Nick’s feedback coils around the ivy trellises and glowing yellow light tubes of the Harvestmark as Anise’s steam engine churn reaches its surgical conclusion. The fairfolk of Pranton whoop and whistle and applaud, and hurl handfuls of flower petals and millet up onto the stage, which according to Dee is an elven appreciation thing they should expect more of as they cross into Arvanistan. It’s going to make striking the set at the end of the night a bitch and a half, but damn if it doesn’t make a nice visual.

“Takiamana, Harvestmark!” Anise is taking over microphone duties in Arvanistan, thanks to its healthy helping of high elves. “One more and then Legendary’s taking the stage.” A red-zone wall of sound at this pronouncement and Anise laughs into the mic. “Make sure you keep that energy up for them!”

Dee starts their last song, a floor-shaking stomper that reminds Nick of the bonfire rite that sealed their future together. She slaps her palm rhythmically against her bass to chunk her bass rumble into a blackened, menacing groove, and Anise’s drum part, heavy on the reverberating floor tom, undergirds her with tribal intensity.

Nick gives them a couple of measures to tunnel their halftime furrows into the crowd, watching with satisfaction as the standing-room floor of the Harvestmark’s bandshell flows with Quillbear’s interlocking rhythm section.

He spots Sion, near the back where the tapped kegs of cider and flower wine are flowing beneath the dextrous fingers of the Pranton brewkeepers. The ash elf’s guitar case is strapped to his back, as if he were playing tonight. Then again, Nick’s never seen him without his instrument. Sion makes solid, unblinking eye contact with Nick across the audience. He tilts his head. One silky white brow rises. As if to say, well, go on.

Nick has no reason to feel competitive against Sion, and even if he did, it’s certainly not a fair fight. The ash elf has achieved peerless status in the musical community of Earth. His every recorded guitar line is reproduced and dissected, not just by scholars of the magic he reintroduced, but by musicians and music nerds and basement guitar noobs plinking out the lines to Fossil Fuel and Trapped Like Rats at their high school talent shows. All of Legendary are legends, of course. But Sion is mythic.

Nick squints at the wiry ash elf with the colossal shadow. All right, Benefice. You want something you can judge?

He floods the maze Dee and Anise constructed with an overdriven paean, his notes dancing and spinning like celebrant dervishes above the rhythm before he slams mathematically down into it. He moves closer to Dee, his shoulder brushing her back as she swaggers up the fretboard to harmonize with his riff. She steps to the microphone and Nick watches her hips sway with her groove. He derives a stormy satisfaction from how many eyes join his in hypnotic attention. Take in what the packmistress is generous enough to give you, Pranton, and imagine more. Imagine what I get every night. He half-turns to Anise and gives her a grinning wink. What we get.

Dee opens her mouth on a deep inhale. She doesn’t consider herself much of a singer, but when she gave it a shot in the practice tent, the rest of Quillbear insisted she front this song. Her bruising voice is untrained, but it’s untamed, too. Primeval and overwhelming, like she’s screaming her heart out in a karaoke booth or a fight to the death. Nick has to throw the throttle on his own voice to keep up as he joins her in a soaring duet. She tosses her curtain of chestnut hair and Nick’s so gobsmacked that he’s late on an eighth note, has to turn the mistake into a syncopated flourish instead.

He wonders if Dee understands how beautiful she is. He asked her before and she laughed at him like it’s a joke or a pretty flirt, told him that’s your imprint talking, Nicky, but he’s genuinely curious how someone who looks like Diak’zinae does can keep a solid head on their shoulders, can go through life without becoming an ego-driven monster.

Out from the chorus and into his solo, and he barely remembers Sion Benefice anymore. Now he’s playing for Dee. And for Anise, too. Only after receiving it did Nick realize how badly he’s been craving the golden elf’s approval. The way she looks at him when he impresses her fills him with so much pride and gratitude that he understands, fundamentally, why dudes get on motorcycles and jump chasms. If it would make Anise say great job, kiddo, he’d probably do the same.

Oh, shit, he’s halfway through his solo now and he’s totally forgotten to put that extra Sion-targeted juice on it. He executes a hairpin turn down to his low A string, then taps out a flurry of hammer-ons back up the neck that gets a choir of cheers and more weird grain thrown at him.

He snaps back to the mic in time for the chorus into the outro. Dee gives his hip a flirty bump with hers as they speed through the breakdown, then turns and plants a foot on top of Anise’s kick drum for the final clockwork riff.

