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There is power in a name.
In True Names, certainly — most tales of fae creatures and entities older than time speak of the powerful magic entwined in a being’s True Name — but there is power in names of all sorts. Names are bestowed and chosen. Names are given and they are shared, which is, in its own way, a sort of choosing.
The first step into knighthood brought with it a new name, punctuated with the gentle tap of flattened steel against his armoured shoulders.
“Rise now, Knight of the Forest.”
The air was crisp and chill as Forest stepped out into the bustling market square. Carts and stalls lined the central plaza, filling the cobbled streets with a smattering of colours, scents, and noise. The knight caught, as he walked, snippets of passing conversations: two men negotiating the price of some dried meats, a handful of farmhands discussing the bountiful harvest ahead, and the buzz of hurried gossip spoken in some not-so-hushed whispers near the base of the old oak that marked the center of the square. He smiled to himself, amused by the chatter of the crowd, but didn’t linger too long on any of it. As pleasant as the lively square could be, none of these conversations were quite the sound he’d come searching for.
Forest glanced idly at the wares on sale as he passed, taking stock of fresh bread and apples as the gentle breeze rustled the orange and yellow leaves overhead. It wasn’t too long into his stroll about the plaza that he finally heard it: a soft, flowing melody, carrying quietly through the clamour of the busy marketplace. He paused where he stood to listen, letting his eyes slip shut and the sounds of the crowd fall away, a soft smile hidden beneath his helmet.
A familiar song.
He listened for a moment or two more before he picked out the direction the sound was coming from. It was a beautiful thing: a melody that tasted of crisp autumn air; of the melancholy and the hope that came with the turning of the seasons. A sentimental tune that led him as he wove through the bustle of the market. Across the crowded square and eventually back out onto a narrower road, as cobblestone gave way to packed earth, Forest found the sounds of the violin begin to grow nearer.
It was a few blocks more, where the roads were not nearly so busy and where the commotion of the crowd was only a faint din, that Forest found him.
Sitting on the crumbling edge of a short, stone wall, eyes pressed gently shut and swaying to the melody that floated as light as the colourful leaves on the breeze, was Crescent.
Knight of the Crescent Moon, he had been named, in the same ceremony that Forest had been bestowed his own name.
“Crescent,” his friend had quickly shortened it, fiddling absently with the fastenings on his bracers. The two had stood together as the sun dipped low in the sky after the ceremony. Streams of rich, golden light reflected off their polished armor, and Forest watched the way it seemed to set aglow the thin wisps of his friend’s hair that the wind tousled.
“‘Knight of the Crescent Moon’ is far too long,” Crescent had added, annoyance colouring his tone as he wrinkled his nose. Forest had laughed at that.
“Crescent, then,” he’d agreed.
“And Forest, for you?”
“Yes, I think. Forest, for me.”
And if he noticed that Crescent didn’t seem to bother having any of the other knights or squires use his shortened title after that, he had only teased him about it a few times.
Forest knew, from the slight twitch at the edge of his mouth and the movement of eyes beneath their lids, that Crescent heard him approach. Still, the violinist seemed content, for the moment, to finish his song. Forest certainly didn’t mind. And, as he leaned against the mossy wall of a nearby building, he noticed with mild amusement that he wasn’t the only one.
A handful of the city’s street cats, as well as one rather large chicken that he couldn’t quite account for the presence of (he hadn’t seen any farmers in the market with hens for sale, had he?), had gathered in the vicinity, apparently to listen to the performance. The chicken, black and speckled, quickly scuttled out of the way as Forest reached down to scratch one of the cats behind its ears, earning him a soft purr as Crescent’s piece came to a close.
“Quite the audience you’ve gathered yourself,” Forest grinned as his friend finally cracked an eye in his direction. Crescent glanced about the handful of cats that had apparently arranged themselves around him as he’d played, brow furrowing in a brief flicker of confusion at the hen, which pecked about at a small patch of weeds sprouting near the edge of the road, before finally returning to meet Forest’s gaze.
“Perhaps they can simply appreciate good music when they hear it,” he said, adjusting the instrument in his arms.
“Oh yes,” Forest said, hefting the cat he’d been petting up so he could hold it out toward his friend. “This one seems like quite the intellectual.” The cat began to squirm in his grip and he hastily let it drop back to the ground. He heard Crescent snicker.
“Well, I’m certainly glad someone in my audience finally is,” he said, rolling his eyes before fixing Forest with a pointed look.
Forest shook his head with an exaggerated sigh as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“You’re an arrow to the heart, dear, you know that? And to think I was about to say how nicely I thought it was coming along.” Crescent smiled fondly at his theatrics.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Surely you didn’t walk all the way out here just to hear me play?”
“I don’t see how that would be so unusual. I’ve done it before.”
“Mmm…” Crescent’s eyes narrowed in mock-scrutiny as he pretended to look Forest up and down. “Yes, but you’ve got that look about you. I’m being collected for something, aren’t I?”
Forest laughed. “I hadn’t realized I’d developed a ‘look’. But yes, we’re to meet at the archery range near the east wall after lunch.”
“Lunch?” Crescent repeated, brow quirked. He glanced up at the sky, the sun still an hour or so from its zenith. “Isn’t it a bit early for that?”
“Maybe so,” Forest nodded, sly grin just barely peeking out from the split in his helmet. “But if I had waited to gather you after lunch, I doubt I would have gotten to listen to your playing.”
Crescent rolled his eyes again as he got to his feet, carefully packing his instrument away in its case before slinging it over his shoulder.
“You know,” he said, “I can always just play for you whenever you ask.”
“Really? Well, I suppose I’m just going to have to ask more often, then, hm?”
Crescent tapped a finger against his cheek, pretending to consider it.
“I suppose,” he said. “If you let me take a look at what you’ve been embroidering lately.”
Forest chuckled an agreement as the two began winding their way back toward the plaza.
“I saw some fresh apples for sale,” Forest mentioned. “We ought to buy some. Perhaps we can even find the owner of your new… feathered friend,” he added, mischief in his voice.
Crescent scowled at him.
“Oh, don’t make that face,” Forest teased. “I hear it’s a high honour to have a chicken approve of your work. They’re quite picky.”
“Well maybe it just had good taste,” Crescent huffed indignantly. Eventually, he threw up his hands with a sigh. “Where did it even come from?”
Forest held back a laugh at the mixture of confusion and annoyance on his friend’s face. Instead, he clapped a hand on his shoulder and began steering him toward where he remembered the cart with the apples awaited.
“I honestly have no idea.”