As of yet it's unfinished, only a page long and I don't know when I'll continue writing it, probably when the urge and inspiration takes me.
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An eagle flies gracefully overhead, soaring, dipping, only to soar again, floating as though by magic. It was magic. The magic of the place. A crisp breeze blew gently, lifting the tartan plaids ever so slightly that two men wore, raising strands of their long hair, one man’s brown, the other man’s aubern. Before them was a spring, its crystal clear water icy but inviting to the two men. Turning to each other with identical grins, boyhood grins, they immediately undid their broaches and buckles, dropping their heavy woolen clothes and ran towards the spring, jumping in as hard as they could, competing for the largest splash. All without a moment’s hesitation. With a rush of air and a spray of water first one man and then the other burst from the water, flicking wet and darkened hair out of their eyes. First one, then the other grinned at each other, the aubern-head’s blue eyes meeting the brown-head’s hazel ones. Without a word spoken between them the aubern-haired man swam towards his companion, turned and leaned back against him, the other wrapping his water-cooled arms around the first in a comfortable embrace. These two men were secret lovers. Life was bliss.
Life for these two men wasn’t always thus though, a man’s life rarely is, not in times like these. No. There was a time not all that long ago when their life was turned upside down, first by a chance meeting and then by war.
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Akir sat off to the side, drinking in a warm-to-the-point-of-steamy tavern. His throat had gone sore and dry so he had been given two songs to moisten and rest it before being called upon to perform. Such was his life and truthfully he didn’t mind it. There was peace between the neighbouring clans, at least for now, so he was able to travel freely. He was a bard, a minstrel, one who sung for his supper. He, along with the group he travelled with, five in all, roamed from place to place, tavern to tavern, singing and performing, playing instruments, plying their trade, making a living and a name for themselves.
Akir ran a hand through his rather long aubern hair as the first song of his rest came to a close. It was during this brief interval while the other three performers retuned instruments that the tavern door opened again and a new patron stepped through. This was not so unusual in itself of course; afterall it was the main local tavern they had chosen for tonight. No, that wasn’t what had caught Akir’s attention, rather it was the man himself. He was tall, his long brown hair well kept, his hazel eyes peircing as they swept the room searching, either for companions or a good place to sit, Akir didn’t know. However it was none of those things either that caught the young man’s eye. The stranger was well dressed in fine and expensive clothes, his skin clean, his body that of a warrior rather than a farmer, extremely good looking in that rough and raggard I’m-ready-to-deal-with-anything way. But it was not even any of these things which attracted Akir’s eye more than any other patron. Rather it was the way the man looked at him. It was not just a passing glance, a knowledge of his pressense, if that, and nothing more. No. The man’s hazel eyes acknowledged him, took him in, looked him up and down, saw him, saw through him right into his very soul. Most would find such a gaze disconcerting, intrusive, or at the very least uncomfortable, but not Akir.
And then it was gone.
The man looked away and made his way over to a table, ordering a drink, his attention now focussing on the other players. He sat alone Akir noticed. It was probably only an instant that their eyes met but to Akir it felt like much longer. It was a gaze that Akir never forgot even though, after that night, he didn’t see it again for many a year.
