When I regained my senses, I found myself in a peculiar situation.

My hands were bound by hempen rope, along with my torso. But it had been the handiwork of someone who clearly did not have any experience as a sailor. I twisted my left wrist out of the rope with great ease, and wondered whether this was a trap, or that I indeed had been abducted by idiots.

It would have been logical to assume I had been found by the guards of the caravan. But they would likely have questioned me there and then, not knocked me out and tied me up to leave in… Wherever I was. Undoubtedly not a wagon, since the floor contained a soft substance like grass or moss and miscellaneous twigs.

Not quite sure of my next move, I sat for a moment and contemplated my surroundings. I was in some sort of tent, as far as I could discern. But the darkness made it practically impossible to confidently state anything else. Except maybe that I was alone.

I heard voices. Not far from me, but not so close as they’d be right by the tent. I steeled my nerves and dared to move, slowly slipping out of my restraints. I moved on my hands and feet, slowly, cautiously. Channelling my inner cat as to not make a single sound, nor stumble into any impactable object, whilst performing a tactile reconnaissance of the contents of the tent.

I realised my quest was futile the moment I heard the unmistakable sound of my lute being strummed by a person clearly not adept enough to warrant their filthy appendages touching my instrument.

If they had my lute, they had Andante, as well as my other possessions.

I pondered my predicament.

On the one hand, I could sneak out silently, leaving my worldly belongings behind and proceed on foot. And if the fates allow, choose my path in such a manner I may be welcomed by city lights before I meet a worse faith in wolves, bears, lions…

Do they have lions here?

Oh, who am I kidding. I am not equipped for an endeavour as such! And even if I would survive this wretched draft, it would bring me nothing, since I would show up at this merciful city with no means to execute my vocation and no money or to gather the necessary accessories. Never mind catching up to that caravan to find Elijah.

Oh, woe is me!

But before I could relinquish my resolve, I heard my mother’s voice. Ethereal on wisps of wind, carrying great weight, though only an illusion, a projection of the mind. Or was it? Maybe her ghost had taken offence at the notion of me leaving Andante behind, for it meant relinquishing my chance to retrieve my violin.

“Brian, stop whining and get your act together! We’re up in five!”

Yes mother.

If I ever wanted to succeed in the quest I had embarked upon, I had no choice but to find favour with these bandits. So, I did the only thing that made any sense. I got up from the cold ground, stretched my limbs as to erase the weariness they had succumbed to during their imprisonment, left the tent and faced the music.

“The muses weep at this atrocity.” I stated, taking a confident stance, as I approached what clearly was an assorted bunch of unwashed thieves.

Immediately, I was the object of no less than six confused stares, whose owners were clearly taken aback by my unexpected appearance at their campfire.

I realised I should turn their perplexity into my advantage, so I briskly grabbed my treasured instrument from its abuser’s grasp, and swung the strap around my neck.

I struck a dramatic chord, encouraging the tension that was already in the air, and allowing me a swift glance at my surroundings. I discovered my ebony tambourine lying at the feet of a hideously dressed cur, establishing my next objective.

One of the men started to object to my presence. But before he could utter a word, I burst out in song. I started on ‘the word of a scoundrel’ because everybody knew that one, and it probably resonated with this particular crowd.

Not leaving any room for intervention, I swayed around the fire, kicking the tambourine up with my foot and catching it with the hook of my lute. In the rhythm and not missing a beat, obviously. It should have looked sufficiently impressive, for I had been practicing that for years.

Halfway though the chorus I realised, that like the maiden in the song, I too may have fallen for the word of a scoundrel, which dampened my mood significantly. But my personal musings had no place in my current predicament, so I expelled them forcefully from my thoughts.

Also, his betrayal must have had an inescapable origin for it to thwart our fated love. I must not doubt the purity of his intentions. I shall find my beloved Elijah. And whatever plight he may be subject to, we shall overcome. But first, I need to turn my current conundrum into a situation where I could bargain.

Two of the ragged bandits were clapping along with me, slightly off rhythm. Adding yet another crime to, what I inferred to be an endless list of transgressions. As much as it bothered me though, worse offenses were in the making.

One of the bandits seemed to be going in for a tackle, stealthily approaching me from the rear.

I had duly discerned his presence, so I was apt to dodge his incoming attack in the only manner suitable for the circumstances: a well-timed and rhythmically accurate jump over the smouldering campfire.

My expression made it clear this scene was part of the show. And the confounded look of my attacker showed he tried, but couldn’t discount it as such. He seemed for a second to doubt his own reality, as if pondering if his existence was truly a mere segment of the performance.

Alas, reason regained footing in my merry band of captors. I curled myself around my precious instruments, as my legs got swiped out from underneath me and I was pushed face-down in the soil. Disrespectful of my reputation, as well as my most recent achievements, I was kicked and viciously insulted.

“What is a prince doing by himself with no money?” someone yelled at me.

“My money was taken from me.” I told them, trying to catch my breath between every podiatric assault to my back.

“Which government will pay for your safe return?” another voice shouted.

Was this a lifeline thrown at me? Were their greedy minds so muddled by dreams of fortune they had missed all recent musical fancies? Did they truly believe me to be a blue-blooded royal? Or maybe my renown wasn’t as grand as Edmund had made it out to be.

Hmpf...

Wounded as my pride may be, my body had it worse. So I cast aside my ego and conjured up an illustrious background story.

Lady luck had not bestowed upon me her favour. For I had not hence uttered three syllables or one of the miscreants shouted: “But he is no prince! I told you guys. He’s just a minstrel that calls himself a prince. He’s quite good though. I thought we were keeping him for entertainment.” 

Flattering as his words may be, they only added to my impending doom.

“I have fans!” I uttered, stricken with panic. “There are be people that would be willing pay for me!”

“Too much of a hassle.” I heard a gruff voice sigh. “Let’s kill him and sell his stuff.”

“But he could entertain us!” My fan came to my defence.

A spark of hope ignited in my chest. Was I really to get out of here on my merit as an artist? 

“We could drag him around with a chain around his neck, having him play for us and suck our cocks. I bet if you run your hands through that silky hair of his and close your eyes, you’d hardly notice he’s a man.”

On the other hand… maybe death isn’t quite as gruesome as it’s made out to be.

“Fuck that! I’m not trusting a dude with my dick! What if he bites it off?! No way. We’ll just cut his throat and get rid of him. No use dragging him around if no one’s gonna pay shit. That’s a liability man.”

The decision was punctuated by another kick to my kidneys. Which only opened the door to a variety of abuse with certain death smiling at me from beyond the veil.

My mind conjured up the image of my love as I lay there molested in the dirt. I would be prone to state that his visage in my mind’s eye was sufficient to counter the violent beating to my earthly body. That I stayed defiant and vigilant in the face of death. That I did not cry for mercy, nor shed any type of bodily fluids when finally the blade was swung.

However poetic one may try to recount such a fate, it’s either a lie or one would have to admit that they were in fact, scared shitless.