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It’s fun, learning a new instrument. Oli likes figuring out how to flutter his tongue against the mouthpiece just so to elicit the cleanest note; how that vibrates along the tin whistle’s slim, cold metal body, how each hole changes the sound. What he can do with the variety.
He tightens his lips and lets the air flow. The tune of his childhood he’s been playing around with, dusty and half-forgotten, comes alive through the tinny trill of the instrument. He’s enjoying it so much he keeps playing when the door clicks open and a huge shadow fills the gap.
It’s Eddie, probably with dinner.
Oli has plenty of breath left in his lungs and throat to draw out the last chord. Then he leans into it, transforming it seamlessly into a lament that would move even the steeliest of hearts to tears. When he looks up, the harengon’s taking a seat on the edge of his bed.
‘That sounds awesome already. You’re really talented.’
Oli coughs into his hand. ‘Hard work,’ he mumbles and puts the flute down. ‘Thank you, though.’
‘No problem.’
Eddie nudges the tray in his direction. Oli eyes the bowl on top, filled with a thick, yellow-tinted soup. Several chunks of cut potatoes and mushrooms float in the middle, surrounded by smaller pieces of orange and red. Carrots and beet root, probably. Next to the bowl rest a wooden spoon and a cup of water.
Oli pokes it with his finger. ‘Still no coffee, I see.’
Eddie crosses his arms in front of his chest. ‘If you gave me a more precise explanation of what “coffee” actually is, I could try to find some for you.’ His lips twitch. ‘Eat.’
He stands, brushes off his apron and heads for the door. Oli’s heartbeat picks up. He clears his throat. ‘Actually, I was wondering if you could stay for a minute.’
‘Mmm?’
Oli reaches for the ocarina next to his pillow. ‘I’ve been working on something. I, uh. I thought maybe you’d like to listen to it.’
He lifts the instrument to his mouth, fingers brushing the holes in the clay, automatically drawn to their appropriate positions. This morning, he had the corresponding page in the book open on his lap, memorizing the scrawled notes and miming the melody, slowly and in complete silence as he taught his muscles how to move. When he’s sure he has a handle on the beginning – the middle bit and the end always come easier once he gets going – he looks up and meets Eddie’s gaze.
The harengon tilts his head. ‘Go on.’
Oli starts playing. It’s the first time he’s heard this particular song out loud before, connected and in tune. There’s a spirit to the music; the slow build-up, the flowing sound. Like a summer breeze over open land. Then come the deeper notes: footsteps and stomping, interspersed with birds’ twitter. It took him a while, turning the tune over in his head – the composition of the tale – until he clued into what he was playing. It’s a seasonal melody; a wine-making song: the crushing of the grapes, the filling of the barrels; the revelry of winter and the bounty of the following summer harvest.
It’s simple enough to probably still be sung in the fields today. Oli picked it specifically for that reason – because it’s something Eddie might know. Impress him with nostalgia, and all that. Because that’s all the game Oli has at the moment to catch someone’s attention, and by the void, he’s going to use it.
He lets himself float on the music, all of his brain focused on the flow of his fingers and the emphasis of his breath. He’s caught up in making it beautiful, because that’s the artist’s job in a live performance – until he hears a choking sob. His head snaps up.
Eddie’s face is pale as a sheet. Paler than the books’ parchment. He presses a hand over his mouth, eyes shining.
Oli goes cold. He drops the ocarina. ‘Eddie?’
The harengon shoots to his feet and is out the door before Oli can utter another word. He curses, scrambling to push off the tray and his blanket.
He rolls out of bed and lands on his good foot through sheer luck, hops to the door and grasps the frame instead of the table this time. His vision blurs. Light-headed, he clenches his fingers around the wood. He can’t pass out now. He has to find Eddie. Come on, body. Get with the program.
With shaking knuckles, he pushes the door. ‘Eddie? Eddie!’
The hallway outside of his room is long and dark. It follows the same colour scheme – browned woods and clay; flickering orange lanterns – and has corners on both ends. To his left, one of the walls falls away, forming the railing to an interior balcony overlooking a warmly lit room. Eddie is nowhere to be seen.
‘I hope you’re not planning to make me come for you down there,’ Oli mutters.
A scratching noise to his right attracts his attention. He turns his head, then puts his hand on the wall for balance and starts hopping.
