A song can last a very long time. And so can the suspense of romance. Not exactly a will-they, won't-they, more of a could-they-and-why-don't-they. It isn't that Scipio is unaware, exactly. He is accustomed to being admired, and accustomed to teasing, and playing out the long dance of romance. Like the tune of a song, it is a pattern that can play itself out many ways, in the hands of a man who knows how. Some men have only a small gift, enough to learn a melody and play it to some definite end. Others can unspool a song and let it run along, with a few touches of decorative excess. And others still have a true talent. Take a song and turn it over in their hands, let it run through their fingers and loop back again, turn it from happy to sad, and back to happy again, flourish the line and let it conclude, nearly, before turning it back again--
It would be an unfair contest to guess which man Scipio is. The answer would be: the latter, of course, in so much of life. He knows how to play at life. And perhaps the calling's finite mark on his fate should have dampened his enthusiasm for doing so, and perhaps sometimes it does. But he can always rebound, resolve, just as he can resolve the minor melody of a song. Finding happiness has always been his aim. Temporary happiness is no less desirable. Take solace where you can.
As the night goes on in the tavern, it is to distraction that Scipio is playing. A break in the crowd lets him catch sight of Sabriel, seated at her own table. If their eyes meet, that is the hand of fate. He should be careful with Sabriel, and he is. But it is easy to forget, to get taken away with the melody, to let his fingers strum out two happy chords as they do now, interrupting the drifting line of the song. Because he likes her. Because she should take some solace, in pleasures more simple. Life is to be lived, stories are to tell, and the fact that he smiles when he sees her is no game. He is happy that she is here.
And she owes him a tale anyways. Purposefully, he lifts his foot off the floor and pushes out the empty chair across from him. Two more chords, loud and bold, to be heard over the din of the tavern. An invitation.
no subject
It would be an unfair contest to guess which man Scipio is. The answer would be: the latter, of course, in so much of life. He knows how to play at life. And perhaps the calling's finite mark on his fate should have dampened his enthusiasm for doing so, and perhaps sometimes it does. But he can always rebound, resolve, just as he can resolve the minor melody of a song. Finding happiness has always been his aim. Temporary happiness is no less desirable. Take solace where you can.
As the night goes on in the tavern, it is to distraction that Scipio is playing. A break in the crowd lets him catch sight of Sabriel, seated at her own table. If their eyes meet, that is the hand of fate. He should be careful with Sabriel, and he is. But it is easy to forget, to get taken away with the melody, to let his fingers strum out two happy chords as they do now, interrupting the drifting line of the song. Because he likes her. Because she should take some solace, in pleasures more simple. Life is to be lived, stories are to tell, and the fact that he smiles when he sees her is no game. He is happy that she is here.
And she owes him a tale anyways. Purposefully, he lifts his foot off the floor and pushes out the empty chair across from him. Two more chords, loud and bold, to be heard over the din of the tavern. An invitation.