Eithne regrets ever talking to the minstrel.

She felt the soul of the Dark Knight burning red hot in her pocket, the sword strapped to her back heavy and oppressive, as the man penned his verse, strumming the lyre harp with masterful precision— each note a knife, playing at butcher with her heart.

By naught but vigilance may silver mail endure,

Javelin's point never touch a comrade pure. ♪

Perhaps it was her, perhaps she had simply grown weary after her adventures, her heart raw and vulnerable after the many trials she had faced. Long had she shared her stories with him, listened to his reimaginings with interest, wondered with each victory what melody his mind could weave with it. In their mutual friendship, she had grown trusting, thought him as something more than an acquaintance, believing that perhaps he could understand even a fraction of her feelings.

Perhaps he simply thought her stronger than she was.

She nods at him, tries to stifle the ache, swallow the bile, as he sings—

Look back upon the paths we failed to take,

And prepare for the trials that lie in wait. ♪

Bollocks, Fray snarls in her ear, I say we beat the bastard bloody where he stands.

“‘Tis said that there are no ifs in history, yet man is wont to dream.” The bard speaks, but his words sound far away, as if coming through a veil of water.

“Let us dream, then, of a future where a dear comrade lived...” This is the part where she nods, where she plays the grateful adventurer— but that too, is difficult when underwater, lungs filled with brine, her ribcage a casket.

She thinks of Haurchefant, noble and pure, sky-blue eyes radiant with joy, mirth and love giving shape to his smile, to the creases in the corners of his eyes. In this recollection, it is Myste’s voice that leaves his lips, its tone incongruous with the tenderness in the knight’s gaze.

“Do not think that a reckoning will be postponed indefinitely!”

When she returns to the Baldesion Annex, G’raha Tia is quick to notice the shift in her gait, the tremble in her hands, and Fray seems to acknowledge the man’s care as genuine, at least someone around here seems to give a damn. In the weeks to come he would hear of the bard’s newest song, the Dragonsong’s Reprise, and in the weeks after he would return to the Baldesion Annex and distract her with all manner of tales, would deliver her food so that she need not hear the melody played at The Last Stand, until the bard’s song ceased to rumble about Sharlayan, until the knot in her stomach came undone once more.

It is some time, before Eithne feels comfortable with sharing her stories with the minstrel again.