Day Three-Ninety-Nine: Lyrical wonderment

I shouldn't have kept doing this. Everyone in Pubton will agree to that.

I was in desperate straits after yesterday's pie fiasco. Three days of doing right by Libby, only one success - and a marginal one at that. Moreover, I'd probably wiped out any memory of my cleanliness by insulting Libby with the pie. Stupid, stupid, STUPID! Why couldn't I have anticipated that she'd be insulted by the DAMN PIE?!

I needed instant romance. Romance in a jar, as it were. And there's no one more romantic, despite my earlier reservations, than a bard.

Edmund was busy helping with the walls today, as he has the entire last week. Harold is desperate to get some defensive fortifications up and running, and he has Edmund, of all people, managing the site while Harold's off administrating other projects. Turns out Edmund's surprisingly good at keeping people motivated with his constant background music.

Today the workers - who have done a hell of a lot on creating a framework for the wall, even if we still need, you know, stones and such - had to go without. I made the executive decision to pull Edmund off the project and help me with something.

I needed a song.

"You wish to win your lady fair / With dreamy words that speak of care?"

"Yeah. She's pissed, 'n I'm only making things worse. C'mon, Ed, I need some help. A song'll do it, I'm sure it will. She always likes when YOU play music… mostly…"

Yeah. Mostly. Ed told me in confidence once that, while she was pregnant, Libby made constant threats on his magical lute. Probably 'cause they were stuck in a goblin apartment for over a month and he had nothing to do but PLAY said lute.

"Want you lyrics? Want you song? / One you can sing all day long"?

"Yeah. Yeah. Lyrics. That's good. I can sing it, you can play in the background. C'mon, let's get to work. We'll make something AWESOME."

And we did. We worked for five hours, straight through to midday, writing and composing a delicate love ballad that I would perform for Libby. And not just for her, but EVERYONE. I would show the whole TOWN how much I loved my wife by serenading her at dinner.

That's just what happened, too. Standing on a table, dressed in the finest clothes I own (which, ah, is my basic mayor outfit, I guess), my chest puffed out, Edmund standing to the side with his lute at the ready, I waited for Libby to walk in -

- and the moment she did, perhaps a little too quickly, I began to sing.

"Greetings, oh greetings, my wife, 

My love, my laugh, my life,

You are to me

What love could be

In times of perilous strife!

Hello, oh hello, my dear,

I would now catch your ear,

And hold it close

With words verbose

Which make my meaning so clear!

Bonjour, bonjour, my friend,

Your day is at an end,

And with your musk

I lend you my tusk -"

That's all I managed. By then everyone in the pub was laughing so loudly that my voice, my horrible, screeching voice got drowned out by the din, and the horrifying look of anger and revulsion and utter embarrassment on Libby's face forced me to stop. The first thing that came to my lips in the aftermath was an apology -

- and it came WAY too late, as it didn't even manage to bypass Libby's fist as she leaped onto the table and crushed my face. I flew from my pedestal and hit the floor, followed by more laughter and the roar of my darling wife as she yelled for everyone to SHUT THE FUCK UP.

They did not. Apparently my melody was just too funny. Libby stormed off after punching a few more people, and only Edmund showed much concern for my crumpled body.

"Musk?" he yelled, pulling me to my feet. "Musk?! I told you not to say freaking musk! You don't talk to a woman about her musk! We trashed that stanza, remember? What the hell were you thinking?!"

"Ugh." I spat out some blood. "Y… you…"

"Gods, I'm ruined as a bard… musk… I'm detaching myself from this project immediately, I didn't contribute, I didn't, oh gods…"

"Y…"

He shook me lightly. "What? WHAT, DRAGOMIR?"

"You're not… rhyming…"

Edmund's eye twitched. A big, sickly vein popped out on his forehead. "This is a bad dream. Forget it. Good night."

I passed out. But I remember. I know.

Three failures. Libby didn't even come to bed tonight. She slept somewhere else, presumably with Grayson. I was very cold.

I have some explaining to do tomorrow, I think.

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Bloody