“Perhaps you should sing to them more often? That way your fennel will grow strong and beautiful,” he suggested encouragingly whilst leaning forward to kneel in the dirt beside her, heedless of the state of his pants. Alcuin had always been taught to respect that which withstood the test of time and he could think of little else that was more precious to the world than the arts. Difficult as it was to imagine that a clever bit of poetry might have been all that was left of his immortal lover for the world to remember him by, more often than not, it was simply the way of things. “I'm afraid I only know one song and it is not a very happy one.”
“If you sing them joyous songs, perhaps they will taste all the sweeter for your mistress?” He chuckled softly. “I'm sure she will love them besides.”