“Everyone spoke highly of him,” he breathed. “or ought to have for all the good he did.” Anafiel was a good man even in his darkest and most heartbroken moments – the moments that made him yearn to right the wrongs done to him at any cost to himself. Neither of them could have ever anticipated the way things turned out as a result of his prying. A part of him hadn't wanted to believe that anyone could be so cruel, but he liked to think he knew better than that now. “I'm afraid I do not recall the name, but there were many who admired him for his poetry,” he admitted. “Master Anafiel loved it so...”
Alcuin wondered what became of his poetry, not unlike the silent grave of his chaperone, now that his household was gone. It would not have surprised him to learn that his enemies had destroyed them out of spite, or distributed them amongst themselves like trophies, vultures that they were. He couldn't imagine his master's murderers having any appreciation for beautiful things; if they had, they might not have robbed the world of his presence in the first place.
The fae, Hermes, shook him from his reverie with the presentation of the stolen canvas bag and he laughed in earnest, as he had so wanted to do earlier. My, but was he ever a little scoundrel! “I like to think your mistress was correct in thinking that you would be a delight.” He shook his head with a grin and plucked the bag from Hermes' fingers with his free hand. It served the shopkeeper right for underestimating him. “Hermes,” he hummed with approval whilst carefully depositing the items into the bag. “An apt name for one such as yourself, I should think. My name is Alcuin nó Delaunay and I am very pleased to meet you.”