A/N: Life is A Dream fanfiction is totally a thing, you guys, even though it seems like I'm the only one out there. It's a really great play, too, so if you ever have a chance, go ahead and look it up. For this story, all you really need to know is that there was a prophecy that the King of Poland read in the stars that his son, Segismundo, would bring misfortune upon the land, but instead of killing him (like any normal person from the 1500s would do), he decides to lock up the boy in a tower. Clotaldo is Segismundo's jailer and teacher.

Disclaimer: I do not own Life is a Dream, nor any of the characters. If I did, I definitely would not be wielding psychological torture on Segismundo. *Just sayin'*

A/N 2.0: This story was inspired by my high school's performance of Life is a Dream, especially my beloved crew's wonderful ideas about Segismundo's character development. Thanks to the lovely Naia for her headcanon that was the basis for all of this and for Socks, who basically spurred me into writing this. Love you both!

Brass Bands

Segismundo stared out his window, big brown eyes watching a clutch of young robins leave their nests. Their wings, fragile and small, somehow supported their small bodies as they left their straw home and flew into their freedom.

Segismundo wished he could fly away. Today he was five- he felt that he was old enough and big enough to leave this tower on his own. He wrapped his small hands around his chain and jingled it impatiently. It sounded rather nice, so he continued shaking the chain, relishing in the distraction of the noise.

There was a knock on the door, but Segismundo didn't hear it, so busy was he pulling at the chain around his ankle.

"Segismundo?" a voice called and the door was unlocked and pushed open. Clotaldo, a small basket of fruits in his hands, stepped inside. He watched as the small boy, dressed neatly in a white linen shirt and leather leggings, jingled the chain attached to his ankle almost frantically. Clotaldo noticed with a strange sorrow that the boy's eyes already shone with pre-occupation and desperate longing. Not so soon! the nobleman thought. He's still so very young. . . .

"Are you making music, Segismundo?" Clotaldo asked the boy, raising his voice and stepping further into the room.

Segismundo jumped and dropped the chain back on the cold hard ground. A smile lit up his previously serious features.

"Hullo, Clotaldo!" he cried with a grin. "Today is my birthday!"

"Yes, lad, today you are five years old."

"This many!" Segismundo cried, holding four fingers out to Clotaldo proudly.

Smiling gently, Clotaldo adjusted Segismundo's fingers.

"No, this many, Segismundo. Five."

Segismundo grinned toothily at the older man.

"Did you bring me food, Clotaldo?"

"Yes, fresh fruits," Clotaldo said, showing the boy the inside of the basket. Grapes, apples, even peaches adorned the heavy straw basket. Segismundo grabbed a green apple with his small, nimble hands. He bit into the crisp fruit with a charming, sweet grin. Clotaldo smiled.

As Segismundo swallowed the apple, he spoke to his older friend.

"You spoke of music, Clotaldo," the boy said. "Tell me - what is music? Is it an animal?"

Clotaldo seated himself next to Segismundo on the floor.

"No, child, music is a sound."

"A sound?"

"Well, many pleasing sounds all together as one to make a very pleasing tune."

Segismundo blinked uncomprehendingly. Clotaldo hastened to explain himself better.

"You can make music with many things, Segismundo. When you shake your chain, it is music; when you tap your fingers on the wood, it is music; when you hit your plate with your spoons, it is music."

Segismundo nodded eagerly.

"What else is music?"

Clotaldo hesitated – he was quickly running out of examples.

"Well. . . . you can make music with your voice."

"With my voice?" Segismundo's eyes shone with enchantment.

"Yes," Clotaldo answered. "It is called singing."

"Like the birds?" Segismundo said eagerly. "I can sing like the birds?"

"Of course, child."

"Then teach me, Clotaldo, teach me! I want to learn! Please do teach me, Clotaldo! Show me how to sing!"

Clotaldo shook his head.

"Segismundo-" he began, but the five-year-old interrupted him.

"Pleease, Clotaldo! Sing!"

Clotaldo, with a sigh, finally gave in. He started to sing a lullaby he had heard quite often as a child, afraid that he sounded awful. He did, of course – his soldiers often laughed at how heinous his voice was. Clotaldo was going to stop halfway through the song, but Segismundo was staring at him with unshielded eagerness, completely enthralled by this glorious new discovery of music. So Clotaldo continued and finished his song.

When he had ceased to sing, Segismundo was grinning from ear to ear.

"I am afraid, Segismundo, that I sound more like a brass band than a choir."

Segismundo only smiled at Clotaldo's sheepish apology.

"I think I like brass bands," he said.