Chapter Text
Nobody knows how long the brooks have been babbling, how far they have travelled, how much they have heard and seen along their way. Nobody knows how large the forest really is, how old and wise its trees are, how many homes lie in its deepest corners. Nobody knows how long the mountains have really been standing for, or how they came to stand in the first place. People in the valley have come to respect the brooks for their wisdom of the land, the forest for its generosity, and the mountains for their strength, for without these three elements of nature, the kingdom that has grown to be so great may not be standing at all.
Old pastors tell stories of how the mountains fought off thousands of knights from the north by pulling the sky down with their brute strength, striking their surface with lighting and creating fires that burned for months. The forest protected the valley township with breezes from deep within blowing the fire further up the mountain. The brooks were all that were able to get through the fire, and they acted as communication, telling the mountains when the knights had retreated and the fires could finally be put out. The small, defenseless township was saved, whether it was because of destiny or just sheer luck, no one knew, but they thanked the three elements of nature anyway. What else was there to do with the feeling of pure relief, but to thank the gods you were alive?
As the brooks kept watch, the forest gave gifts and the mountains rested, the township became a kingdom. It became known as the kingdom of Ignis, named after the great fires it was born from, and the great burning spirit the people harvested from that victory. They sang, they danced, they played music and celebrated for days and nights without a care in the world. The people of Ignis were some of the happiest in the whole valley region. Until one fateful day.
While the mountains were resting, a lone man came across the border and into the valley. His rich, violet cloak hung over his eyes and rested behind him on the ground. He carried no gold pieces on him and was often turned away by angry tavern owners for this. That is, until he stumbled upon the gates of Ignis. He stepped into yet another tavern, the first he could find on the street, this one owned by a woman with grey hair and a blue apron. He had drank just a few glasses and expected to be run out of town once again for not having the currency to pay for his beverages, so this time, the cloaked man offered to pay with a song. A piano piece he had written himself. The legend doesn’t say what he played exactly, but the tavern became silent for the piece’s duration and applauded once he had finished. Some say it sounded like birds singing in the morning. Others say it sounded like the night sky whispering sweet nothings. It must have been enough for the tavern keeper, as she is said to have offered the cloaked man a hot meal, wiping a tear from her own eye, instead of chasing him out the door.
The legends don’t say how long the man stayed in Ignis for. They say it became his home within hours of him stepping through the gates, and his music became more of a home than the people of the kingdom had ever experienced. Each song was like a home-cooked meal, a girl’s first kiss, a hug from a loved one lost long ago. The cloaked man’s music was like magic to the ears of those who were fortunate enough to listen.
The word got around to the entire kingdom. People flocked from all over to see him play just one piece. Eventually, word got to the royal family, who immediately arranged for a carriage to take the king, queen, and young prince to listen. From the small wooden stage in a town centre, the cloaked man spotted a regal carriage with people in rich, red and blue satin, standing solemnly, watching him in awe. It is said that he smiled, something the people had never seen him do before then, at the king, the queen and their son, then bowed with grace before sitting at his piano and placing his hands on the keys. He played miraculously, and the royal family watched him as he did. The crowd was as silent as always until the very end of the piece and they gave the biggest standing ovation once he had finished. The royal family was part of that applause, and invited him to come to dinner at the castle. They had a feast and invited him to be part of the kingdom of Ignis, one of them, part of their great big family at last. The cloaked man graciously accepted and lived forevermore in the castle, playing for the people of the kingdom until the day he died.
That’s how the story should have ended.
However, no one is ever that fortunate.
After the cloaked man had finished his solo act, he stood with the applause. He stretched his arms out wide, soaking it all in. Once his eyes were open, they were pinned on the royal family that were standing dead ahead of him, towards the back of the crowd. The cloaked man, for the first time in his whole stay in Ignis, untied the violet cloak from around his neck and let it fall to the ground. The crowd clapped harder, expecting a final act to follow this great display of trust and magnificence. They would get their final act, though it would not be a musical one.
