The Song of the World (nanowrimo13)

Chapter 2

The sun rose. 

To Song, that was the only good thing he could say of the day. He woke up with the sun's rising, his head groggy and heavy. It was as if the great grandmother of all headaches had decided to pay him a visit. 

Why now? He grumbled silently. He had not felt anything so excruciating as this since he was about seven. That was the day he had first discovered his talent. He hoped it was as great a harbinger of good news as it was then. Almost robotically, he went through his morning routine. Fifteen stretches, ten jumping jacks, five push ups. He lay flat on the floor, panting. What’s wrong with me? Everything that was usually effortless to him suddenly seemed so difficult and tiring. He stared at himself in the mirror in displeasure. He had done more than that before, without even breaking a sweat.

He headed to the showers. Maybe the steaming hot water would ease his muscles and clear his head.  Standing beneath the shower, he watched the steam billowing around him and waited for the morning song. Nothing came. A light scowl played over his features. Instead, he started humming a song he had written a few days ago. At the end of each section, he waited for the new song to rise, for the new melody to emerge from his mind. Nothing came. Biting his lip, he turned off the tap and waited for his retainers to dry him off. 

Maybe I’ve exhausted my ideas for morning showers, he thought. I’ve done so many morning songs here anyway. Maybe there’s only so much you can sing of about the beauty and comfort of warm water. Or not. 

The problem was, he just wasn’t sure. And he didn’t like that feeling. He felt as if something was missing. An important part of him seemed to have slipped away in the night but he couldn’t figure out what it was. A smart new tunic hung on the hook by the bathroom door. He smiled a little - his mother had insisted on requisitioning a new tunic for his testing day. 

“Mom, there’s no point,” he’d said. “It’s just another day. It’s just another test. I’ve done thousands of them by now. Why do I need a new tunic?”

“So you’ll look good in front of the King and the Judges,” she had replied.

“Mom, I see them every day.”

“It doesn’t hurt to turn up looking smart on that one important day of your life.”

He’d rolled his eyes at that, but Beauty had backed his mother up on that one. “You don’t want to look a slob when you win, Song,” she had said, that familiar look of disdain in her eyes. “You need you dress for the part. Dressing often leads to success.”

“That’s nonsense,” he’d replied. “I can go dressed as a road sweeper and still I can sing my songs.”

But he’d gone along anyway, followed Beauty to the fitting, listened to the women’s advice on the right tone for his skin, the right material to complement his height, the better cut to use. Actually - he’d just stood there while they did things to him and when it was done, he’d gone home and sung a song of frustration on the futility of making new clothes. That had gotten a chuckle out of most of the men in court, with the exception of a handful of fops who twittered over clothes as much as the girls. 

Beauty hadn’t talked to him for three days. 

He allowed himself to be dressed in the tunic and admired how good he looked in it. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Maybe if he performed dismally today, they would over look it because he looked the part. Such desperate thoughts. Are you convinced you will fail? He scowled at himself. There was no room for failure. He knew in the depths of his bones that he was the One. It was his name, it was his birthright, it was his prophecy. 

He was Song. 

Except suddenly, he couldn’t find any more songs to sing. Pushing the growing dread aside, he smiled at himself in the mirror as he combed back his hair. It will come to you in time. You’re just nervous now. Nothing will go wrong.