Anira watched him work, his hands as he smoothed the sheets. Noticing the way his muscles flexed beneath the strain of making the bed. A small, wry smile tugged at her lips, and she reached out to touch one of the corners he had tucked with painstaking precision. “Duscan,” she said softly, “it’s never ‘just’ a song." Music mattered, and the bard knew it. A song could thread through memory and feeling. A song could be the vessel of what words cannot hold and the mirror for the moments too fragile to name. It was never just a song.

She stepped back as he finished making the bed and gave a little nod of approval.

“And right now… maybe the song can wait? Perhaps we should simply rest. The hour is late...or early, depending on your definition of a night well spent." She moved to the bed, fluffed the pillows, and patted down the blanket. Then, with a sigh that mingled relief and longing, she sank down onto the bed, letting herself sink into the crisp linens.

She patted the space beside her. "Come here, bastard"
 
He climbed onto the bed and fell at her side. Duscan pulled the blanket with him, covering himself and Anira before pulling her to cradle. "No... the song I want you to hear... is a lullaby."

A song for the moment. Should they rest, it was best to let her hear now.

His hand that lay on her belly reached for her hand and interlaced their fingers.

"When I was a boy, my father had a daughter with his third wife. When she grew older, she became sickly. I... made this tune for her. Some lyrics, but never.... never finished." Rosie had been the only one of his blood he grew to care about. Losing her... it shaped him as a boy, and thus the man he was now.

He waited for the silence to settle, until their bodies shared warmth beneath the blanket. Duscan hummed a low note, several to carry a tune that was soothing.

A spring blossom of pink and fair,
may dance upon it's branch in the wind and air.
Such strength a petal has is rare,
for never have I seen one tear.

Duscan hid his face into the back of her shoulder, chuckling. "I was a boy, mind you." He didn't know what made a song. "But it made her smile."

There, again, Anira had been right. A memory caught in a song.
 
Of course it was a lullaby. Lullabies. The first songs any of them ever heard. Before they knew words, before they understood the world, they taught them about comfort, safety, and love. Sung to hush cries, to promise that the dark will pass and that someone, somewhere, still watches over us. They were the gentlest kind of magic, woven from love, and the desperate hope that a voice could keep the world from falling apart. The songs that meet them at the threshold between waking and dreams.

She never underestimated them. Lullabies were the foundation of all music, simple, honest, and sacred.

Anira lay still as his voice wove through the quiet, the low hum vibrating softly against her back. The melody was simple, unpolished. But there was something achingly human in it. The kind of melody that could only have been born from love unfiltered by pride or polish. It moved her. To think that behind these calloused hands and sharp wit, there had once been a boy, wide-eyed and unguarded, who believed a song could keep his sister safe. She listened, eyes half-closed.

Her chest ached with something tender. That this man, marked and strange, could sing such softness. It felt like being handed a key to a door no one else had been allowed to open. She turned her head slightly so she could glimpse him from the corner of her eye. “You made that for her? Beautiful, truly,” she whispered, brushing her thumb over his knuckles where their fingers were laced. Warmth blooming in her chest. Folding out like big peonies that barely fit behind her ribs.

“Duscan. I think she must’ve loved it.” she said, voice soft as a sigh.

She nestled closer beneath the blanket. “You were a boy when you wrote it,” she said, voice hushed. “but you understood something most of us spend a lifetime chasing... that music isn’t about perfection... ”
 
“Duscan. I think she must’ve loved it."

He sucked in a breath and pulled her tighter. Pressed a kiss to her shoulder, covered by his shirt she had pulled back on.

“You were a boy when you wrote it, but you understood something most of us spend a lifetime chasing... that music isn’t about perfection... "

"It worked, you know? Before my father kicked me out to the street, I would sing to her to help her sleep. I... I used to sneak back home to climb beneath her window. I would sing it to her, until I was sure she was asleep before I went home to sleep." And ever since then, he never knew how to sleep well.

Duscan exhaled, his body releasing any tension that built up in him over the span of the few minutes they laid in this bed.

It had been too long since he slept soundly, and he knew tonight would be no different. Just as he knew he could never create another song. He didn't know how. He could not remember how to string the words together and put it to a melody that would soothe a weary soul.
 
Her body sinking into the warmth of him, into the soft cadence of his voice. Her fingers, still tangled with his, gave a small squeeze. “It worked twice,” she murmured, her voice a drowsy hum. “Once for her… and now for me.” The words came out softer than she meant them to, heavy with the pull of sleep. The world around them blurred, the creak of the house’s timbers, the faraway murmur of wind through the shutters. It all faded into the quiet rhythm of shared breath.

