The gentle singing of the strings was perhaps the only sound for several hundred yards—well, aside from the cheerful clicks and chirps of countless woodland birds. He would find me here, he always did.

There were a few miles between here and the dark lines of scorched earth where blade met blade and fire to fire. We had been warring for years, perhaps more, though none could name the date it began. Some said it began with the death of my queen. Others declared it began when we had been rumored to trespass on their borders. Whichever was true, none could name. The fragile flick of my fingertips against weary and worn strings was the only escape from a thousand curses that spewed from either side.

I heard him before I saw him. The purr of my chords echoed braver with the hush of the birds. His footfalls were light, gentle against the pine needles that showered the ground with their points. His gait was swift and sure, not a moments hesitation among the whisper of the leaves.

“You took your time.” I voiced as he landed at my side, his boots cresting the log. “I was beginning to wonder if you would come at all.”

“Have I ever not?” He inquired, dropping himself low to take my hand to his lips. “The general was being difficult. I had to come the long way.” He explained, sitting beside me. He watched as my strumming slowed and I set my instrument on my lap. My hand found his again, my bronzed skin eclipsing that of his pale tone.