Narro, after dropping off the lute—offering endless apologies that it had apparently “unwrapped itself during transport”—got the signature he needed.

  He returned home. Sat in his chair. Exhaled more than once.

  Hoped he could forget the last day quickly.

  But he couldn’t. Not with that idiot still out there.

  He knew—leaving Reralt alone didn’t spell disaster. It spelled disastrous consequences. Plural. Likely involving a few decapitations, one or two fires, and, if left long enough, probably a small-scale genocide.

  He groaned and buried his face in his hands.

  He didn’t think he could do that to the realm.

  Then again… he really, really wanted to convince himself it wasn’t his problem.

  He drank a glass of water, listening to his baby babbling—

  a sound sweeter to his ears than any ballad Reralt had ever butchered.

  The soft, contented gurgles of the six-month-old reminded him why he loved being home—

  and just how much he hated being on the road all the time.

  His peaceful moment shattered—literally—when a six-foot silver-haired lunatic, half-drunk and wholly uninvited, burst through the window like a baboon possessed.

  Narro fell from his chair in shock, the glass flying in a graceful arc—

  and landing squarely in Reralt’s hand.

  “Well thank you,” Reralt said, taking a sip—then grimaced.

  “Pfffff—what the hell is this?”

  Narro welcomed the chaos back with a whimper, a half-cry, and an obscene gesture.

  “I heard the banshee’s wail,” Reralt said, suddenly steady on his feet after sipping what could only be described as the devil’s piss.

  Narro looked at the shattered window.

  Then at Reralt.

  Reralt followed his gaze, studying the broken glass as if only now noticing it. He looked… impressed.

  The baby began to cry.

  “There it is again,” Reralt whispered, eyes wide. “A banshee.”

  He drew his sword with solemn purpose.

  “Step behind me, noble Bard. I will take its head.”

  “That’s Syril, Reralt. My baby,” Narro said firmly. “Put your sword away, or I swear I’ll kick you out of my house.”

  He stood as tall as he could, full of righteous dad energy.

  Reralt lowered his sword—slowly, cautiously.

  “You had a banshee?” he asked, blinking. “Who did you fornicate with?”

  “Just a normal human baby,” Narro said, a bit insulted. “Maybe a slightly high-pitched shriek, sure.”

  “But—” Reralt began.

  “No. Drop it.” Narro drew a firm line in the sand. “Do not touch the baby.”

  Reralt sighed and sheathed his sword. The strap had broken, so he leaned it against the wall with a disappointed grunt.

  “And why didn’t you use the door?” Narro demanded.

  Reralt opened his mouth to explain.

  “Yeah, yeah—‘hero’s entrance.’ You’re paying for that window. Preferably before my wife gets home.”

  Reralt looked genuinely guilty.

  There’s a first for everything.

  Then his wife came home.

  “Reralt, Mary,” Narro muttered, gesturing the introduction.

  Reralt bowed—still a bit woozy—with one hand on the wall for balance.

  Mary looked around.

  She didn’t speak for several seconds.

  She looked at the shattered window.

  She frowned at Narro, who now sat with his head between his knees.

  “I know it’s a long story,” he offered weakly.

  “Sing it like a ballad,” Reralt added helpfully.

  Mary said nothing.

  She silently went to pick up the baby, who kept on crying.

  She didn’t understand any of it—but Narro seemed safe.

  ***

  When she returned, Reralt’s mouth fell open.

  Narro tried to stop him, but it was too late.

  “By the gods, what is that?” he exclaimed. “What a monster!”

  Narro begged him to stop with his eyes.

  Reralt didn’t.

  “That must be the ugliest baby I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  He turned to Mary. “Was her father a leprechaun? Or a gnome?”

  “Her nose is all wrong, her eyes aren’t even the same size.”

  “You think you can still trade her in?”

  Narro tried to throw his shoe at Reralt.

  The child laughed. Giggled hard and joyfully.

  Reralt tilted his head. His expression shifted—from revulsion to surprise, then from surprise to something close to a smile.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Now she’s cute as a princess,” he said, genuinely touched.

  “Like a unicorn farting tiny butterflies and vomiting little rainbows.”

  The baby held her own two feet and made strange babbling noises to Reralt.

  “A little angel, still growing her wings.”

  She giggled again.

  Something flickered behind Reralt’s eyes—like a knight recognizing a noble foe, but cuter and babbling incoherently.

  His eyes went wide. His tone softened, almost a whisper.

  “Can I hold her?”

  Narro was stunned.

  He’d seen this man sacrifice an entire battalion of knights for no proper reason—

  and now he wanted to hold his child?

  Mary was quicker.

  “Have you ever held a baby before?”

