Hello folks :) We'll be honest and say that we have no new excuses for the delay, but nevertheless, we are soooo back with chapter 8 of Facta Non Verba! :) Sorry for making you wait, and thank you if you are still with us, we really appreciate you all. โค๏ธ If it helps tho - the chapter length shouldn't disappoint. :) Welcome back to Bard's POV, and here's your preview:
There is a murmur of voices coming from the kitchen at the end of the hall. That, in itself, is not unusual. Bethan has never in her life understood the concept of keeping her own company if somebody else can be fed, interrogated, or both, and half the village seems to drift through her kitchen at one point or another throughout the week, so Bard doesn't pay it much mind at first. He is still busy shrugging out of his vest, still trying to shake the car ride out of his head, still far too aware of how badly his own mouth has betrayed him in the last hour. Then he catches Thranduilโs name and stops. Bethan is saying something in the warm, interested tone that indicates she has found a subject worth digging into properly, and a man replies to her in a low, polite tone. The voice catches oddly on him. He knows it, or thinks he does - not from anywhere real, but from that strange, second-hand kind of familiarity that belongs to microphones, clipped interviews and practised studio polish. It lacks the rough, familiar cadence of the valley entirely, rolling instead with a precise, charismatic timbre that rings an immediate, highly uncomfortable bell in the back of his mind. A bell that feels suspiciously like a two a.m. internet rabbit hole he is determined to take to his grave. The hairs on the back of his neck stir before he has consciously worked out why.
We hope you'll enjoy this chapter and would love to hear your thoughts!
