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Listen. If I had a gold piece for every song I’ve ever heard about the living journeying to some sort of afterlife to get their loved ones back— well, I’d have a lot of gold while I was sailing the stars and singing for the dead. There are thousands of songs scattered across the universes. Orpheus and Eurydice, Rowan and Wren, the Archivist and the Poet, The Prince and the Raven’s Daughter. Are any of them true? Doesn’t matter. It’s about love. It’s about hope. It’s about the thought that, every once in a while, you can give the middle finger to death. Mostly it’s the first two. Mostly. —Andante Dellamore, gravesinger
The life of a bard had sounded so— romantic. Was that the right word? Dorian had certainly fallen in love with the idea of it. The open road, the freedom to go where you pleased, bringing happiness to people with both story and song, offering them an escape from ordinary life for just a little while.
Of course, there had been no mention of the less— pleasant aspects of a bard’s life, at least not from the traveling bards that had ended up at the Silken Squall over the years. They had spun tales of adventure and glory, and there had been not a word about walking down muddy roads in the rain or constantly swatting at bugs that were determined to suck all the blood from your body. They had spoken of cheering crowds and purses heavy with silver and gold and had left out the stories of tavern rooms full of surly folks who threw things at you if they didn’t like your playing.
The crowd tonight at The Leaping Faun Inn in Westruun is not as bad as all that, for which Dorian is grateful for, truly. However, as a whole they seem to be entirely indifferent to Dorian’s music, and that stings worse than a tankard of ale thrown at his face. His drinking songs have only inspired lackluster choruses from those seated in front of him. His dancing tunes have not started anyone’s toes tapping. He has no lute case in which to collect tips, since his lute is enchanted to resist all weather, but the empty wine cup he had placed in front of him at the start of the night only holds a few sad, lonely copper pieces. The copper glint mocks Dorian for his utter failure to read the room, to give the people whatever it is they desire.
Dorian keeps a smile plastered on his face, his fingers playing a quiet melody that can transition quickly into whatever he decides to play next, his mind frantically going over his options. If this isn’t a crowd that wishes to be lively, maybe a ballad will be more to their liking. But which?
“Who here would like to hear the tale of The Harper and The Swan?”
No one looks up from either their wine or their conversation. Dorian, nervous sweat sliding down the back of his neck, raises his voice slightly. “Perhaps The Faithful Hound? Or The Prince of Cats?”
Under his fingers a lute string snaps, stinging his hand and causing a murmur of laughter to flow through the room, the most reaction Dorian has received all night. He ducks his head to hide his embarrassed blush, reaching into the pockets of his cloak for another lute string, Perhaps he should just cut his losses for the evening. He will not starve tonight regardless, nor will he have to sleep outside in the stables, but his coin purse will be lighter, with no guarantee that it will grow heavier tomorrow or the next day. Worse, his pride will be wounded.
No. Dorian’s jaw clenches as he tightens the new lute string. No. I can do this.
“Tough crowd.”
Thankfully, Dorian’s jaw is clenched so tight that the little surprised squeak doesn’t make it past his lips as his head snaps up in surprise, having heard no one approach. The person standing in front of him has the build Dorian associates with assassins and is dressed like one as well in black leather, daggers shining naked on their belt, their face hidden under the darkness of their hooded cloak.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Dorian hears himself say, his voice bright and brittle as his left hand brushes the hilt of his scimitar hidden beneath his lute. It’s ridiculous to think that someone has been sent to kill him. No one knows who he is here, and ransom would be so much more profitable than murder. Still. “Do you have a request?”
“A— request.” The man speaks strangely, as if the cadence of the common tongue is something they’ve forgotten and there are odd echoes to his voice, something that reminds Dorian of the croaking cry of ravens. Some sort of damage to his vocal cords perhaps? It almost hurts to listen to. “Yes. A request.”
The man’s right hand moves suddenly, not towards his belt and the daggers hanging there, but as if plucking something out of the air. There is a glint of silver, bright as moonlight, and then the sound of coins dropping into Dorian’s cup. Clink. Clink. Clink. Dorian wonders if the coins themselves are magical, if they will vanish with the sun the way that fey gold is said to do. Well, the silver will be long spent on a meal and a bed by then, and if the coins are gone in the morning they’ll be no way to track their disappearance back to Dorian.
