It's twice as sportin', goin' courtin'

[Damask the Minstrel]

The dust had settled, so to speak. The bird chanced a glance at the leadership of the cave, who were holding a vocally quiet, yet emotionally heated, conference halfway down the nearest tunnel -- in sight, but out of earshot. Well, not in sight of the newcomers, obviously. And hopefully, they've forgotten about me...

The fox captain gestured his way, his mouth splitting into a wide grin. Of course. I didn't think that was all that likely.

At least the world was beginning to make a little more sense since he ventured into the caves. While traversing the tunnels, Damask had allowed his mouth to disconnect from his mind -- to the point where he was having a hard time remembering how he had explained away the crude paintings, never mind the supposed treasure.

Instead, Damask had let his mind settle on the issue of these stories that exploded across his thoughts. Characters and great deeds shifting in his consciousness, an endless cast in a great mental masterpiece. He had figured it out. Even though Bellona had spoiled it all, he had figured it out.

They're all about me! How else could he know every deed? There has to be a lifetime of stories, and I've lived a lifetime. It would explain why my head is hurting, the wound from the war against the Greatwythe, or why I remember snowy mountains from the taming of Feverstryke the Kite, or even why I crave quince jam, since Redwall Abbey is known for its quince! I mean, sure, all that about armor and swords is odd, but they could be metaphors. Yes... poetic devices. Physical representations of my valor and strength!

He shot another glance at the group. But some things didn't make sense. Why did Bellona come to rescue him? Wasn't that his job? His duty. And these newcomers... I don't remember a story about blinded beasts.

The bird hopped to his feet and began to move about the cavern in short, staccato hops. His head turned this way and that as he surveyed the motley assortment of creatures, some of which were still being extracted from the ruins.

Damask snorted once, moving away from the main throng and towards an antechamber of sorts, letting his eyes run over a piece of art of ages past -- another of the cave paintings. A small blob of brown, it looked almost like a mouse, but the ears were smaller, was -- a noise from the entrance to his alcove snatched his attention away from the art. At the entrance was...

Damask could actually feel his heart begin to dance a two-step, his stomach trying its best to keep up. Before him was -- A maiden! That's it! Every heroic deed, every war... they've all been for naught! Ah! How could a beauty such as this have ever existed?

She was demure and sweet. The way she tried to keep from locking eyes told him as much. She would glance up at him for a moment, but turn her gaze away as soon as he tried to hold it. Her paws were delicate, as if even flowers would tremble, lest they injure her. Her dress was ragged from the recent collapse, yet even through the attrition, Damask could see that it sparkled when it caught the light, but not like her eyes. Ah me...

Her eyes, when they darted to meet his, they were: If the sun could go black, it would shine as they do. They draw me in... not as a pool or lake, or even a verdant wood. No... her eyes promise much more. They enthrall.

Damask's look hardened when he caught a glimpse of her face. He seethed inwardly, thinking, Yet what beast could do such a thing? Her beauty was still visible from beneath the scars, of that there was no doubt: the soft cheeks which tears would be ashamed to mar, her gentle snout, her fair brow.

"If..."

The maiden looked up, finally facing him dead-on. The bird's voice caught in his throat at that, causing her expression to change. She brought a paw up to her waist, arched a brow, and gave a half-smile, none of which helped Damask articulate further. She's nervous, too! See how that paw -- so dainty -- taps!

"Well? What is it?"

"Err... I just wanted to say," he began, letting his gaze trail down, his voice following suit. "That is..." He took a deep breath through his beak, pushing hard against his stomach to force it back into place, as he continued, "If you color a diamond, it still shines."

She was confused! The brow stayed up, but the smile disappeared. "What was that?" Her voice was low -- she must be overcome with emotion as well.

"That is... even if you smear charcoal on a diamond, well, it will shine through." The words pushed themselves out from within, emerging as a hurried babble.

She seemed to shrink, then. Her brow dropped, as did her paws to her side. Her body seemed to shrink on itself, and her face turned away -- a decrescendo. Yet, one of her paws was clenched, and Damask was starting to fidget until she spoke up, "You... how dare you?"

The bird's eyes shot wide as he began a verbal assault again, "No! No, no... don't misunderstand, Mi'lady! I didn't mean. That is, you're the diamond! Your beauty --"

Before he could continue, she spun on a heel and began to work her way toward the main chamber.

Fool! You've gone how many seasons without this! How many wars and battles? Campaigns and travails? "Miss, please!"

She paused at the door, giving him a brief moment to continue.

"Please," he implored, fluttering in place, "may I at least know your name?"

"Eliza." As terse as it was, it was a reply.

"Well, miss Eliza..." He held the last vowel for a beat.

She sighed, placing a paw against the cave wall. "Eliza Lacrimosa."

He wracked his brain for a feverish second before he saw her weight shift. She is about to leave again!

He let forth a single melodious hum to gain his pitch, then began to sing:

Each day that passes 'neath the shifting sands --
Always moving down -- from heavenly light,
Still I within forgotten midnight lands
Amaz?d am by this seraphic sight!

Oh fear you, here, as if the land of sleep
Could lend its nightmare form to waking life.
Your tears have moved the very ground to weep
As if it echoes back your whimp'red strife.

Do not, your beauty seek to mar with frown.
Upon your visage let no worry stay.
And weep not, most adored, for this I vow:
I shall not from you ever go astray!

O you are dearest, love, so don't you fear:
Until my final days, I will be here.

As he sang, he could see her first clench, then relax as she turned, her muzzle half-open as the poem continued. As he finished, he saw one side of her mouth twitch and her eyes close. A moment later, however she turned and left, moving at a brisk stride from the chamber.

The bird let his frame go limp as he rested back against the painted wall, until the shouts from the main chamber brought him back to standing. He wearily took to wing, to see if cooler heads and faster tongues could resolve the situation.

She's just being coy, right? That's what maidens always do.