Horses can't sing.
Horses can't sing.
Horses can't sing.
Horses can't sing. This has become my mantra and my torture, the very chiming of my bright silver hooves – a perfect middle C – a torture to my ears, as my mind provides the harmony and structure to compliment the melodious cadence of hooves on pavement. The bells on my harness are a misery, a perfect third and an octave above the hooves, melody to the ears and constant reminder of what is not mine.
Horses can't sing. Hooves don't work on instruments either: we are denied the satin-smooth polish of a lute's gentle curve, will never feel the sharply pleasant bite of strings on calluses worn through years of practice. The gentle swell of a harp's crescendo is denied me, and the lilt of the flute trying to imitate the perfect melodies of the birds. To stand in a forgotten corner of Companion's Field, hearing the gentle and sometimes discordant sound of new-fledged Bardic students learning the gittern is to rend my heart in two, as phantom hands and voice yearn to join the chorus. It is not to be, for horses can't sing.
I don't know why the cycle was broken with me – why I am different. I don't know why, when death came to woo me after long years as a Master Bard, I was given this choice, still less do I know why I took it. I didn't imagine the torment – the burn of gifts left untapped, the isolation of the one who is different. I couldn't have known that I would remember all as it had been, nor did I consider the possibility that I might retain that which defined me… silly me I thought that death redefined a person, that we emerged a different sort than we entered. I was wrong… I am the bird that lost its wings, I am the mercenary without her sword. I am the bard without her voice, I am the Companion that cannot sing.
Horses can't sing. That phrase is my especial torment. Back when I was human, when I was a bard, when I could sing, that was my reason to live, my saving grace. No matter what happened, I still had my voice. Now it's gone, given up for a pretty speech about the greater good of the country, given up because I had the nerve to envy the Heralds, in their pristine white uniforms, with their blue-eyed Companions ever there, always standing by their side. Oh how I was wrong. Because horses can't sing.
I turn the corner of the forgotten town, Haven's torment of music far behind me, the anguish of bells and hooves far more immediate. Perfect third… basic harmony… I see the lights of an inn at the village center, and the warmth of its stable beckoning. The formal tack, with its bells is less of a burden when I remember that it will also buy me a stable for the night no matter where I am within Valdemar's borders. As I approach however, the faint pull within my heart surges, and I suddenly know. This bard turned horse is about to find the reason for that peculiar choice, about to meet the source of this call across the country, through this chill of approaching winter. My pace hastens, the soft strains of music in my mind melting seamlessly from a laconic rondo to a fast paced waltz, all dancing merrily around that perfect third.
As I approach the inn however, my heart falters, for within it I hear the sound that has become a bane to my ears – that of a lute being tuned. Automatically, my mind registers that the unknown possessor of said instrument has a good ear, perfect pitch actually. I listen, entranced and wounded by the familiar/forbidden sound of that commonplace occurrence, tuning. The sounds stop, and a hush descends upon the inn. Requests are called, and my heart plummets to hear one of my favorites named – all but forgotten in this new time. The soft chords begin, haunting melody grinding into my mind with the unpleasant reminder of all that was denied me.
Time stops.
All other noise falls away, the chill forgotten and the wind in the eaves is rendered impotent by the glory of a single voice raised in song. That which was agony within is now a blessing as the familiar surge of Bardic Magic nearly overwhelms me, more powerful than anything I had previously felt, before or after my unusual choice. I stand entranced.
As the melody reaches it's highest point, as the passion of the song breaks suddenly, I push my way through the door, ignored by the entranced patrons. I stand in the warm room, the open door letting the night's chill in, and listen with all my heart, for the gentle green-eyed man with the battered lute is the one my heart sings to. As he wraps the song into an odd minor ending, I step forward, and a gasp rises as the patrons realize that a Companion has entered. The room is silent, but my mind rejoices, chords rising symphonic in exultation. Sapphire meets emerald, souls entwine.
:Hello Bran. My name is Hwyllen, and I Choose you:
Horses can't sing… but somehow that no longer matters.