One last augmented chord wails from Nick’s amp, and Quillbear’s set is finished. “Gratiantai, Harvestmark!” Anise leans into the mic and pipes out over the ovation. “Up next: Legendary!”

Nick slaps Dee’s butt as she heads offstage, unslinging her axe as she goes. Anise wags her tail at him as she flounces offstage. “Me next.” He taps her too, and she gives him a quick kiss on the chest. “Knock ‘em dead, kiddo.”

He winks a shadowed lid. “You got it, boss.”

As Legendary take their marks, Sion ambles up to the low curved lip of the stage. “Mr. Voraag. Not bad.”

Nick dangles his legs into the proscenium as he tunes back up. “Yeah?”

“Your bassist knows how to use her relative inexperience to capture a certain primordial force. A satisfying contrast with your technicality. And Anise is a talent.” Sion plucks a grain of millet out of his wineglass. “But most of your instrumental passages, I find the guitar does a little too much.”

Nick’s brows knit.

“That last solo, though.” Sion nods. “Well done.”

“Thank you, I think,” Nick says, trying to hide his consternation. That last solo was the one Nick spent ogling his bandmates.

“I can see why Legendary chose you,” Sion says. “You’re acceptable.”

“Hey, listen to that!” Thekla sits cross-legged next to Nick as she daisy-chains her pedals together. “Nick’s got a fan.”

Sion hmms. “Break your legs and your other breakables, Legendary. I’ll be in the back having more of this distractingly floral red.”

“Distractingly?” Evan reaches out. “Can I try?”

“Of course, Evan K.” Sion passes his glass forward.

Evan takes a sip and purses his lips. “Oh, yeah. Weird.”

“I’ll let you hold on to it, shall I?” Sion knocks his knuckles on the stage. “Keep it up, Nicholas Voraag. Remember that less is more on that Trapped Like Rats bridge.”

“You got it,” Nick calls, to the back of Sion’s departing head. He stands and crosses to the rhythm section, tweaking his amp where it nestles near Kell’s drum kit. “Sion Benefice is a scary motherfucker,” he says.

“Aww, he’s not—” Kell hesitates, one earplug pushed in and the other waiting in her hand. “Well, he wasn’t that scary. Now he’s some sorta dragon servant super-wizard. So jury’s out. But he likes how you play.”

“That’s what acceptable means?”

“When it comes out of Sion’s mouth?” Evan plugs in with the hand that isn’t nursing the ash elf’s weird wine. “Yessir. He’s actually a very loving person. He just doesn’t show it in the expected ways. He enjoys being unpredictable, is all.”

Thekla snorts. “Well, of course he loves you, dude. Everyone loves you. Personally, I’d say Sion’s a superior twat.” She twists her own earplugs in. “But in a fun way.”

Evan holds the wine out to Kell. “Babe, try this.”

Kell takes a sip. “Oh my god, it’s like a perfume department.”

Thekla nudges Nick as he takes position. “You guys are really sounding special, you know. Quillbear, I mean.”

“Thanks, Thek.” Nick rolls off his bass EQ. In a four-piece with two kicks and a bassist as dynamic as Evan, he needs to make sure his bandmates have room. “I only wish we were more… permanent, I guess. Twice as bright, half as long.”

“Not looking forward to saying bye to Anise, huh?” Thekla removes her glasses and hangs them from her shirt collar. “I’m sorry, man.”

Nick shrugs. “It is what it is.”

“Sure.” Thekla’s putting her own earplugs in. “But you’re allowed to feel it.”

“And then beat the shit out of your instrument about it.” Kell flashes Nick the horns. “Very healthy coping mechanism.”

“Very healthy.” Evan raises the half-drained glass to Thekla. “Wanna sip?”

“Of the wine you guys are making that face about?” Thekla giggles. “I’ll pass, lover.”

“Okay.” Evan glances around. “Can I, uh, can I put this somewhere? Oh, thank you, ma’am.”

A gracious, gold-clad server takes it from him. “Eanae’tam raethaeam,” she says.

Evan gives her a thumbs-up. “You too.”

“We ready, lovebugs?” Thekla stomps a few switches and her amp fizzes to standby. “And Nick?”

