Kajsa

PREFACE

“...”

“When the lost bird falls, surely the rain will cease.

Every drop of broken blood will spill and touch the breeze,

When the skies are grey, and

No one’s around

To settle the sound

Of shattered calls

That’ll be when the lost bird falls.”

The bard sets aside his lute and takes a long swig of alcohol from a clay mug, setting it down on a weathered, wobbly stool that matches his own. The tavern is alive with applause and chatter, illuminated by warm firelight. Somebody calls out, asking where did the song come from, and the bard replies simply:

“Elysia.”

I have a good view of our entertainer from my seat at the counter. He’s old and crinkled with age, but that doesn’t stop him from looking alive. His dark brown eyes shine with resilience, bushy white eyebrows more expressive than I’ve ever seen, gravelly voice somehow more beautiful than that of a siren. The stool he sits on is old and creaky, one I assume he carries with him wherever he goes. Backed by the firelight, he has an aura of kindness and mystery.

He catches me looking at him and smiles, so I quickly turn away, staring at my hot drink. He’s probably thinking I’m too young to be here, wasting my earnings on spiked cider and hard bread. But he visits this tavern frequently, and I like to hear the songs he brings, especially the ones from Elysia. I never heard this one, even though I grew up there. It must be newer.

I consider myself to be some kind of lost bird if I’ve understood the song right. 

Though they don’t know it yet, I’ve done everything to protect them.

That was always my job. I was never going to be queen. I was never going to lead armies. I was never going to be great, remembered, fearless.

I was never going to have what I wanted. But that was okay, because I could keep them safe.

I always knew I would protect them. 

So here I sit in a tavern on break, tapping my own clay mug with my fingernails. 

Clink, clink, clink.

Here I sit with knives strapped to my belts and inside my boots, poisonous vials in my satchel, death carved in between the letters of my name, syncopated to the beats of my heart. 

I have become the kind of dangerous nobody sees, the kind nobody expects. No man would expect a girl like me to pull a dagger from the waistband of her skirt and have him dead in a moment. 

No man would expect a highborn to be a monster.

But if I let it all go and be the person my world needs me to be, it will fall apart.

Emptying my cup, I shake off my thoughts and push the mug towards the bartender. He fills it back up and adds its price to my final bill; nothing I can’t pay for.

The bard leisurely picks up his lute once more, clearing his throat and carrying on to the second verse. I rest my head on my arms, feeling lonely, and listen.

“When the sky burns red, bleeding crimson tears

Blue flames will flow across the earth, and when the grey smoke clears

Purple will be the color that scrapes against the skies

Dancing across our deathbeds and relishing our demise…”