WHO: Melpomene, the Sheriff of Nottingham, Alan-a-Dale, open to the Parsonage later WHEN: Thursday night WHERE: A music venue in Brooklyn WHAT: I've been waiting so long to meet you WARNINGS: Violence and blood
The high ceiling of this converted industrial warehouse gave Alan’s voice an echo that sent a shiver through her body, and Melpomene closed her eyes to let herself feel it. In answer; a quiver of movement low in her belly, and Melpomene felt the elation swell slowly through her chest, her smile bright with emotion. She breathed, leaning back against the wide concrete pillar and watching Alan, as he lost himself in the song. She could watch him perform for hours, and she could spend her whole night waiting for the next little flutter of movement inside her. For the first time in a long time, Melpomene felt the future reach out with an offering of contentment, hints that she might be finding herself in a place that wasn't consumed with raw, ravenous, unquenchable wanting.
There was so much beauty going on here tonight, in every sweaty body of Alan’s captivated audience, in the fairy lights that draped over the exposed metal bars and pipes above them, even in the beer stains on the wide concrete floors. The patterns there were darker brown against the grey, splashed and scattered by dozens of feet, and, Melpomene fancied, could almost be read as oracles.
She’d felt the shimmer of movement a few times in the last week and every time it reshaped the world as a miraculous place, with her right at the heart of it all. Her hand stroked over the soft gray fabric of her dress, wrapped around her body, around her belly, and as one song faded into another – the uplifting swell of the cheers of the crowd as they recognised the intro buoying her as much as they must buoy Alan – she felt another faint tingle.
This one, though, was far more familiar. Another immortal, hanging back.
She turned her attention away from the stage and back toward the bar, where the crowd thinned out. She cast her eyes over the scattered round tables covered in pint glasses and ringed with the patrons who hadn’t been drawn up to dance, until the feeling drew her eyes to a man standing alone, leaning against the bar, watching the stage. There was a dark intensity to him, and Melpomene felt a sharp rush as she inhaled; it was a face she’d only seen in photos, but a presence described by stories that spoke of obsession, of pure minded resolve, of clear, unclouded purpose. This was the Sheriff of Nottingham, eternal shadow of the Merry Men, kidnapper of Marcie, cause of Marian’s turn toward darkness.
Melpomene felt her sense of peace evaporate, only recognising it as such after it had gone, leaving in its place a feeling as hard as the concrete floor, and just as stained with unreadable omens.
A killer. A torturer. A man who would stop at nothing to enforce his own justice, a justice that would see her bard locked up in his dungeon. Melpomene used the blades of her shoulders to push herself away from the pillar and made her way toward the bar. She asked for a glass of ice water, first, then turned her neck to look at him, up close, raising her glass in his direction when she caught his eye. “Your kind of music?” she opened, with a small, private smile just for him.