“Do you know—“ There is a pause, the man’s shoulders shifting, his head cocking slightly to the side. “It’s so hard— to remember sometimes. The little things. Names.” Another pause, longer this time. Dorian doesn’t try to urge the stranger along. Indeed, he doesn’t even breathe as he waits for the man to speak.
“The ballad of— The Bard, The Weaver and The Mother Of Ravens. Do you— know it?”
There’s giddy feeling of relief and Dorian’s breath comes out as a shaky laugh, which he quickly swallows. “The ballad of the bard who so loved a woman that she walked into the lands of the Raven Queen to fetch her spirit back, who sang a song so touching that the Raven Queen let her leave with her love? It’s a very popular song. The Ballad of Rowan and Wren it’s most commonly called, though I’ve often heard it referred to as The Wren and The Raven.”
“Is that— what it’s called here?” The man’s head straightens. He nods. “Yes. I would hear that— if you would.”
“How could I turn down such a request?” Dorian nods towards the coins in his cup. “You paid in advance, after all, and generously too.” More generously than the other patrons of the inn at least.
There is a pause and then the man chuckles, a low, grating, clacking sort of sound that again puts Dorian in mind of birds. “I have— a fondness— for bards.” So saying, the man turns and walks towards a table in the back corner half hidden in shadow, leaving Dorian to blink in confusion. He feels like he’s missing something. More, he feels like he’s been missed by something, like a rabbit in the field who’s been passed over by a hawk.
Focus, Dorian scolds himself and his racing heart. There will be time later to run this strange interaction over in his head, to tease meaning from it, but now is not that time. The song the stranger has requested is simple enough for one bard to play alone, though there is more than plenty of room to improvise. The performance Dorian remembers from home had been an arrangement for flute, harp, and violin, the lyrics not deviating at all from the classical verses. It had all been very grand, and nothing at all like the performances Dorian has seen in his travels since. Tonight there will only be Dorian’s lute and voice to tell the tale, and a little bit of magic to set the scene. He reaches into another pocket of his cloak and finds a small bit of fleece, which he twists and ties around the littlest finger of his left hand. There.
Dorian takes a deep breath, pushing aside anxiety and confusion so they will not find their way into his voice, filling his head with the song he’s about to perform as he smiles his most charming smile, the one he practices every morning before breakfast. “We have a request!” Dorian’s voice carries over the crowd as he strums his lute with a flourish to get their attention. “For The Wren and The Raven!”
Several people at the surrounding tables look up from their drinks and towards Dorian and the murmuring of conversation swells for a moment before quieting, sounding, if not excited, at least interested as Dorian begins playing the first lilting, carefree measures. Birdsong, he thinks, twitching his little finger. The sound of small birds quietly chirping suddenly sounds from the rafters, so realistic that several patrons look up towards the ceiling. Dorian feels his smile relax into something more real, something more true as, still smiling, he begins to sing.
Once long ago, or so it is said,
Long after the Betrayer Gods fall,
There was a love that was stronger than death
And that tale I shall tell to you all.
Wren was fair skilled, fingers clever and quick
Her lute never far from her hand,
To only one place she refused to stick
So she traveled all over the land.
Wren met many people and saw such strange sights
Sang for dragons and giants and kings,
Yet despite all of that she spent many a night
Unable to sleep for longing.
“What more could I want?” Wren asked as she roamed,
“I have freedom to go where I please.
I have silver and gold, I am clever and bold,
What other joys are there but these?"
Dorian looks out over his audience as his little finger twitches twice, once for the sound of sheep gently baaing, then once more for the winter winds that will blow a few verses from now. He still seems to have the interest of the tavern patrons. Over in his shadowy corner the man in the cloak tilts his head, nodding at Dorian in what Dorian interprets as an indication that the man is pleased. Dorian’s carefree chords become something a little heavier, more grounded, fitting the character in the forthcoming verses.
Not all that far from where Wren was now walking
On a farm with some goats and some sheep,
A weaver named Rowan was spinning her roving
Too troubled by questions to sleep.
“I have all that I need in this place I call home
I have all that for which I’ve aspired,
So why is it then that I am not content
To sit and to spin by the fire?
“Why do I feel that something is missing?
Why do I not know its name?
I have all that I need but not all that I want,
Every day feels so much the same.”
On cue the sound of sheep gives way to winter winds. The illusion only covers sound, not temperature, but Dorian notes with delight that a few tavern patrons at the tables closest to him shiver.
