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The moon glowed, its constant light drenching the forest in an evening gleam, bringing about a quiet serenity, a stillness that you welcomed after a day of ceaseless trekking. You had considered asking Ike to slow the march down—soldiers who arrived too tired to fight were of no use to him, after all.
But you didn’t want to whine, not when your comrades were so determined to press on. It seemed that those in your party were more than just mercenaries. They were a diverse group with different personalities and thoughts, a variation of ideologies and intentions.
You had to admit that it was refreshing being with so many people from all walks of life. Being from a small town, you didn’t hear much in dissenting opinions, aside from those you thought were of most insignificant impact. Spring or summer? Bonnet or straw hat? Ale or mead?
The Greil mercenaries continued on, rain or shine, and you admired the resilience that every member seemed to hold close to their hearts. For many of them, this wasn’t just an occupation.
There were lives on the line. People were in danger, their loved ones depending on you to help them.
You understood that, but, still, would you be doing this if you didn’t need the money?
You weren’t sure.
Violence wasn’t really your preference. It was only convenient during a time when you needed to feed yourself. Maybe it gave you purpose, but you really wanted to enjoy the world for what it was.
You loved strolling through the forests, breathing in the aroma of morning dew and blossoms; you admired the way light filtered through the leaves of the trees, the shadows flitting only when the wind breezed through the branches. Berries were among your favorite fruits, and you loved their sweet flavors and plump juices when you bit into them, warmed by the sun. Sometimes you found yourself gathering wild flowers—truthfully, you didn’t have a home to decorate, no vase to stand them in, but you enjoyed their sweet scent, and you thought they made camp look at least a little more inviting.
There were rumors about you. Your gentle nature did not lend much to your perception as a mercenary, but just because you were good at fighting didn’t mean you liked it. Instead, you much preferred relaxed activities, spending much of your downtime alone, perusing the nearby wilderness.
You liked the Greil Mercenaries for the most part. You admired Tatiana for her strength and counsel, and you thought Ike had a good head on his shoulders, a strong role model for his followers. Mist was always a sweetheart, offering you food and healing when you needed it, while Boyd made you laugh. You had your spats with Shinon whenever he thought your performance was subpar, and Gatrie flirted with you, as he did with most women.
Still, you needed your time away from the group, especially as Ike recruited more soldiers. Camp became busier, bustling with chatter and debate after fights. You supposed most of the people here preferred the warmth of the fire and the fellowship that surrounded it.
You, however, would often wander, letting the unmarked paths sweep you off your feet. You followed rivers and stars, letting the wind part the grass in the glades. Fireflies lit your way, fluttering gaily in the twilight, and you heeded their guidance.
Sometimes, when you were out of earshot of camp, you would sing to yourself, softly, of course, as to not draw attention.
Tonight was one of those nights, and as you paced casually from camp, letting the battle of today melt from your consciousness. You sang a soothing song, a lullaby that your mother taught you, a melody that often lulled you to sleep when you were a child. It chased away the monsters in the night, the darkness that loomed over your shoulder.
So you sang to your heart’s content, letting the notes roll from your lips, minding both tempo and pitch. The lyrics were lovely, though irrelevant—most of all, you enjoyed the music, the feeling of rapture, as though you could spill your deepest secrets in a language that anyone else could understand, so long as you were comfortable with being vulnerable.
And when your voice drifted off into the silence of the night, you felt at peace.
At least, you did, until you were interrupted.
“I have never heard a beorc sing the way you do.”
You froze, having never had an audience before—you were shy about your voice, only finding enough confidence when you were alone.
“My apologies. I did not mean to startle you,” he said. This was the heron laguz whom Ike attempted to rescue from the Tanas Mansion, and he stood at a distance, glowing in the moonlight. He was nothing short of beautiful, seemingly delicate, wings white and large, folded loosely against his back.
“It’s okay,” you said. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here.”
He looked just as wary of you as you were of him, green eyes boring into you. It was as if he wished to study you, that his observations were not quite in line with what he anticipated.
“Is there something I can help you with?” you said, feeling the pressure of the silence. It encouraged you to speak.
His gaze was steely, certainly a contrast to his elegance. “No.”
Well, this was awkward.
You looked away for a moment and then back to him. “Then, why are you out here, if I may ask?”
He must have realized the irony. “I… heard your singing.”
“It must have hurt your ears if you chose to come find me,” you joked, making a jab at yourself. You didn’t know if he appreciated self-deprecating humor, but you found a small amount of it to be comforting. It showed others that you were willing to be lighthearted, that you didn’t take yourself too seriously.
“It’s not that at all,” he said. “I just didn’t know beorc could sing like that.”
“I mean… what were you expecting? We have vocal chords, too, you know.”
“I’m aware.”
“I suppose the herons are different, though, hm? I’ve heard of your galdrs; my mother used to tell me how magical they are.”
