@thesteambird | Secret Santa 2024
✶ synopsis. — a brief moment in a day spent with with him
Softly and quietly, his voice drifts towards you. Line by line, verse by verse, a song you do not know, and words you do not speak. But that has never mattered. Music is the language of the soul, and every one of his songs sings directly to yours.
You come to a stop, pausing before the threshold, just out of view of the open doorway. Eyes closing, you savor the song. Each note, each word, the pause between each line, the faint, almost inaudible breaths as he inhales to sing again. These are memories you greedily snatch for yourself – the ones you squirrel away in a special corner of your heart, nestled deep beneath your breastbone, a pile of little secrets just for you.
The song ends and the lyre strums stop. His voice lingers, hanging on the last note before fading to silence for a breath or two.
"I know you're there," he calls out after, his voice light as a breeze, "I should start charging you. I could probably pay my entire tab at Angel's Share with how many private shows I've put on for you."
You walk out brazenly, “Big talk for someone who doesn’t pay rent.”
“Boo!” he pouts, before dramatically throwing his lyre-free arms over his eyes, “You would deprive the most popular bard in Mond a place to rest his head? A place for him to put up his feet, to recover his spirits to face world and all its trails and tribulations?”
“Hey, I wasn’t the one that brought up the topic of payments,” you drawl, “but, I do have an offering to present in return for your song, oh most marvelous bard in all Mondstat.”
His eyes peak out from under his arm, twinkling with anticipation.
“Oh, do tell then! Don’t keep me waiting.”
You gesture to where you came from with a tilt of your head, "I made a pot of mulled wine. And the baked apples are just about ready to come out of the oven."
He springs into movement, a warm hand finding yours, fingers intertwining as he tugs you along.
The wind tickles the back of your calves, urging you to trot just that bit faster back to the oven, where the finished apples sit waiting, golden brown and steaming hot.
You pull the dessert out, and he grabs serving dishes. You scoop an apple for each of you, and he pours two mugs of wine. Then, you both sit down and enjoy.
After, when the plates have been mostly cleared, when the compliments have been given and graciously accepted, when you have been sipping away at your cooling mug of wine, he starts to hum the same song as before.
"That song, where is it from?"
He looks out of the window, where the snow is blanketing the city, settling on top of the statue in the square.
"An old friend of mine wrote it years and years ago," he pauses here, his voice soft, "Songs are all written with the songwriters' feelings, you know. So, to me, they sound most spectacular when you can sing them with the same heart."
He holds your gaze, and you make a request:
"Sing it for me again? I didn't catch the first bit earlier."
He smiles and magics his lyre to his hand. "Sure! I won't even ask you for an apple this time."
I'm holding very tight
I'm riding in the midnight blue
I'm finding I can fly
So high above with you
Note: here is the song he sings.
