The tavern was almost half full, a good crowd for a working night before the harvest month, and it was deep enough into the eve most of the patrons were well into their third or fourth drink. The low white noise of chatter and gossip hung like a tapestry of background noise in the atmosphere, soothing the tension of the man seated in the back left corner.

He was almost hidden in shadow; a single nearby candle lit his rough hands as they lifted his pint, and its flame glinted off the coins he had placed on the wooden table — three copper marks, and a single silver shill, coins that indicated to the alewife and her barmaids he wished to keep his cup full and his mouth closed.

There was plenty of space in a wide semi-circle about the man, as though anyone who approached could feel the heat of his glower from beneath the umbral cloak he wore. He put his pint down again, and the candlelight caught a glint off a different surface — that of a craftless silver ring that looked as though the ore had been wrapped around his finger.

The patrons, mostly farmers who were preparing for a hard season with long days, ignored his presence, instead waiting and calling for some sort of entertainment, which the alewife tended to keep until the alcohol had soaked in a little, to make their tastes more pliable. She sent in her bard, a moderately-experienced young lady, who knew enough about her business to wear clothes fitted to her form, but enough about herself to keep the hems at modest levels. She was small of frame but carried it off in a spry way. She approached and mounted the tavern’s small stage, smiling coyly and bowing to the applause and calls of the tavern’s clientele.

She sat upon a stool and pulled an eleven-stringed, pear-shaped oud into her lap, plucking its strings out of habit to make sure that she had tuned it correctly the first three times.

“This harvest season, I am pleased that I have found such a warm welcome in the village of Gwynfyr. Thank you one and all,” she exclaimed, having to raise her voice for the last part as other voices rose in the patriotic support easily mustered by people who knew little else outside what they endorsed so ferociously.

She began with a well-known, bawdy ballad about gods and chasing nymphs, which, having a bouncy refrain with easy words, was quite popular with the crowd, who liked to sing along and then shout the bar down on the last verse.

They called for more, and she sang a short little ditty about a maid from Arcaid, eliciting a room full of laughter.

The bard had a quick smile that she flashed to the tavern.

“I would like to sing to you now of something a little different; please indulge me in telling a tale that we all know: the Song of the Sunslayer, the great and glorious battles of Ragnarok.”

Stamping feet and a roar of approval came from her audience, and she responded by grinning and playing her fingers across the strings in a rapid, skillful scale. It was an oft-told story that nonetheless garnered attention as well as any ribald song.

“This one was actually written by my grandmother, who saw much of it firsthand. Some of you may know it.”

The man in the back corner picked up his pint, drained it dry, and set the empty vessel down with a thunk that was louder than it needed to be, but he did not move to leave.

The bard began playing her oud and singing, softly at first to get the patrons to quiet down in order to hear her.

“Let not you turn your ear from me,

Listen, this tale of woe

Ere swept Death’s hand o’er sea and Sidhe,

And dark seeds he did sow.”

She switched from singing to spoken vers libre, the lilt of her voice lending musicality to the words as she began to narrate the story. Her fingers tumbled over the oud in a simple but practiced tune.

“Upon that time came the hateful harbinger of Ragnarok;

He cursed the gods and damned this world,

Sought to unleash ancient beasts,

To cut down mighty kings and mighty tree,

Even to tear from the sky a god’s own crown

And cast it down to be devoured by a jagged maw.

There rose against him

The Sunslayer with heart of glass,

The Artificer, both more and less than man,

A cunning mage, the wordless warrior of winds,

An army of the greatest, strongest hearts

That answered the war horn’s call.”

A barmaid refilled the pint of the man in the back corner, but he didn’t move to touch it. For anyone looking closely enough — though no one was — his eyes glinted in the candlelight, cold as his shining coins.

She sang:

“Please, do not turn your eyes from this,

From ruin that was wrought

And all the dreadful catalysts

That toward the end were sought.”

Those in the tavern that were younger were held rapt by her words, and though the oldest of the farmers had heard it all before, still most enjoyed the song. Even those who were slightly bored stayed for the karmic delivery.

She orated:

“The hateful one and his monstrous forces

Poisoned all they touched.

O little light was found in those dark days,

And then far worse, in what seemed a final blow,

The Artificer betrayed the cause.

He left them low thus severing their bonds.”

The poetess’s voice was low as she sang of the stirring betrayal, the notes from the oud dark and sparse to provide ambiance.

The man in the back corner had his hands on the table now, clutching his pint so hard they were shaking slightly.

“Those that remained, they stayed to die

But with that choice stopped death’s fell hand.

Golden light rained from newborn sun

And revived the withered land of Sidhe.

Through their great sacrifice

Came a young dawn, a peaceful era just begun.

So at the end not all was lost,

After all, we’re here this day,

But to save Sidhe was paid the cost

At the loss of those good fae.”

A cheer and hurrah rose from her audience, both for victory and for the song’s end, and the bard accepted a glass of water as she paused between songs.

The man unclenched his hands from his ale and pushed it away; leaving both coins and drink, he departed from his table and swept out of the tavern like a spring storm, leaving those in its wake bewildered by its fury and brevity.

He hated that song. He had heard it a handful of times in the last fifty years, had even heard the earliest forms of it when it was being composed. After the War of the Sun ended, it had taken on a sinister meaning for him, and hearing it since turned his stomach, a grim reminder of choices that had not been forgotten.

Would that I could go back and convince him to avert his very destiny, he thought, pausing in the shadows outside the tavern’s small stable.

He thought of a small bundle he had buried long ago, on the edges of his many acres of land, a bundle that contained an object that had wreaked havoc and chaos in their lives.

In his bitter, old heart a small seed began to dig its roots, that he could not continue living like this, but maybe he could change the past.