***

The new living arrangement did turn out to be very nice indeed, for Arnath and Crow alike. The old man's garden wasn't so well-kept in years as it was now. The Undead quickly learned how to tell weeds apart from plants that his friend actually wanted to have in his garden, and how to get rid of them. His inhuman strength certainly helped with pulling out the more stubborn ones, as it did with digging holes to plant new trees and bushes. And Arnath never let Crow toil alone. Even on the days when he wasn't feeling well enough to do any work, he'd ask the Undead to bring out his wicker armchair and sit in it with a blanket on his lap, entertaining him with the stories of his youth and Khaede's past. The more Arnath talked, the more Crow realized how ancient the Deathspeaker must've been. It was when he first spoke of his family, when Crow got tipped off. He could tell for sure that all the siblings he mentioned weren't anybody who he met in Khaede so far. Neither were the children of his siblings, nor their grandchildren, and anyone after that for what seemed like generations… Until Arnath started telling him about his grand-grand-and-who-knows-how-many-grands-nephew, to which he affectionately referred as “Little Berg”.

“Berg? Like Old Man Berg? The sweet ghost who helps out his daughter?” - He inquired.

“The very same.” - Arnath confirmed.

Crow started counting on his fingers, furrowing his brows in great effort, only to finally give up on it.

“You know, I'm not that great with math… But estimating roughly, you must be thousands of years old.”

“You really aren't, my boy. I'm just three hundred and ninety six.” - The Deathspeakers voice was lined with barely contained laughter.

“How are you still alive?!” - The Undead asked, shocked.

“Really, Crow? The pot calling the kettle black?” - Arnath chuckled out loud now.

“Well, at least with me you can tell immediately that something is afoot! You just look like a regular elderly fellow! Not even that old if you ask me! You don't have the weird brown spots all over your skin, for example. And you walk somewhat upright!”

“Oh, very well.” - Arnath rolled his eyes. - “I have my ways, if you must know. A ritual that turns back the time on my body, though it comes at a cost.”

“What cost?” - Crow was almost afraid to ask, but his natural curiosity won the fight against learned anxiety.

“A sacrifice of a youthful life. Now, don't make those eyes at me! I don't use human babies for it! Only animals. And even then, I never do this lightly. It's a foul feeling, to steal another life to extend your own.”

Calmed down by the fact that no human infants were involved, Crow just shrugged.

“I don't know. It's kind of what eating is and people do it all the time. Lucky bastards.” - He grumbled. Arnath had tenderloin for dinner that day, and from the look and smell of it, the Undead could tell that there was a time when he absolutely loved tenderloin, even if he could not remember it.

“If you say so, boy. If you say so…” - Arnath looked away in shame as he said it, and remained silent for the rest of the morning. They did not come back to the subject of his unnatural lifespan that day, nor in the following weeks.

They did however do a whole plethora of different things. Arnath earned most of his income from alchemy, Crow found out quickly, and there was always something to do regarding preparing various potions and balms. Gnarly roots to peel, rock-hard seeds to crush in the mortar and even venomous frogs to skin so that the old man could extract the rare chemicals in their bodies. Crow did it all for him and he did it eagerly, because finally, he felt truly useful. Not only was the old man, completely unlike Tedrick, very thankful, but the products they sold actually helped people. And when someone in need could not afford them, Arnath gave them out for free.

“Their gratitude is perhaps more valuable than any coin they could give us. It's a big part of why nobody ever questioned my word when I told the people of the village not to pry too much into your weirdness.” - He explained one day.

“So it's just another form of currency for you? I thought we did this because we're good people.” - Crow grumbled, put off by his words.

“I'd like to think that we are, yes, but let's not get lost in ideals. We're trying to survive here, so we need to be pragmatic. And this kind of pragmatism is not hurting anyone, now is it?”

“I suppose it's not…” - Crow sighed and went back to separating sweetflower petals from its stems, to be later brewed into a pain-killing potion.

“It's not morally bankrupt to expect some recognition for your deeds, my boy. It's just human nature. Whether it's for very down-to-earth reasons like mine, or for the simple pleasure of it, everyone likes when they're being appreciated. I bet you'd enjoy that too.” - The Deathspeaker continued.

“What are you on about?” - The Undead asked. - “How can I be appreciated, Arn? I'm a monster.”

“I’ve yet to see a monster this musically inclined.” - The old man glanced at Crow's lute, hanging on the wall on proud display above the fireplace. He came up with the idea on where to put it himself, trying to make his favorite lost soul feel more at home in his cottage. - “You play it beautifully, you know? Your skill is wasted here, where only my old ears can hear you.”

Crow's gaze immediately jumped towards the window in utter embarrassment.

“Damn it, old man! You said you can barely hear it at all with how bad those ears are!”

“I lied.” - Arnath said with a grin. - “But for a good reason! I knew that if I didn't, you'd be too shy to practice.”

Crow puffed out his cheeks and pressed his lips into a thin line.

“No matter. It's not like I should play it anywhere else. I'll draw attention.”

“You will, of course, all good musicians do. The thing is, it wouldn't be bad attention. As in, this is not something that could make you look less human. Come on, let's go to Tedrick's inn tonight and get you on the stage. I'll be there the whole time, cheering for you from the sidelines.”

Crow grumbled and whined and said “I don't know” a ten times over, but in the end they did go. Just like the fateful day of the first meeting, he still couldn't say no to Arnath. If anything, it was only harder now that they've become firm friends. Still, he was not that eager for the incoming humiliation. He was sure that the people of Khaede wouldn't really like his music, just as they didn't really like him.

But when he reluctantly got up on the stage and pulled the strings, a miracle happened. The usually loud and chatty establishment went almost completely silent and all of the eyes, except for particularly drunk or gambling patrons, turned his way. Tedrick's inn did host bards from time to time, but they were simple boys and girls, who didn't really know much about music and only learned to somewhat imitate those more skilled than themselves.

Right from the very first notes, the inn's patrons could tell that Crow was a different beast. His fingers jumped across the instrument with ease, and the sounds flew together in perfect harmony that made your body want to move on its own.

“Damn it… And I thought all he could do was hunt…” - Tedrick muttered to Arnath, who was seated at the bar.

“I've told you this many times before, kid…” - The Deathspeaker said with wild satisfaction painted across his face. - “...you are way too quick to estimate people's value. And it's always too low with you, too.”

After that night, Crow started visiting the inn more often. His friend was right - it felt amazing to be appreciated. When people cheered for him to come up to the stage, it made him want to giggle like a little girl. Finally, he found something that he was truly good at - and it wasn't anything grim. It was beautiful, it was filled with meaning, and it brought joy to other people. There was not a single moment that he could remember in which he was more happy than during the evenings spent on that stage.

But it did, unfortunately, draw attention to him.

It was the beginning of May, a night particularly sweet and warm with a distinct smell of summer in the air, when things changed. He was about to play, when he noticed that the gathered patrons fell silent before he even reached the stage.

“Whoa there… Starved for music today, aren't you all?” - He joked as he stood up from his table, but no one laughed back at him. Evira, the daughter of old man Berg, and one of the nicer people in Khaede shook her head at him and pointed her finger to the window.

Outside, there were armored people marching in lines, dreadfully synchronized, their feet beating a rhythm that, unlike Crow's music, was not pleasant to hear at all.

An imperial patrol troop.