The Song of the World (nanowrimo13)

Chapter 10

The day was wearing on and the King was getting more and more frustrated. It felt as if no matter hard Song tried, the Acceptance Song was harsh and dissonant, as if something was wrong; something was ill-fitting but he couldn’t define what it was. There were points in time when he began to wonder if Song had really passed the test. Why else would everything feel so discordant? And yet at the same time, it didn’t feel exactly wrong. There was a rightness to it, as if parts of it fit, but parts of it needed to be fixed. He wondered why it was so. He had never felt that way during his own testing, acceptance and coronation. If anything, it felt as if everything flowed together, as if you were bathed in a flow of inspiration, floating on a wave of creativity.

Creativity which he had somehow lost. Had that happened too, in his day? Music couldn’t quite recall - it was at least fifty years back - but he had thought that they had created together. Why was he now not able to guide Song in this creation? Something had come between him and the Song, and he didn’t know what it was. 

“It still sounds more like a funeral march than a triumphant song.” King Music rubbed his back, standing up from where he’d been hunched over the piano for the last hour. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Song said with a grimace. “I thought this was supposed to be easy.”

“It used to be. I don’t know what is happening. There’s a strange feeling to this.”

“What do you mean?” Song stopped strumming the harp. 

“The song doesn’t sound right. But it doesn’t sound wrong either. Does that even make sense?”

“It is right. It’s my song.”

“Fine.” 

The two men stood half-glaring at each other. 

“I’m sorry,” Song said as the same time that the King said “Yes, it is.”

They laughed. Leaving the musical instruments aside, they sat on the couch, sipping at the hot coffee that the servants poured for them.

“I didn’t know you were that interested in the harp,” King Music said eventually. “I thought you were more of a singer.”

“Well - yes. But I’m having a little bit of a sore throat since the Testing so I didn’t want to strain my voice.” Song shrugged. “I learnt - Bass was a master at the harp. He used to give me lessons.”

“Ah yes,” the King nodded. 

They sat for a moment, talking about inconsequential things - the weather, their favourite instruments, the coming festivities. Music wondered why it seemed so hard to get closer to Song. He didn’t seem to want to share about anything that interested him, keeping instead to generalities. Had he always been this way? The King wondered to himself. Maybe he’s not quite himself yet after such a harsh trial. I must remember that the youth is still untested. 

“Song - your hands are shaking,” he broke off mid-sentence as he watched the young man’s hands jitter so badly that the liquid in his cup started to slosh over his fingers and drip to the floor. “Song!” he called more sharply when he didn’t respond.

Song’s eyes appeared to roll back into the back of his head. Then suddenly, he slumped forward, dropping the cup. Music caught him before he slid off the chair, calling to the servants for help. By the time he was laid out on the bed and the doctors had arrived, Song was beginning to regain consciousness. He looked around bleary eyed. 

“What happened?” he asked.

“You tell us, boy,” the King said. “You suddenly fainted.”