He left her alone in the dark room and climbed to the upper chamber to sleep among the other snorting and snoring travelers, who

Of Harpers and Heroes

Submitted into Contest #183 in response to: Write a story about two characters whose paths briefly cross, but are actually going in opposite directions — whether literally or figuratively.... view prompt

A smattering of applause dappled the last notes of his song. He let it die out in the darkening tavern before rising, joints stiff from the long performance.

“Play the one about the Hero of Faron,” a voice slurred from a dim recess.

“Aye, that’s a good ‘un,” Harrow acknowledged agreeably, hoping to collect his dinner without a confrontation with yet another inebriated villager. Slinging his guitar over his shoulder, he called out, “mayhap tomorrow night.”

The drunk set up a complaint cut short by the innkeep harrumphing her way between them like a disgruntled walrus. Harrow sighed in relief. Once he would have favored a good fight, but those days were past.

The innkeep handed him a deep wooden bowl of stew with a small loaf of bread teetering on the rim. “Take a seat, harper. You earned your keep for the night.”

“Obliged, Margrie,” he murmured. Margrie never tried to cheat him of his pay in whatever form it came. Tonight’s was in board and lodging. Tomorrow, he’d move on, up towards Green Haven, where he might get paid in slightly used boots, or a good whetstone, or maybe even a new blanket. He played life by ear, did Harrow, taking what came his way, leaving what stood in it.

He shuffled across the rushes and settled into the only unoccupied table in the room, its wooden surface pitted from idiots playing the finger dance in their idleness and boredom. Digging in, he barely noticed when a small pale form slid onto the bench opposite him, and when he did, it was too late to deny the intruder a place at his table. She had already set down her bowl and loaf as well as two steaming mugs of tea, one of which she slid across the table to him.

Well, if she was buying, he’d not say no.

“Margrie says you care not for ale, so I hope tea is welcome,” she offered.

He lifted it, inhaling its fruity tang. “It’ll do. Now what do I owe you for this mug o tea?”

“A story,” she said simply.

“I’ve just been singing stories this past pair of hours. My word horde is empty.”

“Not stories of heroes,” she said. “I’ve heard them all. How they set out on their quest, conquer their fears, best their opponent, ride home victorious.” She flapped her fingers at her side as if to say, ‘it just never ends.’ 

“You are bored of the stories of heroes?”

Her fair hair shimmied as she nodded, the tips dipping into the broth. “Aye, full to my eyelids with such tales.”

“You are young to be so jaded.”

“Not so young. I’m 16 this past winter.”

“Ahh, 16 to my 60.”

“Huh.”

“Huh, what?”

“I had thought you older.” She gestured vaguely to his white beard.

He grinned. "I'll take the compliment. So what story is it you wish to buy with this fine mug o tea?”

She leaned toward him, announcing, “I’m on a quest.”

He nodded gravely. So many bright young faces had sat across from him at so many scarred tables and blurted out their aspirations, their eyes fixed blindly onto their futures. He sighed. Harrow saw his own future clearly enough, but only because it was so well lit by the lantern of his own long past.

Right now, his immediate future was looking like it might be eclipsed by this young hopeful and her head full of dreams. He assessed the threat to his quiet evening. He had skill at reading the clues his audiences wore, which would ensure he might better please them with his selections and better end the night with a full belly.

This young lass, for instance. She came from the mid-lands - obvious by her wide pants and red belt. From the merchant class – evident by the bright ribbon she was now threading in her hair to keep it out of her stew. Educated - revealed by the corners squaring the cloth bag at her side. Those could only be books, too many of them for a foot traveler, which meant she was well off enough to travel on horseback. He re-evaluated his estimate; she was from a wealthy household.

“Go home,” he said simply. Sometimes there is nothing else to say. This girl was a walking hazard to herself, a pothole in her own road, and likely bad luck to those she encountered on her way.

She blinked and the shadow of disappointment whispered over her features before being swept away by the optimism of youth. Instead, she countered, “You didn’t.”

That caught him off guard. She might be quicker of wit than anticipated, he considered. “True. I didn’t go home. But I learned that quests aren’t all they are cracked up to be in the songs.”

“Then why do you sing them?”

“Look around you,” he answered. Through the haze of smoke, he gestured to the worn faces of farmers staring down into their ale, the woman knitting by the fire with her cracked hands, the aged couple with the bags at their feet as tattered as their