#going off my bard blog that is my tag now whenever speaking to a fellow jim

[bookenders]

When Your Song is Over and Done: Part 2

Apologies for the late post! Life is happening and making everything a bit jumbly.

If you follow the link below (desktop only) it will take you to the full story, where I’ve added the second part to the first. This is how I’ll do it for this page.

The full text is under the cut, as well, for the ease of you lovely mobile users. 💜

PART 2

WC: 980

Genre: Fantasy, Adventure, Drama, #feels

CW: brief mentions of past violence, angst, D&D-typical combat, grief, mention of past death, longing, brief mention of alcohol use, loneliness, submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known

Link to the playlist

LINK TO STORY

Link to Part 1

[Part 2:]

Alain didn’t want any pomp and circumstance for himself. Gennon and Kelfir were the only two of the Saviors to enjoy the Victory Tour they took around the country, visiting every capital and collecting laurels from their sovereigns. Lennal had left as soon as the portal closed behind them, locking the Betrayer away once and for all and leaving him at the will of his angered patron.  She’d had enough of heroes and kings. All she wanted now, she had said, was to return to her people and heal the damage done by the demons the Betrayer had freed from the dark realms. Gennon had been appointed captain of the guard in the Elven capital of Asho Lenora. Last Alain heard, the man had changed the uniform colors to silver and cobalt, the same shades as his own heraldry. Kelfir, always the odd one, their little sneak thief, volunteered to run the country's largest orphanage. She absolutely refused to accept payment. In her eyes, it was the least she could do.

Every night he told the people of Denmore stories of his fellow Saviors, his friends. For weeks, he filled their nights with fireballs shot from parapets, dragons’ roars and tearing talons, Hill Giants’ clubs clashing against Gennon’s shield, Kelfir’s sharp wit freeing them from bring doomed to prison, and Lennal’s glowing eyes and hands, gifts from her goddess, heralding them through storm after storm. He rarely sang his own praises; whenever someone asked, he told them that he was there for moral support.

What he didn’t say was that one night, when he and Kelfir shared watch duty, she had cried into his shoulder and mourned the family she never had, since the next day she might be killed without ever having had the chance to find one for herself. He didn’t say that one afternoon, after they had lifted the curse from a tiny village on the northern edge of the great forest, Lennal raged and screamed her sorrows in the snowy woods all alone, her divine gift carving gashes into trees, small avalanches hurtling from their branches, because she could not save the only person to die from the affliction. He did not say that he was the one to find her sitting in the snow, her glowing eyes nearly as blinding as the sun shining from the white blanket beneath her, and the one to hold her until she felt whole enough to return to the inn where they had set up shop those few weeks they’d spent hunting for a cure. He did not say that Gennon had looked him in the eye and asked if he was worthy of his mantle, if his family would ever forgive him for leaving them, if the cause they thought they were fighting for was reason enough to risk their lives, especially to save so many people who may not deserve forgiveness. He did not say that Gennon rarely voiced these fears, or that Alain could tell by the set of his shoulders and the way he wouldn’t look them in the eye that he was terrified of moving forward. He could see just as easily that Gennon was the bravest of them all. He did not exaggerate his strength in his songs.

The people of Denmore would not know the true story of their adventure. But they would know a good one, one they could sing to their children after he himself was long gone. It was the least he could do, these days.

To be frank, Alain had never expected to live long enough to have a home again. He'd had a bet going with Gennon: first to bite the dust owed the other twenty gold pieces. Technically, Gennon was the first to die, but Lennal had swiftly snatched his soul back from the Hells. He said it didn't count because he didn’t stay dead. Kelfir backed him up with a sly grin and Lennal had thrown her hands in the air and walked off in a huff. No one ever thanked the healer. And when they did, after all was said and done, she realized she’d never wanted it in the first place. A beating heart is thanks enough, she had told him one night, leaning sideways out of her chair, two bottles of vintage rolling empty on the table before them. Alain regretted not speaking with her more during their shared watches all those years ago. He may never get another chance to see what was under that tree bark shield she put up around herself.

He admired her for returning to her people, though. That was the one thing he couldn’t do. Gennon had a family. They’d moved from their farm to the capital city to live in wealth and prosperity for the first time in their lives. Kelfir had a family of her own, too. The orphans she looked after saw her as their mother, just as Kelfir had seen her own caretakers when she was a lonely child searching for a place to call home. Now she could give them what she never had. She was happy.

Alain had had a family, once upon a time. But he had left, and they had gone, so he’d taken up the lute and tuned his voice and found a new home on the dusty roads stretching across the countryside. Each new inn and tavern was his playground, his workplace, and his haven, for however brief a time. One night, maybe two if he were making good coin, and then he’d be off again, browning his freshly shined boots in the dirt. It was in one of those inns that he’d met the other three, back when they only had a handful of scars between them and eyes that shone with hope for glory. The rest, as his fellow bards say, is history.

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