The man reached for his back with both hands, pulling a bow and an arrow to his chest. With no hesitation and no time for anyone to think, he drew his bow, pulled the string tight and released the arrow from his grip, headed straight for its new and final home, the throat of the king.
The applause halted. Screams erupted from the crowd. Some people froze. Others scrambled to get away from the scene before they too were shot. The queen yelled as her husband dropped back into the seats of the carriage. She began to bend down to him, but before she could get as far as a knee to the floor, another arrow flew and hit her just under her shoulder. She gasped, then screamed again, falling next to her husband. The seemingly-skilled archer aimed once more, only to have his view obstructed by two men in uniform who took him by the arms, discarded his weapons and carried him away swiftly. The royal carriage was driven away quickly, the stallions winneying louder than they must have in their entire lives. While the rest of those in the carriage ducked, a lone head poked out from the side. The young prince, getting a long, hard look at the man who had orphaned him and his kingdom.
The next day, the archer was hung, his cloak and weapons burned, the piano he played crackling painfully and fueling the fire.
The day after that, the young prince was crowned king at just twelve years of age. The late king and queen were buried during the same ceremony.
The next week, music all across the kingdom was banned. Instruments were instructed to be destroyed. If you so much as whistled on the street or hummed to yourself in the bath, you were to be arrested on the spot. No one was to play music in the kingdom of Ignis for the rest of time.
The once lively kingdom went into mourning. Smiles were ripped from faces as people's dreams fell apart all at once, altogether, all around them. The king himself fell into a depression that lasted years upon years. The people had empathy for their king. They prayed to the mountains, to the brooks, to the forest, just to see him smile once more.
In the king’s absence, an advisor of the royal family took up the position. He was never given the formal title of king , but the kingdom needed assistance, and the real king could not give it to them. He was just a child, after all.
Stricter rules were put into place. Curfews, random searches, higher taxes. The people who had once danced and sang together now avoided any interaction at any cost in case what happened with the cloaked man happened a second time. The gates were closed to visitors. Townsfolk took to staying inside unless they were at work.
Ignis was beginning to lose its fire.
And it would continue to suffocate for generations.
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In the corner of a courtyard, a well-dressed, blonde-haired boy sits against a wall, one leg pulled to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him. His bluebell-coloured eyes have been focused on nothing but the opposite wall, and the ball bouncing from it, to his hand, and back again for hours.
Floor, Wall, Catch.
The small bouncy ball smacks the middle of his palm with a satisfying slap when he catches it, barely holding it in his grip before throwing it again.
Floor, Wall, Catch.
The rhythm fills his mind like wine filled his grandfather’s glass when the blonde boy was only small. Small enough not to get a taste, but old enough to pick up on his grandfather’s habits.
Floor, Wall, Catch.
‘It’s better than going into town and causing the kind of trouble you do,’ his eldest brother had once told him. ‘You’re going to get arrested one of these days.’
1 2 3 , he counts over and over again, a heat growing inside his chest and sticking there. His brother didn’t know the wonder of the town. He didn’t understand. The longing he feels when he’s stuck in his room. The rush he feels in the streets and the fields. The sounds he can hear when he’s out there. Those intricate, beautiful sounds...
1 2 3 and 1 2 3 and 1--
The ball flies higher than the boy can catch and hits the wall behind him, causing him to duck his head into his hands and his knees to pull close to his chest as the ball bounces between the two walls with the force of five horses at least.
Maybe six. That was a wicked throw.
Once the sound of the bouncing ball dies down, the boy releases his arms from around his head and scans the ground for the ball. It sits in the opposite corner to him, staying still, as if it had never had enough energy to move in the first place.
Whilst crawling to grab the ball, the boy wonders what it might be like to stay so still, to be able to wait for someone to pick you up and give you the energy you needed to do something incredible. He isn’t sure he could wait for long. Waiting is time consuming. Waiting is wasting away. Waiting is… plain boring. Even so, waiting is what he is doing. Waiting for something incredible to happen to him, just once.
