The turn-out for the show was nowhere as bad as I had expected. 

There had been three whole people in the inn when we had dinner. Well, three besides the innkeeper and the barmaid and us. But when showtime arrived the word had been spread and there were about three dozen spectators eagerly waiting for me. It made me wonder slightly what Edmund used to do all day.

Truth be told: I was a little late. But I could not help it. I had taken great pains to try and dry my hair with all the swiftness in the world, but anyone should understand I really HAD to wash before anything else. And I don’t know if you’ve ever attempted to get raisin out of your hair, but it’s nigh impossible.

My entourage sat washed and perfumed at a large table on the left-hand-side of the inn, stage left, that is. Admittedly, maybe Derrick and Gideon were the only ones perfumed, but at least everyone had taken a bath, so I felt less like being surrounded by a bunch of barbarians.

I started out with ‘The ale is hers’ to boost the innkeeper’s sales, figuring he’d appreciate that. Then segued to another ancient classic to further warm up the crowd.

It was a queer feeling, trying to figure out the set as it developed. Which was rather remarkable by itself, for this used to be my regular modus operandi. But that was years ago. Had I been spoiled by my own popularity? Gotten used to full houses chanting my name?

I set out to read the audience and respond with the songs most suited to my purpose, trying my best to get everyone to have a night that would make them forget the dreariness of their daily lives.

The first person I appeared to have this effect on was, adventitiously, Gideon. Or maybe it was all the free wine he had been drinking. Could be either.

Nevertheless, he stood up and started plucking people from their chairs, whirling them around in a jolly manner, which one could, creatively, interpret as ‘dancing’. I comported myself with his incentive by turning my whole setlist around and playing the randomly uprooted folk something to dance to.

I don’t know if it had been the bath after four days on the road, or the promise of a night’s sleep in an actual bed, instead of a bedroll on a cold forest floor in a smelly tent. Or maybe it wasn’t the return to civilisation so much as it was doing something I actually felt adequately equipped for. Or maybe I am overthinking this, and I was plainly enjoying myself by spreading joy around in an unexpecting crowd.

Whatever it was, for the first time in days I felt genuinely happy. The weight of my quest momentarily raised from my back, allowing me to breathe, to move. To shrug the heavy blanket of worry off my shoulders for just a second in which everything was exactly as it was supposed to be.

The moment was broken when the door burst open, and a group of fancily clad merchants entered. My heart immediately jumped into my throat in equal parts anticipation and trepidation at their arrival, knowing full well what it signified.

To my absolute relief, Sandor noticed the men entering as well. And the same conclusion that was pulling at my guts, nested itself in his conscience instantly. If he hadn’t already, he would have earned my everlasting friendship and loyalty right at that moment, when he got up from his seat and moved outside, taking Twain and Joseph with him.

Garreth gave me a thumbs up, and scurried after them with an enthusiastic lopsided grin on his face that was probably only slightly caused by his enthusiasm in finding my lover for me, and more so by the amount of alcohol he had consumed. But it was sweet nonetheless, and I was truly grateful.

My mind now completely distracted by what may or may not be happening outside, I tried my best to not to show any of it. Instead focussing on the classics and the most renowned ballads in my own oeuvre to keep the spirits up, whilst conserving enough brainpower to be able to focus on entertaining. Because I needed to focus on that. For if I didn’t my mind would wander into the thousands of possible scenarios of what could happen if Sandor and his men found Elijah.

Would he, assuming he’d find no vindication, run from the soldiers? And if so, would they be able catch him? Would he get hurt? Would he be scared for his life as he was chased by the two giants I’ve befriended over the past days? They do look a lot more frightening than they turn out to be when you talk to them.

No, scratch that. Twain hardly talks, and Joseph only gets more offensive when he opens his mouth.  

Every time I discerned any hint of movement coming from the general area of the door I’d perk up, only to be disappointed again by the entering figure of someone distinctly not my beloved.

I played, and I sang, and I twirled though the growing crowd. The innkeeper was happy, my hat was filled with coin, and the people had the night of their lives.

I went on, giving it my all, until the door opened yet again. And instead of another new arrival, or a patron that had gone outside to visit the outhouse, there stood the captain and his men. And their eyes said it all.

The normally stern visage of Sandor was overridden with an apologetic warmth. The taller men just eyed me with pity.

They had not failed. I had.

Elijah was not here.

And it was suddenly mightily hard not to succumb to the self-deprecating thoughts that all carried Edmund’s voice in my mind. For it would have been so easy to give up and yield to cynicism and distrust. Labelling Elijah a deceitful rogue and myself a misguided victim of his guile.

But to do that was to lose faith. And faith was exactly what I owed the gods, what I owed my mother, and what I owed Elijah by extension. For he was my soulmate.

Faith had to be the solution.

I propped myself up on a table and turned to the crowd with a ring of my lute that spurred silence from the audience.

“Hi everybody! As you all well know I’m Prince Vivace. And this is almost the end of my set, for all good things must come to an end. But all that is dear to us shall return, and so will I. But I want to petition your help to return something I cherish as well. For, you see, some days ago I was robbed by a young man that went by the name of Elijah…”

The crowd oohed and booed. I cut it short with another pregnant chord.

“Now I have no way of knowing if that was his true moniker, or if he was indeed in some caravan’s employ. But I know that I cannot fail my quest, for the handsome scoundrel has taken my most valuable possession with him. Ladies and gentlemen of Crimsonville and about, the blue-eyed ruffian I intend has stolen nothing less than my heart.” I narrated with a theatrical flourish.

To be completely frank, I was hoping for a more empathetic reaction. Some starry-eyed ladies sighing in delight, men silently reminiscing about the moment they saw their wives for the first time. You know, romance.

Alas, I was stuck with an audience eying me in slight confusion, of which several members had already began conversing with each other in hushed tones.

I looked back at my travel companions, who had clearly not been expecting me to proclaim my situation to this crowd. Joseph even rolled his eyes, reminding me of how Edmund would regard me in this instant. I could practically hear him sigh: ‘not the dramatics, Viv!’

Hit with an enormous wave of self-consciousness, I evaluated my expression, to assure my signature smile had not faded, then jumped from the table, onto a chair, then back up stage, while I struck the first chord of ‘The Maiden of Hellcliffe’. I’m not aware if I unconsciously chose it because it was my go-to mood-changer, or because some foolish part of me held on to a sliver of hope that, if I played it, Elijah would magically appear.

It must have been the latter, because I went on repeating the chorus for over and over again, with the sole excuse that everyone was dancing and singing along. And then, when I ultimately hit the final chord, and there was still no sign of him, part of me shrivelled up and perished.

It was like someone pulled a plug and all my built-up energy just drained away in an instant. Promptly my muscles were sore again, my breath turned laboured, my mind felt tired, and my calloused fingertips hurt every time they touched the strings. But worst of all was the overwhelming ache in my chest. The one that made me want to scream and cry and hide at the same time.

But you can’t hide when you’re in the middle of a stage. Nor can you scream and cry or show anything else but the joy you’re supposed to bring. So with everything I had, I pulled myself together as best as I could. And smiled my real joyful smiles for everyone to see for as long as I could keep it up.

Only then, I finished my show and excused myself to my room, where the world finally ended.