The great hall of the castle was cheerful, the cold outside held at bay by the strength of the stone walls and the fires burning in the hearths. The lord of the keep, Duke Chester, was ruler of one of the northern-most fifes in Britannia, and as such was used to hosting his neighbors during the winter time.
The smell of roast venison and butter permeated the air, mixing with the smell of fresh bread. It was going to be a wonderful dinner, he thought, crossing his legs where he sat. He smoothed his hand over the well oiled wood of the oak table and looked down at the hustle and bustle from where the table sat on a small dais.
Suddenly, his seneschal Dafyd slid next to him, bowing. "There's a visitor at the door, asking for respite against the weather. He carries a lute strung on his back and a harp in a leather case in one arm. Obviously a bard. Doesn't carry any other weapons besides a dagger of middling size. Shall we permit him entry?" Dafyd's voice was deep and rumbled in his chest like thunder in the distance.
The man was proud of his status and Chester couldn't deny him that. "Yes, but let him know he pays for his dinner and board with songs. It's been too long since we've had a travelling bard, they always bring news with their music," he said, lifting a hand to dismiss Dafyd to bring the fellow the news. Dafyd bowed again. "Very well, milord." And he vanished. Chester leaned on one elbow, happy to have some new entertainment. The doors on the end of the great hall were pushed open, admitting Dafyd, followed by a man bundled against the weather. The stranger was permitted to remove his outerwear, placing them in a place of honor near the more well-off guests' things.
A servant would undoubtedly bring them to a room prepared for him later that evening after the feast was over. Chester noted he kept tight hold onto both instruments. After the large scarf he wore around his features was unwound, Chester was startled by the clarity of the man's face even from so far away. Blond hair, cut to a decent length curled around his ears and a neatly trimmed beard and slender eyebrows gave the man a graceful but timeless air.
The bard advanced, blue eyes sharp, missing nothing. Dafyd followed at his side to announce him, watching the bard watch the proceedings. Guests were beginning to become interested in the curious stranger and even members of Chester's household, including his wife, daughter, and two sons who were seated beside him at the dais had decided to turn for a look. Anything to stop them from discussing the price of silk, I swear, I raised merchants rather than rulers. It is Elisa's fault, that. Elisa, his wife, was a gentle woman in her early thirties, soft brown hair covered modestly by a veil of white silk and a circlet of silver as befitting a woman of her status.
She turned to him, smiling. "We shall definitely have a good dinner tonight, milord." He nodded absently. The man had yet to prove that. Dafyd stopped a few paces away from the dais and the bard copied him. "Milord Duke Chester and household," Dafyd announced. The bard bowed low, rising slowly. The man has good manners, the Duke thought. Dafyd continued, his deep baritone echoing off of the pillars as even the servants fell to a hush. "Milord Duke, this is Taliesin ap Elfin, traveling bard." The man smiled to Dafyd as the seneschal backed away.
Chester straightened. "Greetings, bard. You shall eat and drink at my table and find yourself good furnishings to stay within for the night, hospitality at my hearth, and peace on your person. In exchange, we ask that you provide us with song and news, entertainment for payment of such good grace." Taliesin bowed again. "I accept such an offer, milord Duke," he said, his voice a musical tenor. Dinner progressed and after the blond man had eaten and drunk his fill he took up a seat offered to him near the bottom of the dais, in full view of the onlooking diners. After tuning the harp briefly and the man set fingers to string. The sound that poured from the instrument seemed to slow even the flickering flames in the fireplaces and torches.
Languid, lovely, it brought tears to even Chester's eyes and he could see he was not alone. A deep sadness seemed to rest over the man as he played, but when he looked up his eyes were shining with a fervor and light that Chester had never seen before. "I sing," the man intoned, voice like honey melting in the sun. "of times gone by. Of Merlyn. Of Arthyr. Of the fall of the Great King, he who united us all under the Pendragon banner. This is the song of Talieson, former bard to the throne of Camelot." The spell of his words hung in the air and Chester was suddenly struck by where he'd heard the name before. This was the legendary Taliesin, whose words and music were said to stop marching armies in their tracks, bound to the song. Whose words were prophecy, vision, and legend all in one.
"When songs of Arthyr are to be sung, Merlyn must first proceed them. Drwyd, friend, advisor to the king, such was the power of," here the man's eyes filled with tears, spilling over and glinting wetly on his cheeks in the torchlight. "Such was the power of the man." He strummed the harp for a few moments to collect himself and continue. Chester marveled at what he was hearing. Here was man who had firsthand knew these great figures and would tell them of the terrible events that had occurred just months prior at the battle of Alderydd.
"When Arthyr, king chosen by the Earth, rightful king of the throne of Camelot, is felled in battle, Merlyn, his advisor, helpless against destiny, that terrible ruler, goddess of our own lives, sends him free to Avalon, one day to return. Oh, Merlyn, drwyd of the earth, sends him free to Avalon, one day to return. And he himself, the drwyd, weeping, melts into the trees, lost to the fellowship of man. Oh, he's lost, lost to the fellowship of man! This land welcomed him into her bosom, and no one knows whether he lives still, and no one knows, and no one knows. But he is in the song of the eagle, in the whistle of the wind. In the crash of seafoam, in the glint of the sun. He is the growing wheat, the gentle doe, the rabbit, the faithful hound. Brittanica is Merlyn for he served her long and well and whet her with his blood many atime in service of her king. Oh Merlyn, Merlyn, he is lost to time, he is gone, but never truly left from us..."
The man's song, vibrating with the emotion clotting his voice, held the room in its power. No one moved, not a servant, a lady, or even the hunting hounds who had been chewing bones in the corner. The single vibrating note melted into silence, and as the sound faded, movement stirred in the great hall. There was not one dry eye among them. Taliesin cleared his throat, placing the harp at his feet and picked up the lute, strumming out a more cheerful little tune, still spellbinding in its own way. But it was as if he was not even there, eyes glassy, gazing into the middle distance, into a past lived and felt as real as any present.
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