Ping!
The boy’s head springs up, his light hair bobbing and his eyes widening at the sudden sound.
Then there are more sounds, the same sound, but different somehow. Higher and lower. Longer and shorter. Louder and softer. Copper strings stretched tight and plucked by a human finger.
These sounds are played once every couple of weeks. If he’s lucky, Tommy might hear them twice a week. They are a reminder of something so hazy in the boy’s mind, but so precious to his heart. His muscles loosen and he sits back against the wall again, simply listening to the strange and wonderful sounds. It reminds him of summer breezes through open windows, soft bed sheets, the smell of the early afternoon sun. The boy basks in this feeling, savouring every last drop of it as he could, trying his best to memorise each and every tone entering his eardrums.
These are the moments the young boy lives for. Moments that remind him of something deeply embedded into his soul. Moments he can’t quite remember picture for picture, but that he can hear sound for sound.
A well trained ear in a world of silence.
The strings continue their pattern of placidity, and the blonde-haired boy listens with the intent of remembering every note, a warm and subtle grin playing on his face as he closes his eyes and lays his head back on the wall behind him. He wonders if this moment might last fore--
“Tommy!,” a gruff voice yells. The boy jumps at the sudden change in sound, knocking his head against the wall. He desperately listens for the pretty sounds again, but they have long gone, scared like birds from a tree. With a sigh, the boy replies.
“Yeah?” He yells back, rubbing the back of his head.
“Supper’s ready. Best get inside.”
The boy stands slowly from the ground, shuffling towards the corner where his ball still lies, patiently waiting for someone to lend it some energy. Tommy rolls the ball over in his palm, savouring the lingering memories of sounds bouncing around his mind. He has so many questions. Who is the person who makes these noises? Why do they make him feel tingly inside? How can he make them himself?
“Tom?” the voice yells again.
“I’m coming, Techno!” he replies. After one last look around the courtyard, Tommy’s hand falls defeatedly from the back of his head and to his side with a slump. He looks down at the ball in his hand and turns it over a few times, noticing the lighter spots on it this time around. He ponders over whether these are the bruises bouncy balls get from being tossed around all day. He wonders whether bouncy balls can develop bruises in their chest like he does.
The blonde-haired boy sighs once more, giving up on continuing to listen for the light pinging. He will be back at this spot in a few days, waiting for when he can once again hear the sounds he is so dreadfully in love with. In the meantime, Tommy places the ball in his left pocket and his hand in his right as he makes his way out of the courtyard.
Before he exits, he turns back one more time, just in case there is someone behind him - a mystery person who creates the beautiful sounds - laughing at his poor seeking skills.
But there is no one.
A breeze from the forest signals his time for departure, guiding him away from what is surely impossible, and the boy turns back.
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From a balcony, a man looks out over a garden of autumn coloured trees, admiring the rich and raw colours the leaves are turning. In his head, he is playing the rest of the song that was interrupted just moments ago. He was sure if someone had heard him, he would have been banished. He turns to the room behind him, leaning back on the cold limestone edge of the balcony. The golden instrument glints back at him in the evening light. That was far too close.
He must be more careful at what times he plays.
He must keep himself in check from now on.
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The dining hall is as grand as it is large. The walls are covered in red, blue and golden wallpaper floor to ceiling and a crystal chandelier hangs in the middle of the room over the room-length table. This hall was made to host parties, massive get-togethers of those from neighbouring kingdoms, higher-ups, even people from the towns, all coming together to celebrate their safe and happy lives. There were balls, dances, music filling every corner of the space once. Joy was audible in so many different forms. If you listen hard enough, you can almost hear ghosts of laughter and string quartets echoing off the walls.
Tommy walks into the dining hall with his hands shoved deep into his pant pockets. He stares at his feet, hoping that he isn’t trekking in dust from outside. He dusts his backside for good measure. He slips his hands back into his pockets and looks towards the elongated table in the centre of the hall.
