Requiem for the Five Musicians

“One more!” went up an audible chant from the patrons of the Running Fox Inn. Ridge smiled and stepped to the front, speaking with a flourish, “All right settle down mates. What do you say Fable, one more?”
The young man holding a lute merely brushed his white hair out of his blue eyes and smiled, “All right Ridge, one more.”
And the band played, and as they played timed seemed to ebb as a joyous harmony filled the room. It spread like a rising mist, pushing the filthy smoke from the rafters into the darkness of the night. The waves of sound crashed into Fable’s ears, all the while Fable’s smile conveyed the simple state of joy he felt. Little Budo, his sharp brown eyes darting back and forth, sat on a raised stool, surrounded by drums of various sizes. His stubby arms became a blurring whirlwind as he strained to hit every drum, every note as strong as the last. Ridge, being a great showman, stood on a chair on the stage as he played his lute furiously. His custom tailored suit was drenched with sweat but he played on, totally ENRAPTURED in the song. And Flock, a solemn man full of spirituality, stood with perfect posture to the side, the bow of his violin moving over the strings like a stream over rocks. And jumping and running through them all was Blythe, never was there a man, woman, or child with more spirit. A pan pipe was stuck in his mouth as he bounded around Fable, conveying a sense of freedom and joy never felt to the farmers and workers in the tavern. The five musicians went on to play the night away. But that’s when times were good, they made a great fortune through adventuring. The five men had rare qualities, it drove them to travel across foreign lands, to seek out trouble and swear it as an enemy. Wherever there was a tyranny and injustice they strove to oust it and to breathe in a new sense of life to the oppressed, the fallen, the downtrodden, and the meek.
“Sounds like an old, boring tale.” Said a young man his quill held expectantly to a piece of browned parchment.
A grizzled old man brushed away his grimy white hair, it fell down his face like a stubborn curtain, “A tale?” the man felt his anger rise, then quickly calmed himself, “No, this was true.”
“Well then, those men must be rich nobles somewhere, perhaps I’ve heard of them.”
“They aren’t nobles sonny, none of ‘em ever wanted to flaunt their superiority. ‘Course they all would have dismissed their deeds by a stroke of luck and nothing more.”
The man chuckled softly, like he had just told a joke that only he could see the humor in.
“Well then, where are they now?”
The deep lines etched into the old man’s face became construed themselves in a face of sorrow and the young man knew he had just trod on a painful memory, “All dead.”
“I, I’m sorry.” Was all the young man knew to offer. “But it sounds like they led great lives, worthy to have a song or perhaps a story after.”
The man’s quill twitched slightly.
“Aye, we did have some good times, back then.” The old man’s bright blue eyes, the only reminder of youth, flashed slightly.
“Wait!” the writer jumped forward as a look of realization came across his face. “You were one of the musicians. Weren’t you?”
The old man merely nodded to acknowledge the question.
“Oh wow, this is,” the author hurriedly got out more papers talking to himself. “Thought he only had an old myth, this is the real thing. Great. Okay I’m ready for the tale old man.”
“A tale, what do you this is boy, a fairy tale? No tis only a tale of sorrow and misfortune, men caught in the turn of time. We had some great adventures, great times, but it was all too much of a risk for temporary happiness.”
“Well then just tell me the beginning of it all, then go from there.” The young man leaned forward, eagerly and desperately.
“Well, I’ve got nothing else to do.” The old man laughed at his little joke again. “We all met at the Birchwood Academy, a small little school that trained kids for roles as officers in the country’s army. Ridge, greatest man I ever knew, well he was my roommate. As Budo and Flock were roommates and Blythe, well Blythe just was.” A single tear rolled through the grooves of his wrinkly face, it was hastily wiped away. “Good ‘ol Blythe. But back to the story. We had all a certain love for music, spreading joy and happiness. I remember the first time we played a little tavern in a old fishing town. Their faces, leathery with a scowl from cheek to cheek. ‘Course none of that changed, except for one man, one old decrepit man who had sat at the corner all alone. He looked like a smile had never graced his face until that day. And in that one smile, so foreign to the old face splattered with grime, I learned the one true meaning of life, my reason in life. Everyone, every man, every woman, and even every child carries some burden, some hurt, some pain that weighs, no matter how small, in their heart. Now I’m no miracle worker and I can’t erase their pain, and I don’t think anything can, but if I can use my little talents to cheer up someone and alleviate that pain that they carry in their hearts then its all I want to do. In the end I would rather the people around me happy regardless of what it costs to me. But isn’t that what human nature is all about, changing their surroundings for the better? That’s what we believed. That’s what we fought for. Until money came into view. We had been hired by some wealthy merchants and the like, all whom loved to flaunt their riches. Of course, being young, we were intrigued and money took a bigger role in out lives. But it took the biggest hold on Ridge, he started to spend time conversing with the merchants and nobles. He always wanted more and began to grow apart from us.

Flock stood on top of the wall playing a mournful tune on his violin for the recently deceased, only to receive an arrow to the chest. Ridge stood holding a bow as Flock’s lifeless body fell from the cold, stone wall. “Flock!” Yelled Cade charging, tears blurring his vision, across the battlements, sword in hand. But he too met with the same fate. By this time Fable had reached the wall to confront Ridge, “What are you doing?” He yelled, tears streaming down his red cheeks.
“The duke knew we were coming, he’s not even here. He sought me out weeks ago, you know how many people want us dead? The combined reward is enough for me to buy a city, in fact I’ve always fancied the sound of Lord Ridge Callaine.” Ridge smirked as his hand rested on his sword.
“We were friends and you betray us for gold? Round bits of metal? You know I can’t let you get away with this. So draw your steel and I’ll draw mine, but I only do so in hopes to uphold what we’ve fought for for all these years.”
Fable drew his blade, mirrored by Ridge. A furious fight ensued, blow for blow they kept a match fight. The sounds of steel on steel echoed throughout the empty courtyard as two figures fought ontop of a high wall, silhouetted by the sickly, yellow moon that hung high in the night sky. With a quick flash of a blade Fable’s sword flew high in the air, clanging onto the soft dirt yards below. “Finally got you Fable.” Ridge said triumphantly standing over his former friend.
A yell went up as Blythe tackled Ridge, knocking him to the ground. Ridge rolled with Blythe to the side and, with a powerful kick of his feet, sent the loyal friend to his death. Fable saw his savior fall in slow motion, saw his hand go to his belt as he fell, saw him throw his blade to the floor at Fable’s feet. Giving a silent thanks Fable renewed the fight with a flurry of moves that knocked Ridge off balance. And then it was over, a slip of Ridge’s defenses and the fight was over, Fable left alone. Sobbing for his dead friends he unslung the lute on his back and on the battlements, his heart filled with an unknown pain. His hands deftly plucked the strings in a tribute to fallen comrades.
The old man in the bar played the same tune, every note ringing as clear as that night years ago.