The Old Widow heard the children as they approached and was glad for their company. They thundered into her study, bumping half-dried paintings and nearly toppling jars of paint.
“Settle now!” She commanded them, and they obeyed. They sat quietly around her, surrounding her with their upturned, hungry faces. “What’s all this fuss?”
“We want to hear a story!” Explained one.
“A great story!” Explained another.
“An old story!” Explained the youngest.
“Say true?” Asked the Old Widow, fighting as she could not to smile at their sweet eyes upon her. “Which story, then?”
“The Song of Wil of the Mountain!” Cried one.
“The Song of Magna the Mighty!” Cried another.
“The Song of the Blind Bard!” Cried the youngest. Gasps spread around the young one, then nods and expectant looks in the Old Widow’s direction.
“Ah,” she said, nodding as sagely as she could manage. “The Song of the Blind Bard…”
She waited, hoping she looked pensive and wise to these precious young ones.
“That’s an old tale, say true, yet a long one.” She finally continued. She put on her best stern expression. “I’ll not begin only to pause each time one of you needs to stretch or piss.”
The children managed to look insulted and she was privately delighted.
“We’ll not say a word, Widow,” said the youngest, looking around at his companions as he spoke. They quickly nodded and looked back to the Old Widow, hoping their assurances had done the trick.
“Very well then, where does one begin such a tale? Any suggestions?”
“Tell of the Brother Blades!” Commanded one.
“Tell of the Many-Bodied!” Commanded another.
“Tell from the beginning, Widow,” commanded the youngest.
“From the beginning?” The Old Widow asked. “That’s a mighty task to lay fore me.”
“Yet you can bear it, Widow,” the youngest assured her. “You always do.”
She smiled at that and did not fight against it.
“As you say,” she said, bowing her head as all Bards do before beginning one of the great stories. She saw in her mind the green woods of Roundtown where the Blind Bard stood waiting and began her Song.