Winter came, as it does, bringing storms in its wake
Heavy snow falling thick o’er the land
Yet for poor Wren there was no shelter to take
She was lost with no landmarks to hand.
“Is this how I go?” Wren asked the sky
“After all I have done and have seen?
To die in the snow would be undignified
And a waste of all I could have been.”
The wind howled in answer as Wren shivered and shook,
And then, a most curious thing,
Wren raised her voice, gave the sky one more look
And began to sing about Spring.
For if Wren was to die out here in the snow
If this was the end of it all,
Singing was how she wanted to go
Before she’d succumb to the Raven Queen’s call.
Warm in her house, safe from the storm
Rowan was spinning her wool,
When on the wind she heard a faint song
And felt the thread of destiny’s pull.
Out into the storm Rowan did go
As Wren continued to struggle and sing
And when Wren’s voice faltered, when she stumbled and fell
It was in Rowan’s arms she found peace.
Dorian lets the sound of wind gradually fade, to be replaced by the inn’s own crackling fire. He imagines he can hear his tutor in classical literature grinding his teeth as Dorian replaces the ballad’s strictly rhyming lines with alternative verses, the rhymes broken but the meaning unchanged. Dorian had never liked how his tutor had said the word popular, like it was something he had found defiling his beloved traditional classics. The ballad was written down for anyone to read, unchanging. But the song that was out in the world being sung? Songs were alive, shifting with region and musician and instrument.
The storms raged through the winter, bitter and cold
But inside Rowan’s house warmth and light
Wren paid for her lodging with coins made of gold
And the tales that she told through the night.
One day turned to three became five became ten
Weeks turned to months as they do
Threads of fate twining fast around both of them
As outside the winter winds blew.
Rowan knit Wren a scarf, a hat and some gloves
Sewed a cloak warm as sunlight in spring
Softly and gently the two fell in love
As the season’s first songbirds did sing.
Wren left soon after the spring lambs were born
With a promise to return in the fall
Rowan knew better than to try and cage her
For birds should fly free after all.
This part of the story, not the more fantastical elements later, is the part Dorian thinks about the most. Wren not giving up what she loved for who she loved, and Rowan not asking her to, at least by the ballad’s accounts. Dorian has never been in love, but sometimes he wonders what it would be like. Shouldn’t he want to retire from his wandering ways to be closer to the person he loved? What if they asked him to, and he did, but then he resented them for asking? In a perfect world, he’d fall for someone who would want to go traveling with him until they both decided to settle down together, but what if—
Dorian reels back his wandering attention, careful not to let his irritation at himself show on his face. In the middle of a performance is not the time to think about such things. Instead he twitches a finger, setting up the timing for the next sound effect.
And so the years passed for Rowan and Wren
Two lovers content in their ways
Wren left with the snowdrops and songbirds in spring
To return home to Rowan in the chill autumn rains.
Everything changes, the wheel always turns
Entropy beckons, snaps destiny’s thread
And so that it was that tragedy fell
On the path where Rowan met Wren.
Rowan heard Wren’s sweet song on the crisp autumn breeze
With a laugh she ran towards her love
Neither of them spied the snake on the path
Until the snake hissed and then struck!
Dorian’s hands still on his lute, letting the snake’s hiss fade into the silence. In a sudden burst of inspiration, he unclips the flute handle from his hand-axe, singing the next verse with no musical accompaniment at all, instead flicking a finger and letting the sound of beating birds wings fill the tavern, a soft susurration.
Rowan took one more step towards her love
Before into Wren’s arms she did fall
And the ravens did carry her soul far away
As one day they will do for us all.
Dorian lifts the flute to his lips, the notes of the mourning interlude drifting over the crowd as Dorian judges the patron’s reactions. Everyone seems utterly transfixed by his playing, no one fidgeting or looking like they wish for the song to be over. In his corner, the man in the dark cloak hasn’t moved an inch.
As still as the grave, Dorian thinks, wondering for a moment why he had phrased it that way, then turns his attention back to the song, lowering his flute and taking up the lute once more. Softly, the notes still mournful, Dorian sings.
For three days and three nights Wren did not speak
Did not eat, did not drink, did not rest
She could only sit next to Rowan and weep
As her love lay unmoving in death.
Wren’s heart was broken, no songs could she sing
Though her lute was still clutched in her hand
As her own heartbeat slowed, as her own eyes did close
As she woke in the Raven Queen’s land.
