Siren

Snow fell peacefully over the village of Drahvyn as the sun began to dim, casting shadows across white ground. The forest sat behind the village as if to keep watch. Inside the village square were vendors who shouted, consumers who glanced, and horse-drawn carriages that followed the serene trails. Among the people walked two young friends. Mylesor Estwodren, a Red Feather Sentinel of little stature, held his gaze straight ahead as he listened to the rambling of his companion, though his inner confidence was slowly fading in his company. He was a quiet, soft-spoken gentleman who did not find it difficult to attract the admiration of the village’s venerable women. From these connections came hour-long stories that had been told more times than one could count on their hands and feet, baskets of fresh bread ‘made with love’, and unwanted advice on which young woman to marry. However, the man who rambled beside him presented a different way of life. Wyren Byglaesworth was a tall, lean man who seemed to never be without a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was a man in uniform who believed the world bowed to him and walked in such a way that demanded complete submission. Parents made him a cautionary tale. Rumor had it he impregnated his lover and left her in the dust, but there had been no comment from Wyren on the matter.

The snow crunched under their shoes as they walked towards the tavern. Wyren exhaled a stream of smoke as he looked at a young woman standing next to a stall with a basket of fruit. He nudged Mylesor and gestured with his head toward the girl.

“Look at that one over there, Estwodren.”

His tone dripped with unbothered familiarity.

“Think she would like you?”

Mylesor turned his head in the direction of the girl. He took a moment to find his words like a man weary of repeating himself.

“How many times must I remind you that I do not need your assistance in finding a relationship.”

Wyren lifted his hands in mock surrender, huffing out laughter.

“No need to get your panties in a twist, little guy. Just thought I would help.”

Mylesor paid no mind to the words and opened the entrance to the tavern. It was a relatively empty place, as many of the village commoners did not choose to frequent, or rather, could not. The usual faces were already there: Doctor Rossaen, the man known for his voluntary scowl; the poet, Thyrek Reidyn, and the playwright Anurykar Obraen who sat together with their beers usually untouched and their heads in their palms; Rovyn Orethyn who had fifteen young children and made the tavern his hiding place. In attendance was a particularly grumpy looking young man who seemed as if he would rather be anywhere else. Yet, there was a strange sight amidst the men.

There, standing on the stage where violinists would play during the holidays for community gatherings, was a maiden with skin white as snow and hair black as the midnight sky, singing to her modest crowd. Her voice glided through the shared space effortlessly as her arms moved gracefully in sync of her notes. Every gaze, usually cast down and calculating, was turned to watch the unusual performer, though the grump remained uninterested, beer in hand. Mylesor stood to stare for a long moment as though watching a dying star bleeding its final light across the cosmos. Beside him stood Wyren, just as much starstruck as his friend. The final note hung in the air, and the silence that lingered after was stifling. Not long after, applause erupted from the tables.

Wyren noticed how Mylesor stood straighter, as though the room had narrowed to the woman alone.

“Do not get your hopes up, Estwodren,” he began. “She’ll never notice the likes of…” He paused. “Us.”

On the last word, Wyren’s voice took on an edge that was rarely ever used within the span of their friendship. He caught the glint that found its way into Mylesor’s eyes. With it came a sting that had never belonged between them. His brows furrowed when there was no response.

“Did you hear me?” asked Wyren, whose glare was fixed on the side of Mylesor’s face.

“Hm?” hummed Mylesor absentmindedly.

“Forget it.”

The maiden’s crystal blue eyes fluttered open, meeting Mylesor’s. The words Wyren spoke didn’t register in his mind, but for the first time in years, his heart began to beat a little bit faster.