[The theme is a bit depressing. Read at your own risk. I will start posting my Grangley drabbles here, whenever I feel like writing it. The drabble chapters will be marked by this cat emoji, and will be sorted on the last part of the book. These drabbles are not connected to the main plot at all. Enjoy!]

Everyone was busy writing poetries for tomorrow. Some did, for the sake of handing them over at midnight, to be the first person that their cherished one would receive a poem from.

Tigreal, I have always viewed him as a warrior of determination. A few times I have asked him if he ever had thoughts of marriage, and he would always say that the Empire would be his first priority, so he hasn't looked up upon it. Though his eyes, whenever he looks at the queen, I'd always see them glint in admiration. I wonder if he ever had feelings for the queen. Or maybe he is just being him. Everyone admired the queen for her delicate beauty and intrinsic intuition. Tigreal is a loyal, and dedicated warrior of the Moniyan Empire, and Queen Silvanna would always give him a tender smile in appreciation.

Alucard, knows for his good looks and amazing demon hunting skills, was planning to give Miya something special for tomorrow. He was out all day, planning his stuff and even asked me if I could lend a hand, since he told me I am good at writing poetries, yet I refused. It is not something that should come out of me, it is supposed to be from his heart. Regardless of the construction, as long as he expressed his love through it, it will be accepted, it will be loved.

Fanny, she had always been training by herself, Tigreal told me that she had always been determined to perfect her swordplay technique and had no time for romance. Something tells me that her big brother is just being protective of his little sister, but that is their problem, not mine. I would understand Tigreal, she is way too young for romance.

Harith, he barely stays indoors to be pampered by my hands, and instead prefers to play with Nana, a fellow of the Leonin kind. They are still too young to determine what love is, and Alucard told me that there is something going on between the two who could not pinpoint. From observation, it would seem that Harith admires Nana and formed a little crush for her.

Whereas I, staring at the blank paper, a quill in hand and lost in thoughts. A vagrant poet, they speak of me, yet composing poetry for a lady of the same profession, bearing the same facial scar, and was once a child who had no home, I find myself buried in the depths of darkness, finding the words I should write.

Why am I even writing to begin with.

I grunted in dismay of myself, clutching on each side of my head while squeezing my eyes shut in defeat. It is not like she has eyes for me. For what then, is the point of composing this poem? Is it truly for her? Is it for myself? What is the essence of poetry, then? Is it not to express the feelings, of a writer?

I never would have thought I would still possess these emotions I long ago buried.

I refused to write in this state and immediately let go of the quill on my hand. I stood up from the wooden chair and hurriedly grabbed my guitar case with me and went out of my room. I made my way up the manor's rooftop and took a deep breath as I felt the wind touch my cheek. I opened up the case and gently pulled out the violin from its chambers, the bout onto my left shoulder, resting my chin upon the installed chin rest. My eyes gazes down onto the empty garden, the flowers illuminated by the light of the full moon.

It is a dazzling sight, and perfect. I have never felt so troubled in composing a poem. It is not necessary at all, but I could feel my heart wanting to get out of its cage for concealing and suppressing what is need to be said, to be expressed. It does not help at all to hide all these emotions, under the mask they call a blank expression. It is only anger that I show upon them, and I was surprised that the queen had told me how tender I am, as a person.

Still, pride overtook my whole entity and from the isolation that I locked myself into, I could no longer get out.

What is love? What is sorrow? What is love's sorrow?

I inhaled a sharp breath, before heaving it out as a sigh, and let my hand, holding the violin's bow, take over me. If not poetry, then through music, I shall express myself.

It is as though the bow is my quill, and the violin itself is the blank paper. The only difference was that, I am able to express through my violin, than the paper.

𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦,
𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴;
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘭,
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥.

𝘐 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘊𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥'𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸,
𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸
𝘈𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸.

𝘞𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵,
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯,
𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵,
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.

At the corners of my eyes, I was able to see the familiar lady, her cerise locks free-flowing in the wind, her hand held by the man I was hoping to be, the one who holds the daggers that greatly impressed her. From the gestures, they were both happy as they swayed along the melody of my sadness, with grins upon their faces. I need not to write my own poetry to offer, for she has hers ears to listen to my heart in a storm of wintercearig, just with the man I grew envious of.

𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘦
𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘯𝘦’𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘺:
𝘈 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘶𝘮𝘣, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸,
𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘺.

𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘰𝘵, 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵,
𝘔𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯;
𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵,
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯.

How I wished it was me, holding her hand and twirling her under the dim light. How I wished it was me, being with her and seeing her smile. How I wished I could let her embrace me of my sorrows, and not hide inside my own shell. How I wished that she is attainable, and that I had not lost hope in asking for her hand.

Love's sorrow guides my hand to play the piece I wanted her to hear. Am I truly miserable? Am I supposed to wear a smile upon seeing them together? Why must love agree with everyone else but me? Why must I sound so desperate in this piece?

Perhaps, love is not made for everyone, and yet I still hope as though love is made for me.

[Added modifications to the poem, added a few stanzas, originally written by Sir Walter Raleigh entitled "The Silent Lover".]