The sky overhead was purple and grey
The air both quiet and cold
Black trees with bare branches reached towards the clouds
Twisted roots stretched deep down below.
Wren clutched at her lute and held her head high
As ravens perched on the dark trees
She had played for dragons and giants and kings
It was time that she played for a Queen.
“I have come for my love!” Wren called to the birds
“For our lives have but hardly begun
Lead me to your Queen or bring Her to me
I have a song which needs to be sung!”
Cawing and shrieking the ravens descended
They pecked and they tore at poor Wren
But the bard stood her ground and did not cry out
Or herself even try to defend.
“Enough,” said a voice both soft and strange
At his word all the ravens took flight
In front of Wren the Queen’s Champion stood
Staring her straight in the eye.
“It is not too late,” the Champion said
“You have not yet breathed your last breath,
Open your eyes, go on with your life
You need not join her death.”
“I have come for my love,” Wren said again
“Without her I don’t wish to leave
Please where is your Queen, for Her I would sing
And then She would know of my need.”
“Do you think you’re the first?” the Champion asked
“Do you really think no one else tries?
She hears every prayer of the grief-stricken souls,
But She does not give back those who’ve died.”
“Still I would try,” Wren said, head held high
“Please do not stand in my way.
If Rowan should live or if I should move on,
It is not your place to say.”
“That is true,” said a voice from all places at once
The Queen looking down from the sky,
Her porcelain mask was all Wren could see
No matter how hard she tried.
“Sing your song,” said the Matron of Ravens to Wren
“For I listen to all in their grief,
But once you are done you shall go on your way,
And leave all the dead to their sleep.”
Wren did not argue, just lifted her lute,
No doubt in her hands or her heart,
Just because She hadn’t let the dead come back before,
Didn’t mean that this wasn’t the start.
Wren had performed for years beyond count,
For silver and gold and for fame,
None of which Wren now cared for at all,
It was for Rowan she sang.
Wren sang about having all that you want
Yet longing for that which you need,
She sang about coming home year after year
Like a bird coming back to their tree.
Love was the light and warmth of the fire
The sound of new lambs in the spring
The weave of a cloak, the feeling of wool
The song that it made your heart sing
Love was a tree, their roots and their leaves
Love was the sun in the sky
Love was the freedom to go where you wished
To return when the autumn drew nigh.
Wren kept on singing as the first spirit rose
A shadowy, shimmering thing
Soon there were gathered an infinite number,
Then softly, one began to sing.
They sang about having all that you need,
But longing for that which you want,
They sang about having that which is missing
Blown on storm winds straight into your arms.
Love was the light and warmth of a smile
The beat of your heart when they sing
The notes of the lute and the stories they told
The path that to home safely brings.
Love was a bird, all feathers and wings,
Love was letting them fly,
Love was the silence that they left behind
And the song when they once more arrived.
The spirit of Rowan stood next to Wren
As both of them looked to the sky
The Matron of Ravens gazed down upon them
Then softly, quietly, sighed.
“You may both leave,” the Raven Queen said
“For you I shall re-weave your threads.”
And so that it was, in the land of the living,
Rowan awoke beside Wren.
The both of them lived long and full lives,
As happy as any could wish,
And when the end came again, as it does for us all
It was together they breathed their last breaths.
Once long ago, or so it is said
Long after the Betrayer God’s fall,
There was a love that was stronger than death
That’s the tale I’ve now told to you all.
Dorian lets the last notes fade into silence, heart pounding in nervous anticipation. At some point during the last verse he had closed his eyes, and now he’s almost afraid to open them. What if they had hated it? No. No, they would have left, they would have booed, they would have—
The sound of one person clapping. Two. Three.
Dorian opens his eyes and is greeted by the sight of the tavern patrons clapping, in a few cases even softly crying. Pride swells in Dorian’s chest as he lets the sight and the sound of the appreciative crowd wash over him, smiling as his gaze shifts over to the table in the corner where the man in black is—
The sound of the clapping crowd fades as Dorian’s vision narrows to focus solely on the man in black. The hood of the man’s cloak is down, revealing a man with half-elven features, with hair that shines in the tavern light with all the colors of a raven’s wing. Their cloak is no longer a cloak, it’s a feathered mantle, it’s no longer a feathered mantle, it’s wings, he has wings black feathered wings and Dorian has heard the tales of course he’s heard the tales and he knows who he’s staring at he knows he knows he KNOWS—
The Champion of Ravens, the man who was once called Vax’ildan, smiles the slightest of smiles, head tilted like that of a curious bird as he gives Dorian a nod. In the space of one of Dorian’s panicked heartbeats, he vanishes as if he had never been there at all.
