The First Breath of Spring (Part 2)

Part 2

Some notes --

• First, thanks so much for all the people who encouraged me to write a second part! I hope you find this just as or even more enjoyable than the last.

• As always, PLEASE pick this to pieces. If anything is canonically incorrect, please let me know.

• I live in the UK and spell accordingly, so please forgive my strange spelling and wording. If you have any questions about said spelling and wording, I will be glad to answer them.

Now, on with the story!

*

The inn was brimming with several travellers and merchants who were making the pilgrimage to Lorryshire for the spring celebrations. Voices and laughter and a gentle music flooded Artham’s ears, overwhelming his senses. He could dimly hear Arundelle enter behind him, and sense her presence at his back. She asked him a question, something about if he had seen Esben.

There. Artham saw Natan sitting beside the fire, his whistleharp in hand, his eyes closed in concentration as he played a low, mournful ballad. He seemed oblivious to the noise surrounding him, a look of perfect contentment on his clean-shaven face. The slightest turn of his brow, and the way his lips lowered as he blew into the reed of his instrument, all hinted at a deeper sorrow beneath his peace. Artham could have sworn he had seen this same look on the bard’s face for as long as he could remember. Natan was a man of peace, a rock, a fortress, strong and impregnable. And yet… he was always sad. He was like the man who had accepted the cold reality of his world, and had no other choice than to live in it.

All of this ran through Artham’s mind as he squeezed between tables and benches, and apologised to Mrs. Illing when he nearly toppled her over as she carried several goblets on a precarious tray. When he finally made it to Natan, he bent on one knee to speak to him, and hesitated. The bard still seemed so deep in his… whatever it is he was in, that Artham didn’t want to interrupt.

Arundelle spoke from behind him. “Papa?”

Natan finished the last of his melody, ending on a particularly dissatisfying note, as if there was a missing happy ending after a great battle. He opened his eyes, which were soft and grey like swirling storm clouds, and turned to face his daughter. He hardly seemed to notice Artham, who was kneeling directly in front of him.

“Yes, love?”

“Where’s Esben?” Artham blurted. “Did he come in here?”

Natan settled his gaze on Artham. “Yes. He was looking for my sons. He should be upstairs, where I sent him, in our room.”

“Thank you, Papa,” Arundelle replied. “Come on, Artham.”

With a grateful nod to the bard, Artham stood to his feet to follow Arundelle. Natan continued to play his whistleharp, this time beginning with a steady plucking of the strings, creating an eerie melody that was carrying him into —

Artham shook his head to clear his mind as he ascended the stairs. He often forgot, having no musicians in his family, that the Maker had instilled a powerful magic in music. There was something so alluring about a melody, like a poem singing without words. He wondered if Arundelle felt the same way.

She led Artham to one of the rooms at the far end of the hall, from where he heard a very loud and ominous banging. Nearly all of his anxiety fled, because only Esben could create such a raucous. His thoughts were confirmed when Arundelle carefully opened the door, nearly assaulted by a book flying through the doorway.

Laughter and shouting pierced the air, and Arundelle hid a chuckle as she invited Artham inside. His jaw dropped at the chaos ensuing in the small room. The beds had been moved and completely stripped of their sheets and pillows to create some sort of fort behind the dresser, which was also pushed away from the wall. Esben and the twins were scurrying between the barricades they had constructed, hurling whatever objects were nearby, including pillows, books, and articles of clothing.

Artham ducked when a comb was thrown in his direction. He understood now why Natan preferred to be downstairs while Merna was away. Annoyance quickly overshadowed his concerns.

“Esben —” he started, stepping into the torrent. He was promptly smacked by a tunic, which hung over his head like a veil.

The three boys were still for a few moments, waiting for Artham’s reaction, before bursting into fits of laughter. He was thankful for the covering over his face as his cheeks burned at the sound of Arundelle’s giggling.

Artham huffed, pulling the shirt off of his head. “Esben, you know you can’t run off like that.”

“You knew I’d be here.”

“Still —” Artham cut himself off with a sigh. Esben had a point. “Please don’t ever assume I know where you are.”

Esben hardly seemed to be paying attention anymore as the boys began their game again.

“I will come back to make sure you get ready for the festival.” Artham added, ducking as something whistled over his head. “And don’t throw anymore books!”

The boys had returned to their playing as if their siblings were never there, completely ignorant to Artham’s presence. He sighed and turned to leave. Arundelle followed him outside, softly closing the door behind them.

“Don’t worry about them. They’re just excited to see each other.”

“I know.”

“My papa will be here to watch them. So what would you like to do?”

Artham turned to face her, finding his heart fluttering as she stood with her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes twinkling in a smile like she held some untold secret. He found it difficult to speak with the lump in his throat.

“Whatever you would like to do, I guess.”

“No, I asked what you would like to do.”

“I would like to do whatever you would like to do.”

Arundelle rolled her eyes. “We haven’t seen each other in two years, and you have nothing you want to show me or do with me?”

Artham blushed again, swallowing. “I would like to do something with you, but I want to do whatever you want to do.”