Nick looks out at the ash elf’s red eyes, surveying him from the back of the taphouse. He looks around at Legendary. The Kamiyons are his friends now, and he’s grateful for it. But this isn’t where he truly belongs. It could have been, but he made his choice. And he’d never choose otherwise. His future isn’t here anymore. It’s with Quillbear.

But how long will Quillbear last?

Kell Kamiyon clicks her drumsticks together, and the sonic benediction of really fucking loud instruments played really fucking hard blows the question from his mind for a blessed hour.

It humbles Nick, playing with Legendary. As soon as they start, the taphouse crowds to the absolute brim with people, jostling to fill space and find their way to the front.

Before he mated with Dee, Nick didn’t believe in true love. He thought that there was a neat little phenomenon where your goals and likes and sexual attraction could align in such a way that you’d end up happy enough, sure. But he’d hear stories about love as this mystical force, and it made him roll his eyes. Even if he hadn’t gotten his mind blown by the imprint, spending this much time with the Kamiyons might have convinced him.

A strange truth he’s determined, by working with Legendary: he is a better musician, technically speaking, than all of them (Sion excepted). Evan’s timing and instincts are great, but his technique is far from spotless; his muting could use work, his index and middle fingers don’t sound identical, his playing when isolated has noticeable clanking. Thekla is in her element on chords, but her lead-line playing lacks that confidence, and her slides and bends are only a step above hobbyist. Kell is a force of nature, but she overplays the hell out of her drums, never letting a single hit pass when three or four would do.

And yet, put together, they are undoubtedly one of the greatest musical acts on either world. They blow anything Nick has ever done out of the water. It’s not even that their strengths and weaknesses cover one another, though there’s overlap. It’s not the songwriting, either, though the songwriting is mastercraft.

It’s the love. Nick can’t think of any other way to describe it. The love these three musicians share is so present and overwhelming that it’s almost a physical force, a tether between them that rivals any of the magic he’s ever learned. The way Evan looks at Kell to take his cue, the absolute devotion and attention in his icy blue eyes as if he’s listening for God to start dictating a commandment, chisel in hand. The way Thekla’s chords interlock seamlessly with Evan’s bassline, right down to the microtiming, the push and the pull, as if they were one instrument. The way every minuscule movement syncs to Kell’s beat, every breath, every glance, every encouraging smile and flirtatious wink. If Nick had a stethoscope, he’s convinced that Legendary’s hearts would all be beating at the same exact bpm.

Even when they improvise, even when they make mistakes or rush or drag, they do it together, seamlessly. You could come in knowing absolutely nothing about the Kamiyons, and even without the rings and the quick kisses here and there between songs, you’d know it. These musicians fucking love each other. If Nick didn’t know better, he’d swear they were all imprinted, not just Kell.

“Harvestmark,” Thekla trumpets, as the last wash of sound ebbs from their opening number. “We are Legendary.”

And they are. They’re Legendary. Nick watches them and twines his blistering guitar into their noise, but his heart isn’t in the tight orbit they share. His drifts out to the audience, to where, in the knot of Harvestmark merrymakers, Diak’zinae and Anise Cantator cheer for him, hands tightly clasped.

The set finishes, and the Kamiyons bow and blow kisses and half-drown in hurled millet. Nick’s pulled into several tight hugs before they chase themselves backstage, giddy on their victorious show and increasingly handsy as they get out of their public’s field of view.

“Baby!” Dee practically yanks him offstage into an enfolding embrace, laying enthusiastic kisses across his face. “You killed!”

“Fabulous as usual.” Anise slips dextrously into the hug. “You have grain like all over you.”

Nick paws the excess off himself. “They’re gonna take this tradition to Earth shows come festival time and piss everyone off.”

A silky voice from over Dee’s shoulder: “Hello, Voraags and employer.” Nick starts like a spooked horse. Sion Benefice’s footfalls are so quiet.

“Nicholas,” the ash elf says. “I’d like to borrow you.”

The lovers of Quillbear share an inquisitive glance. “Sure, man.” Nick extracts himself from their arms.

“If you ain’t back in ten minutes, I’m assuming the dude has eaten you,” whispers Dee, “and we’re gonna dip.”

“That’s okay. Save yourselves.” He gives his mate a parting peck and follows Sion Benefice out of the Harvestmark and into Pranton’s gathering dusk.

dukerino

Man, did I miss writing this sassy ash elf. Very glad he's back in the fold and sticking around.

Thanks as always for your readership. You're always welcome on the discord! (maybe that should be in the discord? idk)