Two people already sit at the head of it. One of them has camelia pink hair pulled back into a braid that hangs over the back of his chair. He wears a ruffled, white, collared shirt, dark red slacks, and slim, golden jewelry hanging from his ears. He holds a thick book in his right hand. It looks as if he is about halfway through reading it. His legs are crossed over each other comfortably and he leans back into his chair on a slight angle. He doesn’t seem to notice Tommy’s entrance. The other man at the table however, does. He wears earthy pants and similarly coloured suspenders over a long-sleeve, white shirt. His dark brunette curls fall over his face, framing it like an intricate oil painting. His pasty-white skin suggests that he hasn’t been outside since Spring and his deep brown eyes hold a judgemental staring contest with Tommy’s, watching closely as he takes a seat at the table across from the dark haired boy. There is a silence for a minute or so, only interrupted by the odd page turn from the man reading. Tommy allows his hair to fall over his face as he fiddles with his fingers under the table. He can feel the dark haired man’s eyes on him, burning a hold through his head.
“What, Will?” Tommy asks.
The man tears his eyes from Tommy and looks up as if pretending he had not been staring, then folds his arms, looking at the cuticles on his right hand. Double doors at the back of the room swing open and four carts are wheeled out holding silver tupperware and utensils. At the same time, another man walks through the entrance.
“You’re terrible at playing dumb, you know that, right?” mutters Tommy. Will looks up as a plate is placed in front of him, and a grin escapes his face, though he is desperately trying to hide it. Tommy narrows his eyes in annoyance. The man who entered the room sits at the table with the other three, his green robe hanging from his shoulders daintily and his blonde, chin-length hair neat and tidy. He picks up his utensils, more than ready, it seems, to tuck into his food without conversation. But he knows it is never that easy at a table with the three princes.
“Phil, can you please tell Wilbur to tell me what he’s laughing about.” says Tommy. “He won’t listen to me.”
Phil places his fork down in defeat. “Why don’t you ask Techno?”
“Nope.” A gruff voice answers instantaneously. The man reading holds a hand up in protest. “I’m not getting into this.”
“And Wilbur won’t listen to him anyway!” Tommy interjects, his face scrunching in playful frustration. “He’ll only listen to you.”
“Try me. I don’t have to listen to anyone.” Will responds, reaching for his own utensils.
“We both know you do whatever Phil tells you to do.” Tommy shoots back. “Now, please help me out here, Phil.”
“Master Tom,” a waiter says quietly. Phil takes a moment to glance at Wilbur, who stifles a laugh when Tommy turns his head to the side. Phil sees what Wilbur is laughing at. He can’t help but crack a smile himself.
“I hate to inform you of this, but I believe you have something in your hair.”
“What?” Tommy asks aloud, absently reaching his hand up to his hair. “What could possibly-”
His fingers find something damp and slimy at the back of his head. He brings his hand back to his eye level and finds something white on the tips of his fingers.
“BIRD POO?” Tommy exclaims, yanking the napkin that was neatly folded just a moment before and scrubbing his fingers and his head with it.
Wilbur erupts into a fit of laughter, the noise bouncing off the walls a hundred times more than Tommy’s ball in the courtyard ever could. Phil simply grins at the sight. When Tommy looks back across the table at the two men laughing, the distressed look on his face changes to one of unamusement.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a little more mature than us, your kingship?” Tommy asks Phil.
Phil slowly points to the top of his head. “Only when the crown is on, young prince,” he softly replies.
Tommy scoffs and feels the back of his head again. A patch of his hair is crusting over with the drying goop. Tommy’s face twists in disgust and Wilbur lets out a softer chuckle.
“I think I’m going to wash this off now.” he grumbles. Tommy stands and quickly strides out of the hall.
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Slosh, slosh, slosh, says the water as the hands of the young boy slip on the wet pump handle. He grumbles as he reaches for the bucket below him that is half-filled, dipping one hand in to check the temperature. He pulls it out quickly, the freezing water rippling in delight at the hilarity of the prince rushing to dry his cold hand on his pants. Tommy looks back down at the bucket. He slowly crouches down, being careful not to let his knees touch the dampness and deeply sighs at it.
