The Travellers' Night
By Arwyn, of the Lios Alfar
Picture a house, a large stone building, almost a castle once, though it is now in disrepair. Not all the rooms remain usable. The west wind whistles through the gaps in the mortar and the rain drips in through the roof. Birds nest on the broken mantelpieces, as bats rest in the abandoned chimneys, and wild animals run through its once-noble corridors.
But this house retains a purpose, and it fulfils that purpose now. A storm has sprung up on the moors where the house stands, and travellers have found shelter within its walls. A roaring fire has been lit, mead is being shared, and two bards have begun a show. They crowd round the fire, strangers on the road, united by a need for shelter. Some travelled alone, others in twos or threes, but all are now together. The cheer of the music permeates the whole house, and though the travellers use but one room all the building seems enlivened by their music.
The songs pass from the sedate to the raucous, and as the music grows and the laughter rises some begin to dance. And no one notices as one man, a lone knight, tired from his journey, slips off to another room to find rest, nor would they remark upon it if they had.
The bards play on and requests are shouted from the floor. They fulfil these where they can, singing of lost loves and bold heroes, of dragons and demons and of truths and lies.
On of the musicians spies, in the corner of his eye, a courting couple, and his tune changes swiftly to an exaggerated, slow love song. His words drip with sweetness as he coos at the now-embarrassed pair. Amid catcalls and loud encouragement, the man takes his blushing sweetheart by the hand and leaves the room. Immediately the bard apologises: he has not intended to drive them away. But the lover assures all that they will return anon, and the jeers grow louder as they exit.
The bards play on and the flickering fire casts strange lights upon the wall. It is darker outside now, and the chill of night is beginning to freeze the welcome from the house. But the travellers huddle closer around the fire and the music continues, and all agree that they are fortunate indeed to have this house to shelter in. One man leaves to go to the toilet, another steals his seat.
The bards play on and someone remarks that his friend should have been back by now. And the music continues as the rain falls and the wind howls and people start to wonder. Names are shouted, questions asked. One of the bards is a friend of the missing man, and goes with another traveller to investigate.
The bard plays on and still there is no sign. The travellers are nervous now, strangers met in the rain, and look warily at each other, watching. There are six of them now: how many were there originally? No one is sure. No one returns. The shadows grow longer as the darkness outside moves in. The bard stutters in his song and drops his lute, but they shout at him to continue. No one can stand the quiet pressing down upon them.
The bard plays on as a larger party leaves to investigate. Warriors, scouts and a mage, they form into a tightly packed group, swords drawn, magic ready. They walk out quietly together, eyes darting around them, promising to return. The bard and his one companion, strangers both, remain alone in the high-ceilinged room, and the music now feels lost among the corners and dark places. But still they sing, with dry throats and croaking voices, as they wait desperately for the others to return. There is no sound from outside the room, save the endless wind and the rain. There is no other sound in the house. As the bard sings his new friend goes as close to the door as he dares and shouts out into the hall, his lone voice echoing loudly through the empty, quiet rooms.
The bard plays on and the other man plucks up his courage. Seizing up his sword and shield, he turns for one last look around the room where the bard still sits by the fire, dreading the silence should he stop playing. Wordlessly, the knight salutes him, and leaves to discover what is plaguing them so.
The bard plays on and he has been ten minutes alone. He plays on because he knows not what else to do. There is no sound from the rest of the empty, abandoned house. No one returns, no one calls to him. No one enters. It is as though they had not been there. The bard begins to wonder how long the house has been abandoned, and why. Answers come to his mind thick and fast, and he plays the louder to beat them off.
The bard plays on and it has been a full hour since he last heard human voice. His fingers hurt him now and his throat is aching, his voice cracked. No one is coming back. He plays on, a soft love song he heard at fathers' knee, but his mind is not upon the tune. He is praying for his soul. The fire dies and the blackness envelops him, but he does not stop playing, for he knows not what else he can do. He dare not stop. He dare not leave. It is cold now, and the cloaks of his lost companions lie scattered around the room. He will not touch them.
The bard stops playing, and he is alone, in the dark, in the silent, empty house.
All Works are © Original Author
(OC Author - Marianne Wells)