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“For I must have you or no one, and so I’m through with love.”
Pike glowered into her pint. She still remembered the night Scanlan wrote this song. He scrambled over her in a fit of inspiration and stayed up until dawn composing. She had been unable to get back to sleep because of his melody experiments and spent the day in a crabby, sleep-deprived haze.
That’s not entirely why she hated the song.
Scanlan crooned the final lines, his resonating tenor fading along with the last rhythmic strum of his lute. The silent tavern exploded into applause as though the patrons had not requested the same song on a nightly basis for weeks. Often 3 or 4 times a night. Scanlan bowed theatrically, then hopped off the stage and strolled towards the bar. Pike kept her eye on his form as people parted before the smallest member of Vox Machina. He stood on a stool to order, and no one approached, to Pike’s relief. The innkeeper supplied him with a tray full of ale despite the numerous patrons waiting to be served, and Scanlan gingerly lowered himself to the floor and made his way towards their table.
He only just scooted the tray onto their table when a buxom pair surrounded him.
“It’s terrible you’ve given up on love,” a sloe-eyed woman with curly black hair simpered.
“Surely someone can ease your broken heart,” her blonde companion added, brushing her fingers against Scanlan’s cheek.
Without thinking, Pike snatched that hand away from his face. “His heart is just fine, thanks,” she snapped.
The women scoffed, crossing uncalloused fingers over low cut blouses. “Who do you think you are?” the brunette sneered.
Pike leveled a harsh blue glare on the woman. “I’m his wife.”
The pair faltered, and looked to Scanlan for confirmation. He only shrugged with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, ladies.” Abashed, the two scurried off in a swirl of skirts.
Pike drained her mug and snatched up a fresh pint. “I hate that song. It’s not even close to the truth.”
“It pays the tab,” her spouse said, unfazed.