Tommy doesn’t quite know how to get stuff like this out of his hair. Usually, he would ask Phil to brush through and clean it for him. Once, when he was much younger, Tommy had run through thick bushes chasing after his older brothers and had come out with sticky stems covering every inch of his clothes and hair. He cried when Techno and Wilbur laughed at the state of him, calling him a mulberry bush. He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting with Phil, who gently picked every stem and brushed every knot out of Tommy’s matted hair. Tommy had not paid attention to how Phil had done it, but he hates the knowledge that there is something sticking to his hair, especially where he can’t see it.
Tommy cups his hands and lowers them into the bucket, then lifts them, awkwardly throwing the freezing water onto the back of his head. Most of it ends up trickling down his back, making his body squirm in shock. He proceeds to brush the back of his head with his fingers, pulling at the knots and tangles created by the bird droppings in disgust. His face tightens with each tug.
Tommy continues the process of wetting his hair and then brushing through it with his fingers a few times over until the filthy patch feels normal again. He lowers his cold, wet hands from his head and wipes them on his trousers.
A breeze brushes his skin as the young prince kneels. With it comes a wisdom, a knowledge, a story to be retold. It has travelled for over a century, searching for anything to deliver to someone who will bring back what was lost so long ago.
And on this late, chilly, autumn afternoon, it has finally found it.
Tommy’s ears catch a single sound in the breeze. A sound similar to the plucking he hears in the courtyard, but this sound is much fuller. There is a deeper tone to it and so much more potential to the different variations the sound can make. The breeze circles the yard, catching leaves fallen from the auburn trees and flinging them around gracefully,much like a miniature tornado. The prince's eyes and ears follow this phenomenon with curiosity, the deep sound ringing about his skull. The breeze twists and twirls as it makes its second trip around Tommy, teasing him with another snippet of the scintillating sound. It washes over him like honey and leaves him with a sweet feeling of familiarity. Tommy turns with the breeze as it wisps past him and over an old, rusty, garden gate in the back corner of the courtyard. The hinges rattle and squeak as if complaining that they had been awoken from a long nap. Stringy vines and sproutlings have grown up and around it and the trees around the gate shade it from the human eye with the small amount of leaves still hanging from their branches. Tommy has never seen this gate before, and by the state of it, he doesn’t think anyone else has in a long time.
The wondrous sound still echoes in Tommy’s head, but he can feel it beginning to fade. He doesn’t want to lose it. In fact, he refuses to. Tommy is sick of waiting for the sounds to come to him just for them to be gone in two seconds flat. And so, without a second thought or a look back at the castle, Tommy dashes across the courtyard, vaults over the fence, and stumbles down the steep, grassy hill on the other side.
The bright sun from the west follows him like a spotlight as his footwork adjusts to the downward slope of the hill. His shoes rip strands of the long grass from the ground as his buckles catch them on his way down. The smell of fresh, sweet pollen fills the air and only becomes stronger the more Tommy descends. Before he is even aware, Tommy is slowing to a jog on a flatter surface. He stops in the middle of what he finds to be a massive field and spins slowly, watching for any stray autumn leaves brought by the breeze. Unfortunately, all that he finds around him is green and tuscany yellow coloured grass. Tommy watches the golden sun as it touches the ancient mountains on the horizon, beginning its final descent for the day. His shoulders slump as the adrenaline and determination drain down to his toes. In the empty field, the silence surrounding Tommy has never been so loud.
Why am I out here..?
A sudden chill runs up Tommy’s back as wind hits his neck. His right hand lurches to protect it and he spins to where the wind came from, a frustration bubbling from the shock.
And then, he sees it.
