Work Text:
The campfire is roaring, after a lot of effort and a little magic. The Northreach wilds are ruthless, with winds that lash at skin like whips and bloodthirsty creatures in the snowdrifts. They've tucked themselves under an outcropping, the surrounding rock shielding their little party and their campsite from the worst of the wind and snow. Ophilia has been restless, worried for the safety of the Sacred Flame, moving it from one spot to another, swaddling it in furs and then unwrapping it again, until Tressa threw her hands in the air and shoved the lantern into her rucksack.
Therion's been helping Alfyn with the fire, since if Cyrus is allowed to help they'll have a forest fire on their hands, and now that it's been kindled (pardon the pun, Ophilia) he's sat back on his haunches, whittling a piece of stolen firewood. Cyrus is making notes in his journals, and Primrose has been relating to him some events that occurred while the group was separated, paying little mind to flair or dramatics. Tressa's been butting in with corrections on this front. Alfyn's keeping a watchful eye on the fire as he takes inventory of his satchel. H'aanit and Olberic went to hunt and fetch firewood a few hours ago, and they've come back tired but triumphant, bearing rabbits and dry branches.
The two of them immediately cross to the other side of their little circle, placing themselves between Cyrus and Primrose with a practiced, if a little self-conscious, air of nonchalance. Therion snickers. Tressa finally pulls her rucksack out of Ophilia's grasp and whips it behind her, sticking her tongue out at the other girl. Primrose adapts to the change in seating gracefully, resting her head smoothly on H'aanit's shoulder, sweeping her own cascades of dark hair to the side with a contented hum. H'aanit just closes her eyes, like she's trying to master inner peace in the face of the fall of Rome. The soul of a warrior, indeed. Olberic, on the other hand, is having no such luck, as anyone might expect - the professor has simply turned his attention on him, and is quizzing him on the flora and fauna he encountered on his brief excursion. It's difficult to discern the motivations of that kind of focus, though Alfyn would say there's a look in Cyrus' eye when speaking to Olberic that he has for no one else. As in many other issues, the group is divided on this topic.
Speaking of Alfyn, he's been humming a pleasant little tune as he works, punctuated nicely by the clinking of glass vials. Indeed, after their meal, expertly prepared by H'aanit and seasoned with some of Alfyn's supplies, it's Ophilia who asks the question. Anyone would have expected it to be Tressa.
"Does anyone know any songs?"
"You mean, aside from hymns?" Therion's voice is dripping with sarcasm, but no-one expected anything else.
"I have it on good authority that I should, quote, 'never be let near a tune lest I be righteously struck down in the street in defense of the artform', unquote." Cyrus says thoughtfully, prompting a ripple of laughter about the circle, and a warm, friendly hand on his back from the man beside him, sending a flush to his cheeks perhaps unrelated to the warm fire.
"We used often sing in the church," Ophilia explains, feeling embarrassed for having raised the topic. "The Frostlands are my home, and I thought it appropriate... Though I confess I could not bear to sing first. After all, I have never given voice to a hymn without dear Lianna by my side." She ducks her head a little in apology, and a sober silence befalls the group. Tressa promptly breaks it by reaching out and ruffling Ophilia's long blonde hair, making the older girl blush and laugh, prying Tressa's hands from her hair.
"I hath ne'er sung in earnest, though there be a great many hunting songs, for the goode of tradition, and to better the luck of the hunt."
"I am a dancer, not a singer. Not to say I lack talent, but who knows... Maybe if your luck turns, you may hear me sing." At this, Primrose winks, and there is no doubt as to who it's intended for. For her part, H'aanit shifts a little closer to Primrose, placing a strong, tightly wrapped arm about her waist.
"Much like H'aanit, I fear I only know the chants we would sing before battle, to nourish the spirit." Olberic folds his hands in his lap in modesty.
"Not a chance." Therion snorts, when Tressa starts to ask.
"Ah, I sang quite a bit back home. My ma, she loved the music of the Riverlands, and we'd often sing to pass the long working day..." Alfyn's been placing his supplies back in his satchel with great care, so he doesn't notice for a moment that the group's attention is on him."...What?"
"Idiot. You're going to have to sing now, you know." Therion sounds amused, but Alfyn just hums in thought, tipping his head up to watch the night sky. His expression quickly goes troubled, and before long he positively crumples in on himself in despair.
"I can't think of a song!"
Tressa laughs, clear as a bell.
"People from all walks came through Rippletide, and they all had songs. I'll help you think of one."
"Aw, thanks, Tress!" Just like that, his mood's picked up again. Funny, that. Therion sometimes can't believe that he has feelings for this man.
Tressa tips her head to the side thoughtfully. "My mum was from the Riverlands, and she used to sing a song late at night... Dad never liked it, thought it blasphemous, but Mum always said it was just another way to think of the gods." She's captured everyone's attention now, so she turns to Alfyn and hums a few bars. "Alf, do you know the song of stained glass?"
So he sings.
His voice is husky but clear, and the song is well suited to a man almost speaking rather than singing.
"It was thirty days 'til Easter when the elm tree hit the church,
Thank God it fell on Friday 'cause at least no one was hurt..."
Though the song is rife with unfamiliar concepts, there is an underlying humanity to it, given wings by a humble apothecary sitting cross-legged by the fire, vials and parchment-wrapped parcels in hand still.
H'aanit pulls Primrose into her lap, the other woman nestling comfortably against her furs. Therion's expression is unguarded, looking at Alfyn as if he's the only man in the world.
"It was covered in black velvet, like a hood, or like a veil,
He pulled the sheet and there it hung, apocryphal, and frail..."
Cyrus has long since closed his book with a soft snap and is now leaning comfortably against Olberic's side, both peaceful.
"...The chapel fell to silence, it was more than just surprise,
As the monstrosity of colour slid its tongue across their eyes.
And they shivered from exposure like babies born again
'Cause in every pane of glass was all the joy and pain of man."
Ophilia's eyes are wet with tears, though she doesn't seem to notice.
"There was every fearful smile, there was every joyful tear,
There was each and every choice that leads from every there to here,
There was every cosy stranger, and every awkward friend,
And there was every perfect night that's left initials in the sand.
There was every day that's filled so full the weeks would float away,
And there was all those days spent wondering what to do with all those days.
There was every lie that ever saved the truth from being shamed,
And every secret you could ever trust a friend to hide away..."