The sun was already rising above the treetops when Fian left the tavern. Well, he hadn’t exactly expected to be playing so late into the night, along with others, but it had turned out to be a very pleasant evening. The mead and pine beer hadn’t flowed as freely, so his limbs weren’t weighed down by alcohol when, as a reward for his successful bardic services, he was offered lodging for the night and breakfast.
And so, after breakfast, he set off back into the woods. The morning dew still lingered in the air as the wooden door closed, and he greeted the day slowly and deliberately. A bardic life always has its pros and cons, he thought to himself. And after that night, he knew that his days in this world were probably numbered. He would return, that shadow of the night, and a huntress would follow him. But that’s just how it is, and ultimately, if you can’t change something, you can at least choose how to face the inevitable. This doesn’t change the fact that the law of Claw and Fang demands a tribute, but there is something comforting about it – it granted him a little more time here in this world, and he was up to him to to use it for, well, making peace with himself.
Hey, where is my German version? it seems to be the original story… – Hey Wanderer, indeed, so follow this path: schattenmaerchen.de
He put his nose to the cool morning air and breezed deeply. The first flowers were opening, and the cool heaviness of the moorland mists hung in the air, but… there was something else. He knew that strange scent; he had known it before… “ That can’t be…” he thought. And he followed the strange trail. Then, in the shadows of the morning air, a female figure sat watching him, ears pricked. She sat there very attentively. And waited. He was unsure what to do, but something seemed to be expected of him. Their eyes met, and she smiled. Not a “nice to see you” smile, but a knowing, profound smile, a smile that she had found what she was looking for. Her eyes refracted the morning sun like cool glass, and in her gaze was an infinite depth, a knowledge of the end of all things, and above all, one thing: a deep and honest, sincere respect for what she saw.
And yes, her gaze conveyed that there was no room for running away or ignoring.
It’s a very strange feeling when you’ve already stood face to face with your own fate, and then that fate decides strange things and actually insists on speaking afterward , at a time when all the words in the world have already been spoken. To show no fear here, or to prove strange things like death-defying courage, to demand justifications and negotiations—well, Fian had many options, and ultimately he made a choice for himself. He shouldered his old lute and decided to go to it. She raised her head, and the posture welcomed him as a guest at the resting place.
They looked at each other coolly, and after a while of silent reflection, this white wolf – she – spoke: “The little bard who sat down beside me is truly strange. And he has my full attention before the face of the moon.”
She pressed her claw against his leg, so hard that it bled. And he fell silent. There was no resistance in his gaze, no fear, simply this profound acceptance that his life rested in her paws. And they sat facing each other in silence. In silence, she focussed her entire attention focused on him and on the acceptance of the prey. Finally, she leaned forward slowly, closed her eyes, and took in his scent deeply. Then she whispered softly in his ear: “The little bard knows when all the words there are to say have been spoken. That is good, for there is still so much to learn in the silence before a fire fades. For today, little bard, play me a song. For I am curious what he will play when he is aware of me.”
With these words, she released her claw and set him free. She examined her claw. She listened. Attentively and silently. He took up his lute, carefully tuning it under her patient gaze. And then, he didn’t play, but simply met her cool stare. “What is it, little bard? Won’t you play for your life?” she asked after an endless silence between them. Fian smiled slightly: “Play? As the Queen of the Night mentioned, there is nothing to play. Not like that night, not like in that tavern over there. And if I play, out of conviction, from the heart, and not because I want to bargain or beg for my life with sweet words. If the wheel of time desires it, a tune will rise, but who am I to sing or play this tune?” She tilted her head. “And… if the wheel of time demands its red tribute, at night in the woods, and the tune has not left the lute?” He answered, his head slightly bowed: “Then… everything that needed to be said has been said, and in the silence lies the answer to the question of whether I intend to play.”
So they sat facing each other, hunter and prey, observing one another. And over everything lay only this silent acceptance of their own roles. Finally, she smiled. “Little bard, I want you to play for me. Tonight, in the night, in that tavern. And in the moonlight, this song will be no arbitration of the red tribute.” He looked into the kindness of her eyes and wanted to reply that this very arbitration had already been passed that night out there in the woods, but she leaned forward and laid her claw upon his chest, with the weight of eternity. “Little bard,” she whispered, and it sounded like the gentle morning breeze, “There’s nothing more to discuss. Just as it isn’t my right to demand this, it’s now up to the bard to decide what will be done. Nothing will change, for I have already made my choice. The little bard, however, has not yet made his choice. For that reason, the future offers him many dark forest paths that could be treaded.
But when the time comes, he will choose one of them…“
With these words, she stood up and disappeared into the depths of the misty forests.