“You learned about us?”
You nodded. “My mother was a wonderful storyteller.”
“I assume she sang, too?”
“Oh, yes.”
“She taught you to sing.” It was a statement, not a question. His posture relaxed, though he still stood tall, shoulders back, not a strand of hair out of place. His eyes softened, their expression full of memories. “My mother taught me, too.”
You had heard about the Serenes Massacre, even witnessed the effects of the destruction when you were there with the Greil Mercenaries. It made your heart hurt that the people of Begnion—your people—would seek to commit genocide against a race that knew no violence.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I’m so sorry.”
He did not respond at first. “I know it wasn’t you,” he said. “The massacre took place twenty years ago. You are too young to have been a part of it.”
“That didn’t stop you from blaming Ike.”
“I was angry. I didn’t realize there are kind beorc, too. I thought you were all the same.”
“Are all laguz the same?”
“I see your point.”
You gave a short laugh. “I’m glad.”
A short moment of silence fell between you, the only sound the simple symphony of crickets.
“What is your name?” he said.
“_____. You must be Reyson.”
“I’m embarrassed that you know mine, and, yet, I didn’t know yours until now.”
“Well, to be fair, there are plenty of beorc in Ike’s company, and only one heron laguz. It’s easy for me to recognize you.”
“Mm.”
“Will you sing?”
“What?”
“Well, you heard me sing. I was wondering if you’d be willing to share a song with me.”
Reyson paused, tilting his head to the side in a manner that seemed less dignified than appropriate for him. “Do you really want to hear?”
“I wouldn’t ask otherwise. My mother said that your songs have the power to heal and rejuvenate, to make people move twice as quickly as they can normally.”
“Are you in need of it? Are you hurt?”
“Oh, no. I’m fine—I’m just curious. It’s fine if you’d rather not. You can save the song for someone who actually needs it.”
“No, it’s all right,” he said. “There is no limited supply of magic. So long as I have a voice, I can sing.” He cleared his voice, lidded eyes moving toward the full moon, and from his throat came the most beautiful baritone, moderately deep in pitch, honeyed and smooth.
The song consumed you, a feeling of genuine peace surrounding your body, drowning out the weariness of the day. His voice lured you into a state of relaxation and revitalization, almost like the brink of a restful dream, though you were fully awake, aware of every moment, every trickle of renewal enveloping your senses in a comfortable warmth.
Still, he continued his melody, the world slowing, strength returning to every limb and organ—your perception peaked, your breaths quickened. You felt serene and contented, welcomed home after your many weeks of travel.
When Reyson’s voice faded, the last note lingering in the air, you looked at him, bewilderment in your eyes. “I think your song trumps mine,” you said, finally. “I can’t believe I’ve lived my whole life without music like that. That’s amazing.”
He seemed pleased to hear your compliment. “It is called the Galdr of Vigor,” he said. “It is a song I’ve known my whole life.”
“It’s both beautiful and useful. I can see why the herons value it so much.”
“And what role does music play among beorc?”
You smiled at him. “Oh, we don’t have anything like your galdrs. But we use music during holidays and celebrations, even during our religious practices. I used to help my grandparents in the fields as a child, and some of the workers would sing to keep rhythm in their scything or cutting. I think that while the music itself is different across cultures, it’s important all the same.”
“I see.” Reyson looked genuinely curious, wings fluttering a little as if he were thinking. “Will you share more with me? I’d like to learn about you beorc.”
Truthfully, you were a little anxious about being with Reyson—he had seemed so closed off with the remainder of your party when he first joined. However, for whatever reason, he decided to open up to you, of all people.
“I’d be honored,” you said. “Just a warning, though—I don’t usually sing for others, so anything I sing for you might not be as polished as yours.”
“You need more confidence.”
“If you could just continue sneaking up on me singing when I’m by myself, you might hear the best renditions.”
To your surprise, he grinned, pale skin crinkling around his eyes. “If I must. But I’d like to give you the opportunity to perform first.”
You shrugged. “You might regret it.”
“Maybe some other time, then.”
“I’d like that.” You nodded toward the creek. “I was following the water, wondering where it would take me. I figured it’d be a nice way to enjoy the evening. Would you like to join me?” It wasn’t like you to involve others during times when you wanted to be alone, but you felt this was one of those relationships you would have to nurture as the occasion arose.
“I have some time.” Reyson led the way along the creek, and although you thought he might be quiet on your walk together, he was not reluctant to answer your questions and play the role of the conversationalist.
You realized he needed a bit of prodding, perhaps some encouragement to share his stories and culture, but so long as you were open and warm, he seemed to respond well.
There were no more songs that evening, but you were certain you would try to strum up the courage to sing for him in the future. Your songs weren’t magical, and they would never have the revitalization effect his Galdr of Vigor gave you—but, perhaps, they might make him feel inspired nonetheless.
