One of the earliest sounds Curran remembered hearing was his mother's singing. It was a melody Brynna had sung to all her children to soothe them to sleep. A song in the language of the Celts and unbeknownst to Cur at that young age, he would begin to fuss if his mother ended the song before he was fully asleep. Cur would keep that tune closest to his heart and love it until his dying day.
The next memory of sound that ever struck Cur's ears so delighted was a Skald's music pipe he heard when he was four years old. A man had briefly visited the island and told the Eddic poems in the market square with accompanying music.
Cur had heard music before at celebrations but there was always lively dancing and he couldn't ever get close enough to see how the instruments worked plus there was something special about the sound of the lone pipe notes, they were sharp and yet sounded lovely.
He and his sister had gone with their mother to market and when he heard those pipe notes he became eager and enchanted and he approached the man asking to see the instrument. He had always been a timid boy, hiding in his mother skirts to avoid talking to strangers but that wonderful sound was what prompted him to seek answers. Music made him bolder because nothing else seemed to matter in the moments he found something to listen to—no fears, nor worries, and no other dialogue.
He asked the man how those sounds were made and the Skald told him about how a music pipe really worked. About the hollow wood, it's holes and covering and blowing through it created those notes he wanted too much to hear again.
The Skald left Berk, naturally to continue on performing but Cur's desire to hear that noise again drove him to want his own pipe. Brynna was more than willing to help her son achieve his dream. He brought her wood pieces he deemed big enough and she in turn had a skilled wood-cutter hollow them out and create holes where Cur had marked for them to be. Some sounded awful, shrill, but through a year of trial and error Cur finally had his very own music pipe and could finally play a song or two he figured out on his own.
But his music and singing weren't the only sounds. He began to notice and listen for things that others often missed, the sound of water on the shore or wind in the trees, birdsongs and dragon calls, the lilts and lows of a human voice. They were all interesting and beautiful to the Jorgenson boy. He couldn't hear enough of the world it seemed.
He discovered that playing his music pipe was a sure way to attract random dragons. Gronkles, Nadders, Zipplebacks, Terrors and even his father's Nightmare, Fireworm chased after him when they heard the pipe play. He would end up being caught between dragon paws with no escape route as they hummed in content and in want of more hearing delights. His parents knew to look for the pile of dragons when he didn't come home in time for the evening meal. The High Commander would toss an eel in the vicinity and Cur would be left lying on the ground, mussed, and promising that he wouldn't do it again.
But he forgot sometimes.
Indoors was safer to play the music pipe. It kept the sound muffled from the outside. He would play songs he made for his family. There were fast tunes for his sisters and they would dance. Happy ones he meant for his mother and she would smile with encouragement still even listening when busy with sewing and cooking. His father would absently tap his boot to the pace Cur played; Cur thought of sharp and bold notes to play for his father, the High Commander to the Chief, and was inwardly delighted he could please his father enough to see him tap his foot.
The boy loved the sound, loved the music and he played so everyone else could enjoy it too.
But there was a bigger reason he did it. One most important-most of all he played because he absolutely loathed silence. There was something so empty and eerie about it that he wanted to banish it from his life forever.
Then came the winter of his sixth year; sickness took his Mother.
And from then on silence engulfed them all.
He couldn't even play his pipe to avoid it. He tried playing his mother's lullaby to feel better but Brig would shout for him to stop playing, and begin to cry. Fin didn't say a word but her stares insisted she'd rather not listen to any music. His father was exasperated and requested he do it anywhere but there. It was his favorite tune, etched in his head. He could play it as natural as breathing, and it was the first song he ever taught himself to play. He didn't understand why everyone hated it; it was beautiful, it was a part of his mother, and it let him keep her in his memory.
So he couldn't play it inside his own home, and he couldn't play it outside unless he wanted to be chased by dragons. So he had to come up with other ways or excuses to play the melody. This required him to speak to other people but he figured it was worth the discomfort of conversing with others to play the song again.
"Can I play you a song?' he asked quietly during one of Berk's more social nights. Many villagers were gathered in the Mead hall for Ale and laughs. He had asked the old man Gobber who sat at the table by the fire pit nursing his tankard.
"Eh?" he leaned over. He was hard of hearing.
"Can I play you a song?" Cur asked a bit louder but the shouts and laughs of the adults were still louder around them.
"What's wrong?"
"I said Song!"
"Aye, I can get along!"
"Song!"
"I didn't know a lad your age knew about ladies undies."
Cur blushed, not even knowing how the old smith thought he heard that. He sighed, giving up and moved to other people.
"Can I play you a song?"
He asked Ruffnut the Terrible. She was a loud lady and usually addressed people with a snap or a menacing smile. Honestly he was a bit terrified of her but her husband was kind and softer-spoken. She gave him a considering look and then turned to her husband, "What is the deal with Snotlout's kid? I thought he'd be playing the swords game by now, not music."
He gave a nervous swallow and eyed two of the older boys sparring with long sticks as if they were swords. Cur didn't have that much of an interest being smacked with a stick. He noticed adults seeming perplexed that he didn't take an interest in combat like the other boys. His father had assured him that as he grew he would be able to fight and take down the toughest of vikings if he wanted. He didn't question it, believing he could easily whomp Svenan the Younger who was two years older—and sometimes he wanted too because Svenan was Rude. But he never was brave enough to try it.
He turned his gaze back and waited for her to stop talking about him and answer the question.
"Well, um—can I?"
"You can do whatever you want kid," she replied unconcerned either way, then swiped up her mug and took a drink. He had a feeling she didn't want to hear his music.
"I want to play your music tube," their daughter Frostbite appeared most suddenly and swiped at it. She must have been sitting in her father's lap on the other side of the table where he couldn't see her.
