Page 64 of Badmouths & Bards

Him?

More importantly of what? The guards? He had trained with fiercer warriors back home. The nobles? They were nothing in comparison to the ones who were the result of thousands of years of nepotism. The monarchy? King Oryin’vel’s legacy was still in its infancy—even for an elf.

“The only thing that’s on my mind is making a good impression on the princess,” Ameriden murmured. “A happy fan is a content fan.”

At least, that had been Ameriden’s intention when Seira had first told him about the absurd amount of money they had been offered. All to please a very young princess of a continent that Ameriden vaguely knew about through studies. The idea sounded novel, the chance to expand their reach across the ocean appealing. And more than anything, Ameriden had only wanted to get Casimine away from the world if only for a few short moments.

Now, the words of his beloved were ringing in his ears as Seira and Tala led them toward the entrance. The suffocating feeling of having to perform as Ameriden Perzar was somehow no different than it was when he had been Navin Pernimas. The title sounded different when it was shouted down a lavish hallway, alerting the attendees of their arrival, but it felt the same. An echo that trailed behind him as they descended stone stairs and entered the main floor.

I love you both, but I don’t know how to love you both and be Cashmere Fantasy.

Ameriden wasn’t ignorant to Casimine’s suffering. He had only spent the last few years silently wishing for more from him. To hold him close in a crowd without a spell disguising his face. To share a laugh, close and intimate, on the gray sands of the Firesong Isles without worrying who might see them. All those desires—none of them were aligned with their dreams of fame and fortune. Bards couldn’t be in long term relationships without fan culture devouring them.

So, we lose some fans—so, what?

The dream was to be famous—they had accomplished that, hadn’t they? Sure, it wasn’t to the degree that Gildeon Almond was famous, but any denizen who lived for centuries and performed was bound to have a legacy that lasted centuries. Water hanfen lived—on average—for a hundred and fifty years. Which wasn’t nothing, but it paled in comparison to Seira’s lifespan or the king’s.

Ameriden couldn’t help but think of his legacy, of his history as he watched his companions make idle conversation with others. And the more he looked at Casimine’s face, the gentle curve of his long lashes, the more his heart began to ache.

How long did we expect to go on, hiding each other from the world? How long was I willing to lie if it meant keeping you with me?

His eyes flitted toward Tala, standing between Seira and a middle-aged halfling man. It was clear she was doing her best to pay attention while also keeping a keen eye out for any potential threats. However, it only made her look awkward and terribly uncomfortable. Like she would rather be anywhere but where she was now.

And how are we ever going to let you go?

The moment a woman dressed in black robes passed by with a tray of goblets, Ameriden snatched one and downed half of it. It was more sweet than bitter, and the alcohol lacked any bite he would have preferred. He finished the rest of it, already eyeing the moving servants who quietly sidled up to nobility with trays. Ameriden was about to close the distance a few steps away, hand outstretched toward a new glass when a gloved hand snatched his drink away.

A young human man was attached to the glove, dressed in deep red attire with a shining pauldron on his shoulder. His brown hair was short and neat, face clean shaven, and blue eyes studying Ameriden with a disdain he couldn’t quite place. It almost threw Ameriden, as he was typically well-liked, even when he was being a bit of a jackass.

“Good evening, sir…” Ameriden trailed, waiting for the young man to give his title.

“Good evening,” the man said, curt and clean.

Okay…

Ameriden placed his empty goblet on the servant’s tray and grabbed a different drink. He brought it to his mouth, trying to subtly see if there was any obvious coat of arms or some telling of the man in red’s station.

“Are you always this dull at social gatherings, or is that just your personality?” The man in red questioned.

That definitely threw Ameriden as the words registered in his mind. As a bard, he was well versed in communication styles—both speaking and not. He could tell from the subtle turn of a woman’s face whether she liked him or not, could tell when a man wanted to put his mouth on his dick. Even those not so easily defined by gender or interest could be read, but this stranger was speaking as if they had a history.

“Apologies for my lack of social graces,” Ameriden said with practiced laugh. “I am but a stranger within these ivory walls and I was simply admiring them.”

Quicker than a bolt of lightening, the man in red immediately retorted, “Strange, indeed. Are bards not well versed in the art of conversation?”

What the fuck…

Whoever the man in red was, Ameriden was completely sure he was a colossal prick. Where the hostility was coming from, Ameriden couldn’t tell. Not even when he tried to recall the amount of unintentional orgies he had participated in over the last few years. No, he would have remembered a temperamental jackass, because Ameriden would have tried to knock the cleft out of his chin if he had.

Arrogance and sexual innuendo, it is.

“Bards are well versed in the art of the body,” Ameriden said with a sly grin, sidling up to the man in red that absolutely invaded his personal space. “My particular talents lay with my ability to play instruments. Although, if I were to find myself in deep conversation with another, I’d like to think I would be very memorable.”

The man in red, for all his cool and whip-fast rebuttals, turned violently red to the point of sputtering. It took everything in Ameriden’s frame not to fall over laughing as the man collected his wits, nearly stomping his foot as he pushed away from him. He flung his cape away from his legs, nostrils flaring, and brow wrinkling in anger.

“I find you repulsive and hideously boring. Good evening,” the man in red snapped before whirling away in a fit of barely concealed rage.

Would almost be cute if he wasn’t such a dick.