He reaches the corner. There’s another room here, but most of all, there’s a window. Eddie’s sitting on the sill, ears drooping low over his shoulders. He sniffles.
‘Eddie?’ Oli approaches carefully. ‘Are you okay?’
The harengon jolts. He wipes a hand over his face and turns around with a wonky little smile that couldn’t look more forced if he’d tried. ‘Yes. Sorry for frightening you. I… probably shouldn’t have run off like that.’
‘Why did you?’
What did I do wrong?
‘That song you just played… I used to sing it with my siblings out on the fields in the summer.’ He cracks a smile. ‘Wine making season.’
A spark of warmth kindles in Oli’s belly. He’d suspected there were lyrics. Such songs usually have them. He immediately wants Eddie to teach him – or better yet, to sing it with him. The harengon’s deep, rumbling voice would work so well with his own. But the sadness on the other’s face makes him hesitate.
‘What happened?’ he asks. ‘If you’re, uh. Willing to share.’
Eddie stares at him. Then he puts a palm over his eyes. ‘They died.’
Oh, shit.
Nausea rises in Oli’s throat. ‘How?’
‘War.’
Double shit. Voiddamnit.
‘I am so sorry,’ Oli says. He hops a little closer, wringing his hands in the air and stopping just shy of touching Eddie’s shoulder, unsure whether he’s allowed. He has no idea how to comfort people. He’s not usually around long enough to form bonds sufficiently strong for others to require comfort from him – which is probably a separate issue altogether.
‘Do you, uh.’ He struggles. He wants to get this right, for Eddie. ‘Want to talk about it?’
Eddie peeks through his fingers. Then he sighs and straightens. ‘It happened a long time ago. There was a king who… it’s not really important any more.’
‘I disagree,’ says Oli.
The harengon’s ear turns in his direction. His eyes soften. ‘It’s not going to happen ever again. That’s what we made sure of when we built Sanctuary, so that the ones suffering may find peace. I just… sometimes I need a moment to remember that.’
To remember that it’s really over, Oli thinks. A sudden, fierce protectiveness blooms in his belly. He clenches his fists. ‘You’re here now,’ he blurts. ‘And if I have a say in it, you’ll never have to make it through something like that again. I’ll do everything in my power to stop them – kings, gods, whomever tries! They won’t get past me.’
Except they probably will. Oli’s not good at anything combat-related. Eddie looks like he knows it, too, furrowing his brows. ‘Oli, that’s not…,’ he breaks off and shakes his head. Something changes about his expression; his posture. His ears lift. He stands and takes a step towards Oli. ‘Thanks. But also, you broke our agreement.’
He blinks. ‘What.’
Eddie points at his nose. ‘You’re out of bed before your leg’s healed. That’s at least another full day on my find-you-a-bath deadline, Mr. Bard.’
‘I’m not a– wait!’ Oli jerks. ‘No! I was just– I was worried about you! That’s not fair!’
‘Excuses,’ says Eddie, shaking his finger like a disappointed father figure. ‘Back to bed with you, stat.’
Oli groans. He turns in a circle, takes one hop, then stops again. ‘Could you maybe…?’
He waves his hands about.
Eddie snorts, comes over and winds an arm around Oli’s torso, taking most of his weight. He smells of mangrove wood today; deep black mud and humidity.
‘Yep,’ Oli mumbles, struggling not to get distracted. ‘Yep, thank you, that leg hurts quite a lot–’
‘That’s what you get for being reckless.’
‘I just said I was worried!’
Eddie’s arm squeezes around him; carefully, of course. ‘I know. It was kind of you.’
Oli feels the heat in his face – an occurrence common enough now that he’s growing used to it – creep down his neck. He looks away. ‘Uh. No problem.’
Still, as they approach his room, his guts grow heavy. Music is his breath, his life. If he can’t share it with Eddie, what else does he have to offer? What else can he do to close the distance between them?
Eddie helps him sit down on the bed and clears his throat. ‘Will you play me another song? One from your homeland?’
The tune he was working on earlier, on the tin whistle, springs to Oli’s mind. He perks up. ‘You’d want to hear that?’
The harengon’s smile is bright enough to make Oli’s chest constrict. Or maybe that’s just Eddie’s hand on his knee, the warmth of it branding him even through the blanket.
‘Of course.’
He pauses over the ocarina, then hands Oli the whistle. Oli plays.