If it were possible, Arundelle’s smile deepened. “Follow me, then.”

To Artham’s shock and delight, Arundelle took him by the hand — her graceful, ink-stained left hand in his rough, calloused right — and led him down the hall and stairs. He was so focused on her warm, gentle touch, completely oblivious to his careening down the steps and stumbling past people and tables and chairs. She released her grasp when they left the inn, and it was as though Artham was snapped out of a trance, and found himself in the present world again. Something like queasiness lingered in his stomach, and he found his lips in a perpetual smile.

She had held his hand.

“Where are we going?” he asked, still in somewhat of a daze.

“I want to show you my favourite place in all of Anniera,” Arundelle replied. “Come on, it’s not far.”

Artham was dimly aware of the warm stones in the road beneath his feet as he walked beside her, which served to remind him he had left his boots behind in the inn — but the thought quickly passed. Arundelle was quiet, humming a tune he didn’t recognise, one that stirred a sense of adventure as well as longing for the hearth.

“What’s that you’re singing?” he asked, finally finding his voice. He still wasn’t sure why he found it so difficult to speak.

“It’s a lullaby my father wrote for me before I was born. He sings it every night as my brothers and I fall asleep,” she answered somewhat shyly. “I’m sorry, I’m sometimes not aware that I’m humming.”

“Don’t apologise,” Artham laughed. “Your voice is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I just don’t want to give the impression that I’m bragging about myself.”

“You aren’t at all.”

“But I don’t want anyone to praise me,” Arundelle continued, her brows furrowing as she stared ahead, deep in thought. “I don’t want to be praised for something I was given.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I did nothing to receive the gift to sing,” she explained, “or write or play the whistleharp, even. Yes, those gifts were cultivated from years of training, but I did nothing to deserve those gifts.”

“It was the Maker’s good pleasure to do so.”

“Yes. It’s why I don’t want to use my gifts to receive praise from others. They’re only for His pleasure.”

Artham was quiet for a few moments, carefully considering his words. “I don’t think that’s entirely right.”

Arundelle raised a brow. “Explain it to me.”

“When your father sings your lullaby to you, is it for your pleasure?”

“I suppose,” she said slowly.

“But he sings your lullaby because he loves you,” he explained. “Because he loves you, he wants to do something that makes you feel loved, that pleases you. I think the Maker gave us gifts not only for His good pleasure, but because He loves us, and loves giving us gifts. And those gifts are meant to bless Him as well as others.”

Arundelle was quiet, a shadow of a smile on her face as she contemplated his words. Artham anxiously waited for her to respond, unsure how to interpret her silence or facial expression. Had he offended her? Did he say too much? Not enough? Did he sound stupid? Or did he sound arrogant? Was his rebuke too harsh? Should he have not said anything in the first place? Should he apologise?

“You’re right, Artham,” she said finally, her full smile returning. She turned to face him, and the shame that once resided in her irises had all but disappeared. “Those were some of the wisest words I’ve ever heard. You’re a good friend. Thank you.”

Elation swelled in Artham’s chest once more until he felt he was going to burst. Or even better yet, it would carry him into the sky, where he could shout and sing for joy. Nothing in all of Aerwiar felt more wonderful.

“You’re welcome,” he answered, his voice shaking. Why was there a tremor in his voice? Why couldn’t he stop smiling?

Arundelle led Artham to the cliffside on the far east side of Lorryshire, where the land rose up over the sea like a petrified ocean wave. Tufts of grass sprouted between enormous black and grey stones, and a few shrubs and saplings had poked their way past the rock. The air was salty and wet, and the wind roared in their ears and playfully tossed their hair.

Finally, they came to a stop at an enormous tree, its branches rocking like it was being cradled to sleep by the breeze. It bent slightly over the cliff, peering into the sea below.

“This is my writing tree,” Arundelle explained, her voice hardly heard over the wind. “It’s where I come to think and sing and be alone.”

Artham felt like he was intruding, but was honoured nonetheless. They climbed the tree and nestled in its swaying branches to watch the sea rush to meet the sky at the horizon. For a while, they were silent, enjoying each other’s company and the beauty of the Maker’s hand.

And all the while, Artham couldn’t deny that something inside of him was soaring. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing — it felt right. He knew he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in Aerwiar, and wished he could remain in the boughs of that tree with Arundelle forever.

Then, over the whistling breeze, Artham heard singing. The voice was soft and fragile, alluring and gentle, rising and falling ever so gracefully in an enchanting melody. It was unlike any other sound in the world, comparable with the lone fendril’s song as it streaked across the sky.

“Sail away on silver seas

Cease to cry, my love

Dry your tears in the breeze

O sweetest love, cease to fear

The night does not last

Dawn will come soon, my dear”

Artham was enraptured by the lullaby, and found himself leaning against the tree trunk, his eyes fluttering closed. For the first time in years, he slept in those sweeping branches above the thrashing ocean in complete peace, his mind wrapped around nothing else other than the lovely Arundelle.