, Lady?” He asks, coming to sit by her leg.
“I’m right here.” She half-heartedly chuckles.
“Something troubles you.” He presses, turning his back to her so that he too is staring into the fire.
“Earlier today, I remembered something my dad used to say to me when I was young.” She says slowly, her voice barely a whisper. “He used to say that you can find music anywhere if you listen for it.”
Lyraax says nothing, something in her voice says she’s not looking for a response.
“My mother and father, when we lived together, would sing and dance together around our campfires.” She stops plucking at her lute. “They loved each other so damn much back then. When mom was sleeping or washing clothes in the river, or taking her turn to drive the cart, my dad would just stare at her like she was the first sunrise he’d seen after years in the dark.” She sits up, leaning on her elbows, her face cupped in her hands.
“Did your parents have pet names for each other?” Lyraax asks, curious but tentative.
“Yeah. My dad used to call mom his North Star. He’s cheesy like that. Used to tell her that the thought of her face and the memory of her eyes would be all the guidance he’d need if ever he were lost.” She smiles a bit at the thought.
“Mom called him her Red Lily because in Regulan floriography, red lilies are given as a way of saying ‘you inspire me’ or given to a performer after the loss of a loved one to say ‘I hope you find your passion again.’ Mom was every bit as much of a romantic as dad was.” She pauses. “As a kid, I always told myself that I wanted a love like what they had.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Lyraax says, leaning his head softly against her knee. “It’s hard to lose people you love.”
“They’re both still alive, Lyraax.” She says through gritted teeth.
“Just because someone is still alive doesn’t mean you didn’t lose them.” He sighs. “People lose their living loved ones all the time, dear Lady. People change, become twisted images of the people we thought they were, they grow, they leave for faraway lands, their morals shift.” There is a hollowness to his voice. “Death is the kindest way to lose someone, because it preserves their memory. All the other ways you can lose someone give them space to taint those memories.”
“Have you ever lost someone?” She asks, gathering a pair of bowls from her bag and stirring the now bubbling soup.
“So many.” He puffs, sounding tired. “The price you pay for a long life is getting to see many friends and lovers pass into eternity. The upside is you get to see just as many enemies go the same way.” He hisses.
“Does that make it easier?” She asks, filling one of the small bowls for him.
“No, it’s just different. I can celebrate the deaths of many foes, but it can’t bring back all the dead friends. It can’t tell them all the things I didn’t say.” He stands and lumbers over the bowl Reigna has set out for him.
“This conversation has gotten a bit heavy for both of us hasn’t it?” Reigna asks, a weak smile crossing her face as she butters another roll to hand to Lyraax.
“It has, but there’s nothing wrong with that.” He says, ripping the roll in half. “Do you want to be a great performer, Lady?” He asks suddenly.
“Well yeah, that’s why I asked for your help.”
“If you learn nothing else from me, heed this: to be a great performer and storyteller, you mustn’t avoid the heavy and uncomfortable feelings. Life is hard and uncomfortable, and sad sometimes. Let the audience sit with those feelings for a bit.” He says through a mouthful of potato. “What good is the spring without the desolation of winter? How lucky we feel to have survived winter’s endless empty when we feel the first kiss of spring's warm, balmy lips.” He muses aloud.
“The happy ending is only worth it if the journey is hard fought?” She asks.
“No, there are no happy endings or beginnings. All that matters is the middle. That’s where good stuff happens. But you can’t laugh if you don’t also cry once in a while.” He smiles. “Like with this awfully unseasoned soup.” He chuckles.
“Hey! It’s not my fault salt prices are up on this side of the world.” She snaps, a wide smile spreading across her face. I suppose life isn’t always perfect but it has its moments and it’s okay to just feel those things. I guess that’s what life is supposed to be about.