Maybe by morning, she thought hazily, he’ll be gone. And I won’t have to think about what this means.

The hour hung between night and dawn, the air thick with the soft scent of fresh linen and sweaty skin. Anira’s breath slowed, deepened, her body molding against his. Her head found its place on his arm. And then, like a tune carried away on the breeze, Anira drifted into sleep, unguarded, her hand still caught in his.
 
He probably got no more than an hour's sleep.

Even after Anira drifted to slumber with him humming Rosie's Lullaby until he felt her breathing deepen, sleep escaped him. It was maddening and all the same rewarding. He got to watch the bard sleep some, wondering if she ever suffered the inability to fall asleep so quickly. She looked peaceful, and that was the last thing he remembered thinking of before darkness took him.

When he woke, it was with a jolt. Anira did not stir, but he needed to. With ease, careful so, Duscan adjusted her to lay her head on a soft pillow and the blanket tucked around her.

He got up, got dressed. Realised Anira committed another robbery and had worn his shirt to sleep in.

By the time Anira would wake, late in the morning, she would see that Duscan had stayed. He had spent the night, although not in her bed, but pottering away at things. The dirty linens from their night had been washed, her own shirt she had worn yesterday was being dried before the fire.

And her home was filled with the scent of breakfast. Bacon sizzled in a pan, bread sliced and ready on two plates. There were slices of cheese on each slice of bread, and Duscan was beating eggs in a bowl. All of this he had gone out early to purchase.

Without a shirt.
 
Anira slept as those kissed by peace do. Deep and untroubled, lost to a world where no shadows lurked at the edge of memory. It was the sort of sleep few really earned, without worry and regret. She dreamed of spring and sunlight, of apple trees bowed under white and pink blossoms. Beneath their branches, he waited, Duscan, smiling that rogue’s smile that both infuriated and disarmed her. Petals fell like snow around them.

But as morning crept through the shutters, light pooling golden across tangled sheets, her lashes fluttered open. She reached across the bed and found only cool linen. His side was empty. Her heart sank before pride could scold it. Of course he was gone. Men like him rarely stayed, and she preferred it that way, didn’t she? She could already feel the ache of missing him twisting into inspiration. Two good ballads, at least, would come from this.

Then...

sszzzzzzz

The unmistakable sound of fat spitting in a pan. And then the smell, too rich to ignore. Bacon. Actual bacon. Her eyes shot open wider. She sat up, hair tumbling in soft disarray, the shirt of his she’d borrowed slipping from one bare shoulder. Her heart, usually so disciplined, thudded like a fool’s drum. Duscan. Anira fell back onto her back, groaning into her arm with the kind of despair reserved for women who had hoped to be tragic, not domestic. And yet, as the scent grew stronger, a smile crept across her lips.

Fuck.

He was still here.

No lover had ever stayed the night. Not once. For the bard, mornings were usually quiet and filled with half-finished songs, the faint ache of memory, and the comfort of solitude. Sometimes an occasional hangover. For a long, suspended breath, she simply looked about the room. Apparently, he had decided to take up housekeeping. Her bare feet touched the floor as the smell of sizzling breakfast beckoned her forward.

The basin waited where she’d left it, filled anew with clean water. He’d even done that. This man was becoming a dangerous habit. Her reflection in the faint sheen of the mirror looked softer than she remembered. Hair unbound, lips still touched by kisses, eyes warm in a way that startled her. “This won’t do,” she murmured, as though she could talk herself back into poise. She rinsed her face, dried it with the corner of a cloth, then reached for her own chemise. A little perfume at her throat, a hand through her tangled hair.

But when she reached the door, she froze. Beyond it came the sound of a skillet being turned. What in all the gods’ names did one say to a man who stayed the night? “Good morning” felt too trivial “You shouldn’t have” sounded like a lie. And “you look handsome cooking bacon” would make her sound absolutely smitten... which, to her horror, she might be. So she stood there, hand on the doorframe, and tried out a few lines in her mind like a nervous actress.

She sighed, straightened her shoulders. Get a grip, Anira. It’s just breakfast!

Her gaze caught the shirt draped over her arm, his shirt. The same one she’d worn through the night, soft from wear. It smelled of him, the scent was maddening, and threaded with something she couldn’t name but already missed. She was reluctant to hand it back. Anira cleared her throat and marched trough the door before she could spiral further into embarrassing sentimentality.