A lone cottage sitting in the middle of the field, just to the east of where Tommy is standing. The sun catches on the stone walls and creates an almost orange glow. There is a wooden window on the side and one on the front next to a beaten up door. A small garden grows underneath the side window which looks very well looked after, as well as a steel pump just next to the garden bed. Tommy cocks his head to one side and narrows his eyes at the cottages. He wonders why someone might have chosen this spot to build their home, so far from any village or person. Then he hears it. The sweet sounds that were brought to him by the breeze. The deeper tones, longer lasting sounds. As they fill his ears, his eyes grow wider and his chest fills with buzzes of energy. Tommy lifts his feet and rushes across the field once more, heat bursting from his chest and filling his entire body as he becomes closer to the sounds. The breeze fills his ears with the entrancing sounds and Tommy listens so intently that as he is about to reach the cottage he trips over his own feet and lands flat in the grass. Tommy grunts as the wind is knocked out of him and the sounds suddenly stop.
No! he thinks, already missing the new sounds.
Tommy looks at the window above him, listening for any sign of movement. The floor inside creaks as someone begins to walk over. Tommy sits up and shuffles back through the small vegetable patch in panic and reaches the cold stone just as the wooden windows swing open above him. He gently places a hand over his mouth, holds his breath and hugs his knees to his chest. Tommy knows he’s not far enough out of range of this person. They are literally above him. There’s no way he’s going to stay here undiscovered. Tommy sees his future. He’s caught by the owner of this cottage and dragged back to the palace by his ear, where his brothers tattle to their father about his whereabouts, and then a terror would certainly rein upon him. Tommy isn’t supposed to leave the castle grounds anymore. Not after last time. He must have forgotten that rule when he was seduced by the sweet sounds, and now he may regret it.
But, in a sort of miracle, the man does not look down, and after just a few seconds of inspection, he sighs in defeat and shuts the windows.
Tommy lets out a sigh for the ages, catching his breath as quietly as he can, squinting at the sun that is setting on the high mountains once again. It may have been the work of the mighty sun that saved him from his fate. He decides to be more careful, as the sun does not help anyone at the drop of a hat.
After sitting still for a short while, watching the sunset, Tommy’s breathing becomes calmer. He doesn’t know how long he sits there for, but it must have been long enough for the owner of the cottage to feel at ease again, as the sweet and deep sounds begin to play again, this time much quieter and smoother. Tommy’s entire body falls into the movement of the sounds. Up and down. Loud and soft. Fast and slow. The range of the sounds makes the plucking in the courtyard seem like child's play. It’s the most incredible thing Tommy thinks he has ever heard, and he decides that he needs to get closer to it.
Tommy gets on his hands and knees and crawls around the side of the cottage, looking for any other windows or doors. He crawls closer and closer to the sound until he finds the closest position to it, which is the door at the back of the house. It has a larger gap at the bottom than most doors do, which allows the sounds to flow through much easier than any other openings of the house. Tommy sits and leans on the door to begin with. Then, he presses his ear to the thick wood. When he decides that method is too tedious, he lays down with his head next to the gap between the door and the floor. He listens as the sounds play up and down and savours every bit of it as if it may be his last time hearing it.
The longer he stays, the darker it gets, the stronger the smell of earth beneath him becomes, and the deeper he falls in love with the sounds. He lies there for what may be hours, simply taking in the incredible masterpiece that was being handed to him on a silver platter. He is covered in a warm feeling, like a hot bath in winter or wearing a homemade coat. He doesn’t think he will ever leave. That is, until he is awoken from a slumber by a drop of rain on his nose. His eyes rip open and another drop falls into his right eye just as quickly as the first fell. Tommy rubs his eye, realising that the music has long since stopped. He looks at the door next to him, seeing no light underneath and hearing no resemblance of sounds he was once listening to. He frowns. The raindrops falling on him accumulate by the second and a loud clap of thunder from the heavens rings out across the valley.
After one last gaze at the cottage, Tommy tears himself from the wooden door and begins his sprint across what will soon be a puddle of a field, with an extravagant grin pasted across his face and a warmth he had known long ago living again in his heart.