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As I lay in my bed of straw, my fingers ached for my harp. For decades it had been my constant companion, my voice when I could no longer sing, my comfort. With it I had woven bandages to bind a shattered heart, and arrows to pierce the demons of the night. In times past, it had fed me and given me a place to sleep, and now it assured my shelter at Songless. Friend, shelter, comfort – my harp was like a wife to me.
Perhaps that is why so few Bards marry – any woman who takes a Bard for a husband must remain mistress to his music. Likewise, we seldom stay in one place for too long a time, less our feet become like the roots of a great oak tree and fasten us to the ground. Music needs adventure and change.
Bards are not trees, but the wind which sweeps through the trees, spreading news and songs as we travel. Yet I would never be the wind, for the wind is not dumb. It howls, it cries, moans, and it shudders. It comes in the evening and is gone by morning.
I had stayed ten years at Songless, ten years in which ivy had marched across stone walls, and tree roots had dug deep into the soil. I had grown into the castle, become a part of it, and it was the only place I could live. And I had taken a wife.
I missed the touch of my harp, but I realized that I missed Elise more.