"So...” She lifted the shirt with a sheepish grin. “Seems I took your shirt hostage last night. I swear it wasn’t intentional…" Her tone danced between playful and apologetic. “I do hope you haven’t been freezing to death in its absence."
 
He looked down at himself as he turned towards the greeting of her dulcet tones. Duscan ceased the beating of the eggs to lift his blue eyes up at her. There was a smile on his face, that cheeky crook of his lips as he peered at her intently. "I just thought of warm thoughts, like the thought of you enjoying this meal. Sorry, about all of... this and that." He pointed to the cooking and the washed laundry he decided to do and whatever else he had done to preoccupy himself in the night. "Idle hands..."

Duscan turned to the sizzling pan, turning the bacon over before deeming it nearly done. "You like your bacon crispy or just right?" He asked, back turned on her. In no hurry to retrieve his shirt. The spit from the pan would surprise him at points, but it never lasted too long. Besides, he did not want to risk dirtying his last shirt any more.
 
Anira leaned back against her small oak table, arms folded, the edge of it pressing lightly against the small of her back. She watched him, the Bastard at her stove, hair a little tousled, every movement unhurried and strangely sure. The morning light did him no disservice; it caught in the curve of his shoulders, the play of muscles shifting beneath his skin as he turned the bacon. A domestic daydream in her home. She wanted to go to him, to slip her arms around his waist, rest her cheek against his back, press a kiss to the warm skin of his neck. The very thought made her cheeks heat. That's too much, Anira!

“Idle hands...” she repeated, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She draped his shirt over the back of one chair. How long had he been awake for? “You say that as if you’ve done something wicked. Though...” her eyes wandered deliberately over the cleaned room, the washed sheets, and the rather heroic breakfast-making. There was an odd twist in her chest. It was not unpleasant, but it was unnerving all the same. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she said softly. She was flustered. "You’ve ruined me for all future scoundrels.”

What was she supposed to do with this? Sit down and pretend this was ordinary? Most lovers slipped out the door before dawn, not starting to cook breakfast like they lived here. He was setting entirely unreasonable standards for every man she would meet after him. Did he treat all his one-night dalliances like this? If so, she’d be both impressed and furious. No wonder people fell for him.But she hoped not. And the thought of him doing this for someone else made her stomach tighten in ways she didn’t appreciate. “Thank you, truly. For… all of this. I can’t remember the last time anyone made my morning feel like something worth waking up for.”

Finally, pushing off the table and picking up two plates, her bare feet whispering against the floorboards as she moved to set the table. She fussed with the placement of things as if composing a song, tilting a plate just so, brushing a speck of dust from the table’s edge. It was silly, this impulse to make it nice. But she wanted it to be.
 
Duscan lifted the bacon from the pan and placed it onto the awaiting slices of cheese on top of the bread, thick cuts he had sliced while the freshly baked loaf was still cooling off. The cheese began to wilt and melt beneath the bacon.

He turned around, quickly setting up to scramble the eggs in the hot pan. Mixing it, making sure to break it in places to keep it fluffy, he took it off the heat and moved back to the prepared food.

"I know I didn't... but I truthfully didn't want to leave. I.. felt like I should talk to you before I snuck out of here." This was not how things were supposed to go. He liked the idea of making other callers look inferior, but Duscan also knew she was the same for him. Their back and forth quips and wits, Duscan rarely found someone who could keep up and parry with him.

Picking up the tray of prepared food, he moved to place them on the prepared plates Anira put down. The bastard did not immediately sit down to eat. In the wash basin, he put in the waiting hot water everything he would wash, save for the pan. The pan rested back on the stove, letting the bacon grease season what the eggs had not soaked up.

With two fresh glasses of squeezed fruit juice, he took a seat and invited Anira to do the same.

"I... always have liked this part of the day. Had to learn how to cook in order to feed my bastard brothers and sisters. Taught some of them myself. Made sure they were eating, that there was someone there to ask them how they were... if they needed anything." Fuck... he missed his family. His brothers, especially. When he left Veya, a single thought stopped him from seeking out his brothers. It had gone all too fast the moment he made his escape, had bought his freedom. Leaving was the only thought he had... and he only began to think of Veya once he got here.

Duscan cut into his food, forcing morsels into his mouth to keep from talking any further. He groaned, and nodded his head, appreciative that his skill had not gone to waste after so long. Once his mouthful was done, he grinned. "Tell me again that I have ruined others for you. You want a meal like this again, come find me at the inn." An offer for the future, an offer to keep a future catch up on the cards should she wish hit. He wasn't sure if he was ready for something... more, but Duscan knew Anira was someone different. Someone worthy of knowing and cherishing.
 
