The blue tunic Neil wore kindled the twinkle of his Mythril-silver eyes. “I replaced the strings,” the younger man said, offering Edward his harp, his words a fervor of one who had scarcely seen twenty summers. “I’m no miracle worker, so I’m afraid it’s still got some dings.”

“You needn’t worry,” he said while reaching for the instrument, “betwixt the years, she has seen strife and concord. The dings only give her character.” He traced the familiar wood grain, warm and battle-worn beneath his shaking palms. Whereas his restored youth shook deeply, this he knew. The Apollo Harp was his anchor in an otherwise unknown sea. A delicate smile graced his face. “Thank you.”

“It’s no big deal.” Neil shifted to hide his rudden cheeks. Rare was it someone felt so touched by his actions, who thanked him aloud and did not wish for anything in turn. “It’s the least I can do. After last night and all.”

Edward’s expression softened at Neil’s words. Rising, he leveled their gazes, resisting the urge to squeeze the younger bard’s shoulder in good faith. His words would have to do. “None are indebted to me.”

The other man scoffed, kicked a loose pebble nearby. “That’s not what I meant.”

It was exactly what he meant, Edward knew, yet found he could not call out the fib. It would be a waste of energy. The night prior the tavern had been bustling, the golden ale flowing freely, merrymaking aplenty. Bachelors, with fire in their veins, were swift to rise to a challenge. Even if the challenge came from a bard merely making his way onto the stage. Neil had gone up and beyond to gain order amongst the chaos. His Best Man had ushered the partygoers out, leaving him to pick up the waylaid Edward.

The way Neil cradled his harp spoke volumes. He swore to have it repaired come daylight. Edward, despite the pang in his chest, obliged. For his innermost feelings never led him astray. Sure enough, Neil had kept his word with signs of his profession girded at his chest.

“Perform with me,” the King spoke, dismissing the memories despite the throb of his right eye. While no seasoned healer, the bruising had significantly faded with his enchantments alone. “Consider it sufficient payment.”

“I—” Neil’s shoulders slouched despite his lips curving upwards “—okay.”

With that, Edward settled back on the flat before the Lord Hremit statue, drawing forth his harp. A beautiful thing the instrument was, ornate and well-balanced, brilliant as the first sunrise in winter. In silent concentration, the minstrel tested the new strings. Finding perfection, he readied himself. Nearby Neil lifted his lute.

The first chords broke the anticipation like a tidal wave.

He sang of Prophecy, Earthen bloodstains washed by the Heavens. Of a knight accompanied by a baleful shadow of trials of accepting oneself. Of valor and strife and strength beholden in stoic silence. Of prayers that lifted spirits and hope alike, set ablaze a new generation of stars.

Timbre rising, the minstrel sang on. Unbeknownst to him, his partner had slowed his playing. The world faded away, leaving only the pull of the music, the rhythm of his breath and beating heart. He sang of the journey, the heroic feats of his friends. Of how a lone companion now desperately ached to be reunited.

His voice lingered even after he had ceased playing. Returning from the high, Edward glanced about, eyes focusing on the crowd despite the threat of tears. Being swept up so was unbecoming, he supposed, yet it was a necessity. For as of late he had only sang the ditties known to Torensten while keeping history close to heart.