Chapter thirteen: Lyra’s Voice and the Song of Forgotten Gold
Lyra sat nervously on the tall stool at the center of the tavern, her back straight but her hands trembling slightly in her lap. The rowdy crowd of Flea Bottom's denizens surrounded her, their attention drifting between mugs of ale and half-shouted conversations. Thomas stood close by, watching her with quiet encouragement, his gaze steady and reassuring. He'd asked her to sing—to sing for them all—and tonight, she'd finally agreed.
Lyra took a deep breath, the memories of the song flooding back as she closed her eyes. Thomas had taught it to her in whispers, the melody strange and haunting, the lyrics ancient and filled with a kind of sorrow she could feel in her bones. She opened her mouth and let the words spill forth, her voice cutting through the din with a clarity that silenced the tavern in an instant.
**"Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, ere break of day
To seek our pale enchanted gold…"**
Her voice was soft yet resonant, each note drifting over the crowd like a spell. The tavern's usual clamor stilled, and the patrons turned to watch, their mugs forgotten on the tables. The men leaned in, captivated by the song's ethereal pull, their rough faces softening as the first few lines sank in. There was a collective, hushed awe, as if the very air had thickened, holding them all in place.
One of the older patrons, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, murmured under his breath, "Sounds like the North… like the old days when we fought for something more." He took a deep swig of his ale, his eyes never leaving Lyra.
**"The dwarves of yore made mighty spells
While hammers fell like ringing bells
In places deep, where dark things sleep
In hollow halls beneath the fells…"**
As Lyra's voice rose and fell, weaving the tale of ancient kings and hidden treasures, the men began to see beyond the walls of the tavern. They imagined the echo of hammer strikes in deep, forgotten places, the sounds reverberating like distant bells. The images of dark, sleeping creatures stirred something primal within them—memories of battles fought, of dark things lurking just out of sight.
The men exchanged glances, their expressions tense, a few nodding in silent acknowledgment. "Those were the times," a burly man muttered, gripping his mug tighter. "When we all had something worth fighting for."
**"For ancient king and elvish lord
There many a gleaming golden hoard
They shaped and wrought, and light they caught
To hide in gems on hilt of sword…"**
Lyra's voice carried the weight of history, each lyric painting a picture of craftsmanship and magic, of the timeless allure of gold hidden away from prying eyes. The men could almost see the gleam of silver and the sparkle of gems set into ancient weapons, each piece a testament to skill and unspoken dreams.
"You can feel it, can't you?" a young soldier whispered to his friend, his eyes distant. "The way they must've felt… forging things that would last long after they were gone."
**"On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire in twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun…"**
A few men leaned back, their expressions caught somewhere between admiration and sorrow. The words called to mind the old tales, the ones their fathers had told them by the fire—of dragons and lost kingdoms, of treasures beyond imagining. The imagery struck a chord deep within them, the kind of yearning that was hard to voice.
"Feels like a story we should've been part of," one man said, his voice thick with longing. Another nodded, eyes wet with unspoken emotions. "Aye, but those times are gone. We're left with the scraps."
**"Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, ere break of day
To claim our long-forgotten gold…"**
Lyra's voice grew stronger, the refrain filling the tavern like the roar of a distant, unseen wind. The men swayed to the rhythm, their voices quieting as they became swept up in the vision of what was lost and what might still be reclaimed. For a moment, the room felt connected by something larger, something beyond their usual petty struggles and drunken brawls.
**"Goblets they carved there for themselves
And harps of gold, where no man delves
There lay they long, and many a song
Was sung unheard by men or elves…"**
The melody wove a spell, and the men saw the grandeur of a world hidden beneath the surface—the goblets and harps, the forgotten halls where music once flowed but was now silenced. They listened, haunted by the notion of songs that no longer had ears to hear them, and it felt like a loss they couldn't quite name.
"Shame, isn't it?" one of the bar men said quietly, staring into his drink. "All that beauty… gone, buried." His voice trailed off, heavy with a sadness he hadn't expected to feel.
**"The pines were roaring on the heights
The winds was moaning in the night
The fire was red, it flaming spread
The trees like torches blazed with light…"**
Lyra's voice took on a fierce edge, and the crowd saw the pines burning, the wild, destructive beauty of fire claiming everything in its path. The imagery struck a visceral chord—men who had seen the flames of war knew all too well the power of fire, the way it devoured all it touched.
"Sounds like King's Landing after the war," muttered a grizzled soldier, his eyes distant. "Burned hot enough to make a man weep."
**"The bells were ringing in the dale
And men looked up with faces pale
The dragon's ire, more fierce than fire
Laid low their towers and houses frail…"**
Lyra's voice faltered, a cough wracking her as she sang about the dragon's fury. The tavern hushed, the patrons watching her with a mix of concern and reverence. The tale of towers crumbling, of homes laid low, resonated deeply with them. Flea Bottom knew destruction; they had lived it, and her voice made them feel the fear anew.
"Keep going, lass!" one of the men urged, pounding the table in solidarity. "We'll fight the gods to get that voice back for you!" The room roared in agreement, voices rising with the promise of loyalty to a girl they hardly knew.
Lyra took a breath, her resolve unshaken as she continued.
**"The mountain smoked beneath the moon
The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom
They fled their hall to dying fall
Beneath his feet, beneath the moon…"**
The lyrics painted the picture of a proud people forced to flee, the weight of doom heavy on their steps. The men could see the dwarves fleeing beneath a burning sky, the heavy thud of a dragon's footsteps echoing in their minds. It was a tale of loss and courage that struck deep, and for a moment, they were the dwarves—running, fighting, struggling to survive.
A silence fell, heavy and charged, before Lyra launched into the final refrain:
**"Far over the misty mountains grim
To dungeons deep and caverns dim
We must away, ere break of day
To win our harps and gold from him…"**
As her voice rose and fell, the men joined in, their deep voices adding weight to the haunting melody. The song had taken them from Flea Bottom and thrust them into a world of dragons and fire, of lost gold and songs unsung. The tavern felt alive with something ancient and powerful, something that made the hardships of their own lives feel momentarily bearable.
**"Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old…"**
Lyra's voice trailed off, the final notes fading into a thick, reverent silence. For a moment, no one moved. Then, as if waking from a collective dream, the men erupted into cheers, their voices hoarse with emotion. They banged their mugs, pounded their fists on the tables, and shouted Lyra's name in a chorus of rough, adoring praise.
Lyra's face broke into a wide grin, her eyes sparkling with joy she hadn't felt in so long. She had sung, and they had listened, and for a brief, beautiful moment, she had them all in the palm of her hand.
Thomas swept her up, spinning her around before setting her back on the stool, facing the cheering crowd. "Every night!" he shouted above the noise, his voice filled with pride. "This girl will sing a new song, written by me. Songs of the North, of dragons, of battles lost and won. Come, and you'll hear them all!"
The crowd roared their approval, and Lyra looked at Thomas, her heart full. She had found her place, not just at his side, but standing tall before the people, her voice a beacon in the dark. The tavern was hers now, and every night she would sing them back to life.
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