"No," he clutched his pipe to his chest.
"I want play it," she said again and in a tone that was slower as if he didn't understand.
"You can't."
She sucked in a deep breath and Cur knew what would happen in a few seconds if he didn't comply. He very reluctantly handed it over. Frostbite acquired a giddy grin and blew all her might into the top of the pipe without covering any holes.
A shrill sound overcame the Mead Hall and everyone stopped socializing to look at the cause of the sound; some people even held their ears. They heard some dragon whimpers and roars on the outside the great doors, scratching at them to break in and end the terrible noise.
"Frostbite!" Ruffnut snapped and yanked the pipe from her daughter's grasp, "Enough of that!"
The little girl began to whine and protest but Ruffnut threw the pipe back at Cur and let him scurry far away. Which he did, to the other end of the room.
All he wanted to do was play music and make someone happy the way music made him happy. He hardly ever got to anymore and it had been two years since that horrid winter.
A Terrible Terror landed on his shoulder, startling him suddenly. Dragons weren't allowed in the mead-hall but Terrible Terrors could get away with sneaking in. After a closer look he knew it was Speck, the Terror that always followed his grandfather. His grandfather was merry and toasting his friends across the room and wasn't even aware Speck had snuck in.
"Hi Speck," Cur bopped the dragon's snout fondly. He liked the Terror dragons, they didn't squish him when he played music and were too small to pick him up with their mouths.
The little dragon made a gurgle noise and yawned, it thin tongue lolled out—as if it were expecting food. Cur didn't have any so he snuck up to the nearest table and broke of a piece of bread. Terrors ate almost anything. Speck was happy to munch on the morsel and decided Cur's shoulder was a nice place to stay for awhile.
He approached the next pair of people. It was the Chief and his wife.
"Can I play you a song?"
They stopped chatting and gave him a considering looks as well.
He was afraid he would get in trouble and they would tell him to put Speck outside but the Chief must have liked dragons too much to order such a thing.
"Well, what songs do you know?" He asked instead.
"I know the night melodies and the Odin-tune and the Viking sailing sea-song." he stopped and hesitated because he didn't want to play those, he wanted to play just one, "Also my momma's lullaby."
A different sort of look crossed The Chief's wife's face. Usually it was even and stern but now it was softer, "Play that one."
"Really?"
"Yes. Go ahead," she gave a small smile of encouragement.
"As long it isn't like little-miss-Ingerman's song," the Chief laughed.
Cur felt a bit insulted the Chief would think his songs would be anything remotely as crass-sounding as Frostbite's one note horror. But the Chief was merely joking as evident by his smile of support.
Cur returned that smile and played for them.
Once the first note was released a great lightness hit his chest, and a happiness sprouted from that lightness. The other notes only added to it and he was smiling and swaying with his eyes closed, puffing life into the lullaby he just loved so much and hardly got to hear. He even heard Speck purgowling at his hear, feeling the dragon's scales rub against his neck in content.
His song was stopped abruptly when someone grabbed his arm, "Cur! I trust you not to bother the Chief."
Speck gave a squeak and fluttered away in surprise, flying high up into the cavernous part of the ceiling.
His father didn't seem that pleased, evident by his frown.
"But Daddy—"
"It's fine Snotlout; he's a talented little guy on that pipe," The Chief spoke on his behalf.
Cur's heart lifted at such a compliment from an important person and he wished his father could feel proud too but all the High Commander did was say, "You sure he's not a bother?"
"No, now let him play for us," the Chief's wife instructed quite coldly, her face was at an even sterner expression than usual. She must have really liked his song to be angry about the interruption. Again he felt proud but it was overshadowed by his father's lack of enthusiasm.
His father nodded and his stern look did not lift as he continued forth, ushering Fin toward more food. His father had a theory that if he fed her more she would talk again.
Cur wilted just a little and didn't continue to play though it was okay to.
"Well go ahead," The Chief encouraged him but Cur knew playing it would only upset his father and his older sister if she was close enough to hear. He took a quick scan of the Mead Hall and Brig looked to be judging that stick fight between Svenan and Hailstrom.
"No, I'm done," he spoke softly and turned to leave them. At least he got to hear a part of it.
"Curran," he heard his full name; the Chief's wife had said it. No one but his mother ever called him by that name. He turned and looked at her with wide, questioning, eyes. "Thank you. Your mother's lullaby is a very beautiful tune."
She said it with appreciation and in a grown up sort of way. Talking to him like adults talked to each other, not the way they talked to children. Not the way his father talked to him.
He felt himself smile and nod, never feeling more accomplished.
His smile wasn't to last though because that night as he was put to bed his Father lingered. There was something troubling him. His father was still upset, and had been a little different after his return. Cur wished his music could make his father feel better but it seemed it only made things worse.
Snotlout paced for a while, seeming to think of what to say before he sat on the end of the bed, "Son, I know you like playing music but I ask you, man to man—never to play that song again."
It shocked him. Asking him to never play or hear that song was like blowing out all the candles in the room at night. Darkness. Silence. Cur hated the night for its silence—only sometimes would a cricket serenade or rain pelt rhythm make the night tolerable.
He knew he should obey his father's request but couldn't understand why the man hated that song. It was his mother's and they all had loved her.
"Why?"
"It's not something I expect you to understand son. Don't play it anymore."
"Well you said I could play it but not in the house—"he was desperate to keep a way, any way at all to be able to play it.
His father must have been tired and grouchy or else he wouldn't have been so fast to lose his patience, "Curran! My word is final on this. If I hear you playing that song again I will take away your pipe for good. Do you understand?"
Cur felt under his pillow to make sure his pipe was there. He was startled and hurt that his father would take it so he could never play any music again.
"Understand?"
"Yes sir," he couldn't even look at his father after that. