Departure
Tarsorel's snarl had started interrupting his sleeps, irregular as they had become.
"...Trained dog, begging for scraps at the table. But what happens when the trusted hound bites? Rabid dogs like you need to be put down!"
Orange was not a good colour to engage with mauve. Mauve danced so close to burgundy, and Ryheric knew to stay as far away from that colour as possible.
The nigh irreversible blend of red and black was usually a trapped thing. Unable to blend again, unable to give, unable to compromise, too locked to itself, and certainly too potent to be lightened by any outside source.
Some colours could resist it washing into their own shades more than others. But for that, a heavy blue was needed. Or a dark green.
Within mauve was some trace red. Two reds could be poignant. Hunger upon hunger, intensely building. The problem was, dark pink and purple never agreed with yellow. And Ryheric's red when he was fully himself came with yellow, vivid blended.
Perhaps this is one reason he was misconceived so readily by other people. Always before being properly looked at.
Red and orange were both brazen colours. But red was compelled to devour. Orange only needed to dance.
"They see what they want to see.. an illusion that makes them comfortable. They create an idea of what they think I am and who I am ... for what they need." Kaes had told him about herself. He found the same to be true for him.
He was an uncivilized fighter capable of dignity, music and gentleness. Not a gentleman with hangups.
Between the unending khaki haze of Breelanders, the recent shots of burgundy and the surprising bright, deep shades of blue he'd come to see over the past few days, Ryheric knew he had stayed too long here.
He'd known it even when he stayed longer to back Greengrove up in unraveling these dark mysteries of the Chetwood. He'd seen it out. Solved a mystery, helped to bring a murderer in. Met some good people here.
But no unruly wolf could stay a cosy yard pup for this long, and his heart knew it was time to go.
The Inadequate Farewell
She told him he had made her feel unsafe. Ryheric took that very seriously with Tarsorel's voice in his ears. He'd told her he'd not do so again.
So, instead of making any further contact, he left his ninth lute on a hidden rocky ledge beside a waterfall. The same place he'd rested it several days before, covered in waxy fabric. Atop it he placed a small bouquet of mauve violets.
After some consideration, he decided the flowers had served their purpose. They had to go. He then gave them to the stream below so they'd be nowhere near the lute, despite the trouble taken in finding them.
Wilted dead flowers days from now would convey the wrong message no matter how much thought had gone in.
Well that was another dumb idea, Ry.
Still, he'd treasure the search for the elusive little blooms, and Silverstream's light, soothing company, powder blue.
The lute's most likely fate was to disintegrate and rot down here. So Ryheric treated this like a goodbye in more ways than one. But, if his farewell from the dew-flower was sought, she'd find it. Imperfect and un-ideally remote, but effort made and thought given.
That was Ryheric's nature, and not something he'd accept shame for henceforth. He was past that, he'd learned well.
This lute would never have survived Ryheric's next journey. But Narys was gentler than he. He knew she needed it more than he did, and four courses would be perfect for the hands of a beginner.
The instrument could bring her more comfort than Ryheric's presence ever would.
She might never return to this place. Never find it, or find it and ignore it. She might even take this as some sort of conniving insult if burgundy had its way. After all, it was a sad and pathetic instrument barely worthy of being called a lute.
Perhaps she'll burn it in wrath, he thought wryly as he allowed his imagination some unruly indulgence. A rebellious lightening of what had really happened once. The dark fate of his first lute, far away from here. Ashes on a barren wind.
He sat with the old, tattered instrument for a few moments as though it were someone on their death bed.
"If ye get burnt at least ye will make a beautiful fire, darlin'. Do yer best, last 's long as ye can."
He offered the poor old thing the same words he kept secretly for himself. He laid his hand on the ragged old lute for a long few moments. Then he reminded himself about not keeping things, and left it there to give to the Chetwood and to fate.
Selfless Love and The Tenth Lute
--- Two Days Earlier ---
The murderer was in stocks by the well in Combe. The party was dissolving, all of them had performed well. Level heads. Daruil was now in custody and the Breemen would handle him.
Greengrove intuitively knew this was the last thing Ryheric intended to do before his departure from Bree, aside from a few farewells. They now had theirs.
Ry had decided what he was going to ask. He could not meet Greengrove's eyes for once. Greengrove noted that irregularity in Ryheric's character, and inspected him closely. It was as if he was patiently waiting for a confession of some kind. Finally, Ryheric took a breath and gave to the impulse.
"Greenie... Can I have yer lute?"
The old man offered it to Ryheric several days before in the wilderness. Ryheric's reaction had been to refuse. Greengrove had tried to convince Ryheric to take some provisions with him for the road. He couldn't accept them.
However, time, thought and a letter had bolstered Ryheric to change his mind.
Greengrove indeed was surprised by that request, hmming and hooing as he received it. But there was no hestitation as he clunked over to Poppy. He rummaged for the instrument in the steed's cargo, and then clunked back over to Ryheric.
"O'course my boy! Here you are! Ho ho!"
Ryheric struggled in the momentary anguish that came from not feeling right about taking Greengrove's lute. Yet, at the same time something about it felt very right. He knew Greengrove wanted him to be well. Fulfilled. Looked after.
He knew this was something the forester could give him to save him a lot of heartache later, given what he'd decided to do.
He accepted the instrument so carefully he was almost ginger as he nodded his silent thanks to him.
The instrument was beautiful. Old and scuffed, but finely made beyond any lute Ryheric had ever owned. Eight coursed and sweet-voiced. Sturdy to take the trials of a long road.
Greengrove's eyes glinted warmly as he watched Ryheric. Both were silent as the instrument changed hands, before the old forester spoke.
"What's mine is yours, my lad. Be it the food upon my table, the hearth of my home, or the music and song I carry around with me." It appeared the forester could detect some sort of inner struggle occurring within Ryheric.
"Greengrove will help you in almost anything, my lad. Let him!"
As the old man spoke, Ryheric's grasp on the beautiful instrument firmed and became more secure. He gave himself fully to the feeling of cheer, and gave a lopsided grin.
"I'll miss ye Greenie. O'course, 'm thinkin' we will meet again fair soon anyways! Ye get another one for yerself aye? 'm hopin' t'have a duet with ye when I come through here again."
"Hroom! Indeed, my lad. Many others. Greengrove is never without music for long! We may yet come to duet again, upon your safe return. But know this, dear friend. You may feel as if you're doing so already with every pluck of those strings. And my heart is gladdened, knowing that you are carrying a piece of me with you in your travel."
For a last time, Greengrove's eyes twinkled with platonic affection for Ryheric, making known he was loved and would be missed.
Then they parted ways. Greengrove's lute in Ryheric's arms, unassuming and free, just waiting to weave music into the world like a silver stream.