Noise and light rush back in leaving Dorian blinking in confusion before he lets his smile and his charm take over, thanking his audience for their enthusiasm and for the silver and occasional gold coins that are now filling his cup.
The three silver coins the Champion of Ravens had given him are cold to the touch when Dorian fishes them out of his wine cup, shining just a little bit brighter in the light of the fire. Dorian slips them into a pouch on his belt. He suddenly feels that it would be bad luck to spend them.
Several months later.
“Once long ago, or so it is said
Long after the Betrayer God’s fall,
There was a love that was stronger than death
That’s the tale I’ve now told to you all.”
The last notes of the song fade into the woods, leaving only the crackling of the campfire behind.
Fearne is the first to speak. “Oh Dorian, that was lovely!”
“Why thank you, Fearne.” A bit of the tension in Dorian’s chest eases. He’s not sure why playing for these people makes him more nervous than playing for a crowded tavern, but it does.
“Yeah Dorian, that was really awesome!” Dariax, enthusiastic as always, is grinning.
“Opal, what did you think?”
Opal is frowning. Not in a angry way, but in a way Dorian has learned means she’s thinking about something. “I have questions.”
“Questions?” Dorian feels his smile wavering. People don’t normally ask questions after he sings. Well, sometimes they do, sometimes they ask if they can buy him a drink or if he wants some company for the evening, but that isn’t the sort of thing Opal would be asking him. Not out here in the middle of the woods anyway. Maybe not even if they were in a tavern.
“Yeah.” Opal taps her surprisingly still well-manicured fingernails against her knee. “The Raven Queen’s Champion said that the Raven Queen never gave back people once they died. Did resurrection magic not exist back then or what?”
Surprisingly, Dariax beats Dorian to an answer. “I think maybe it just means that the Raven Queen like, herself didn’t let people come back from the dead. Like if you prayed to her you were shit out of luck because she’s a death goddess and all, but if you prayed to someone other god they’d come back no problem.” Dariax looks to Dorian. “Is that what it means?”
“I—I don’t know.” Dorian feels flustered now, and he hates feeling flustered. “It’s not something my tutor ever talked about. Mostly he discussed the theory that the ballad had been written to try and explain the reason that bards have access to resurrection magic.”
“Okay, well, Dariax’s answer makes sense to me, so we’ll go with that,” Opal says. “But if Wren and Rowan’s love was ‘stronger than death’, shouldn’t that have made them immortal? I mean, they still wound up dead in the end.”
“It’s symbolic language,” Dorian tells her, trying not to sound frustrated and probably failing utterly. “Poetic license! It’s about getting a second chance at life with someone you love and—“ A movement in his periphery makes him turn to look at Orym, who’s rubbing at his eyes. “Orym, are you all right?”
“Just— allergies.” Orym stops rubbing at his eyes, which are very red. “I’m going to go check the perimeter.” He stands up, putting a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “The song was beautiful, Dorian. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Dorian says, feeling like he’s missing something. It’ll be months before he realizes why Orym always has a sudden attack of “allergies” after Dorian sings a particularly moving love song.
“The song’s an allergy,” Dariax is saying to Opal. “It doesn’t have to make logical sense.”
“I think you mean an allegory,” Dorian tells him.
“The song is a really big lizard?” Fearne asks, cocking her head slightly.
“An allegory,” Dorian says. “Not an alligator.”
“Oh I love alligators!” Opal says excitedly. “Did you know that if you can get an alligator on their back they go all limp and then you can pet them?”
“No way!” Dariax’s eyes are wide. “Is that true?”
There’s a sound like laughter from a tree nearby, and Dorian watches a raven hop to the edge of a branch and make another croaking sort of laughter sound before taking flight. It seems like it wasn’t just his friends Dorian had been entertaining this evening.
Months from now, on a skyship heading to Jrusar, Dorian will tell the story about the night the Champion of Ravens had requested a song, will give both Orym and Fearne one of the three silver coins the Champion had given him. For luck. He won’t know then how badly they’ll need it.