She picked up her fork to busy her hands, eyes darting between the food and his face, never lingering too long on either. Anira took a careful bite of the bacon and cheese, letting the flavors mingle and settle. "I.. felt like I should talk to you before I snuck out of here." Anira leaned back slightly, savoring both the food and the moment, letting her mind wander while she ate. Why does this feel so strange?

“This breakfast… it’s exceptional. I haven’t had eggs quite like this in ages." The bardess took another careful bite of the eggs. Anira rested her elbows on the table, chin propped lightly on one hand as she regarded him across the morning light and the quiet clink of cutlery. She felt far too aware of him. “You must’ve been a good brother...”

"Tell me again that I have ruined others for you."
“Hmm… not a chance.” she said with a smirk, twirling her fork lightly. She bit her lip. Beneath the table, her foot found his calf, a light, teasing caress.

"You want a meal like this again, come find me at the inn."
Anira’s fork hovered over her plate. "You just gonna serve eggs and hope I show up?” she teased and tapped the tines lightly against the plate. A sly smile played on her lips, she grabbed the glass of juice and brought it to her lips.
 
Duscan gave her a cheeky grin, nodding his head as he answered her without missing a beat. "You made me into a hopeless romantic..." and just so easily, his tone turned to something more intoxicating and smooth. "... after all, you have ruined all other bards for me."

The cheeky smile returned and he bit into his food, an excuse to not answer her right away.

He liked how her foot found the curve of his leg. The touch was a reminder of who she was, a flirt that was good at ensnaring a certain Bastard. Duscan was just as guilty. He felt as if he met his match, but neither of them were well versed in committing to anything.

His eyes watched her drink the juice, perhaps a little intently, but how could he not watch when everything she did was as if she were putting on a performance. He was in awe of her, even when she merely existed as she was. As a human.

"I wanted to say this before I disappear today... but..." He chuckled at his own nerves. "Anira, you can always invite me to darken your doorstep." If she took insult to that, or even wanted to end things here, Duscan would take it calmly. She certainly ruined anything else for him. Not many had her quick wit or her nightingale song.

For his own selfish reasons, he wanted to hear her promise they would meet again.

And perhaps even hear the ending to his epic.
 
Anira’s smile lingered as she set her glass down. “Wine and a story,” she told him, twirling her fork. “You bring those, and I’ll consider unlocking the door.” Her tone was flirty, practiced, but her chest fluttered in a way she couldn’t quite laugh off. Consider unlocking the door? Who was she kidding... ?! She would leave it wide open.

"You don’t darken my doorstep, Duscan,” she said, her voice light but not playful. “You… rather brighten it. I assure you. Most men trip over the threshold and bring the mood down with them.” There was a glimmer of teasing there, because there had to be, that was her armor.

Inside, it was chaos. Since when does he make me nervous? Since when do I care if he actually comes back? She’d spent years weaving flirtation like a cloak, something shimmering and safe. She stole a glance at him, the curve of his grin, the way his eyes softened when he looked at her. How she wanted to know what went on behind that grin.

What am I doing? She wasn’t built for this sort of talk, real things, sincere things. Affection always came wrapped in jest for her, safe behind charm and irony. But she wanted to see him again, and suddenly pretending otherwise felt like lying. Stars above, pull it together, Anira, her thoughts hissed. He’s just a man!

“I would like to see you again,” she added, aiming for nonchalance but landing somewhere between bold and breathless. “Not for your eggs or your bacon... though, credit where it’s due, but for…” She hesitated, searching for her footing. “I’d like to see you again.."

Oh, marvellous, her mind supplied drily. Absolutely lyrical, Anira. A bard of the realm, mistress of rhyme, reduced to a blushing milkmaid.
 
Duscan was weak to stop his mouth from growing from a wry smile to a smug grin. His brows waggled, liking the fact he just witnessed Anira admit something true and not deflect any of the honesty with her with and charm. She made it infectious, but Duscan ceased from needling her to make her cheeks turn pinker.

"Alright then. I will visit your doorstep more often then."

He sat back, resuming cutting into his breakfast. The smile was near permanent now, clearly overly pleased with himself. This felt... right. It felt as if he found a place here, but he also did not want to promise too much with the fear of disappointing her. Not only would she pen scathing songs about him, Duscan was sure he would not be able to cope with an upset Anira.

It was best to end this night and stay pleasantly. Take this slowly, however slowly he thought best and held at arm's length so he had time to figure out if he was doing the wrong thing or not.
 
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