  Reralt silently shook his head.

  “Sit,” Mary ordered.

  Reralt sat on the ground immediately.

  “No—on the chair. Narro, move!”

  She spoke like a mother scolding a child.

  Narro obeyed.

  And as he did, he saw something—

  a piece of the mystery that was Reralt.

  He wasn’t just a lunatic.

  He was a man-child.

  Raised in nobility.

  Never held accountable.

  Never taught that actions had consequences.

  He and the baby were, in some ways… cognitively on par.

  ***

  After the—in Narro’s eyes—appalling sight of Reralt smiling and making little baby sounds with the baby (always afraid he’d suddenly declare her a changeling and toss her out the window—or rather, the missing wall opening), Reralt was, inexplicably, enjoying himself.

  He savored the moment.

  The babe actually seemed to enjoy it too. That much giggling and those strange delighted noises? Narro had never seen her react like that with anyone before.

  “I’m sorry,” Reralt said quietly.

  “About the window? We’ll fix it. You paid me very well,” Narro replied flatly.

  “No,” Reralt said again, slipping back into his usual bravado, “that I have to take you away again. From this little angel.”

  Narro blinked.

  “Wait—what? Why would I ever?”

  Reralt looked at the baby with an uncharacteristic softness.

  “To give her the best future,” he said solemnly, “someone has to go out and defeat all the monsters.”

  Mary smiled. “My Narro, defeating monsters?” she laughed.

  “Actually,” Narro said, lifting his chin a little, “we did fight a dragon.”

  “And that monstrous duck-griffin,” Reralt added quickly. “Not to mention the horror at the runes that knocked you out cold.”

  He paused for a beat.

  “Only Narro, of course. Reralt never loses consciousness. Not even in sleep. Reflexes of a cat.”

  He swiped the air dramatically, mimicking a claw.

  The Babshee giggled some more.

  ***

  The baby audibly farted.

  Reralt looked down at her with wide eyes.

  “A Babehee after all,” he whispered, awestruck—then let out an earth-shaking fart of his own.

  “So you have no need to feel ashamed, little one!” he declared with a booming laugh.

  Narro buried his face in his hands.

  “Gods,” he muttered, “please don’t let her shit now.”

  Mary just stood there.

  Looking at both of them.

  Then two city guards stepped into the house.

  One had his arm in a sling, his face black and blue, bleeding from several cuts.

  The other looked very upset.

  “Ah yes,” Reralt said casually, handing the babshee back to Mary—who immediately began to cry.

  “I forgot to mention something,” he added, turning to Narro.

  He pulled out his coin pouch, glanced at the guards, and asked:

  “Will ten do today?”

  Narro shook his head in quiet resignation.

  “You have a punch card, don’t you?”

  He paid the guard, who left looking considerably happier.

  “Shall we go?” Reralt asked, eyes gleaming.

  “I heard there are trolls nearby.”

  His hands were already rubbing together in sheer, giddy joy.

  “Why would I ever go with you again?” Narro asked, dead serious.

  Reralt plucked ten coins from his pouch and handed the rest—without a word—to Mary.

  Narro would never forget the smug look on his face.

  Mary felt the pouch, raised her brows, and gave him the kind of look only spouses know how to deliver.

  “I’ll get my bag,” Narro muttered, dragging his feet in defeat.

  ***

  (as reluctantly recorded by Narro, against his better judgment)

  He burst through the window, both drunk and deranged,

  Declared that a banshee nearby must be chained.

  His sword at the ready, his senses all wrong—

  He mistook a babe for a wailing death song.

  “Stand back!” he cried out, “I shall take its head!”

  While Narro just prayed he’d lie down instead.

  But then came a giggle, absurd and bright—

  Reralt froze mid-rant… and softened with fright.

  Babshee! Babshee! Wailer divine!

  Shrieker of chaos and breaker of spine!

  Though diapers were filled and windows destroyed—

  You made a mad knight feel oddly employed.

  He called her a gnome, a goblin in cloth,

  Then held her like treasure and swore an oath.

  A thunderous fart declared kinship complete,

  He bowed to her feet with gas and defeat.

  Guards came soon after—bruised, limping, and sore—

  He paid them with coin and pointed to the door.

  Then turned to his friend and with absolute glee:

  “There are trolls nearby. You’re coming with me.”

  Babshee! Babshee! Angel of screams!

  Breaker of warriors and pooper of dreams!

  You turned a rampage to coos and to peace—

  Now someone please change her before the next piece.

  Every parody epic needs a hero who can be emotionally defeated by a six-month-old with gas.

  The Ballads of Reralt. If you're laughing, crying, or just slightly concerned — you're in the right place.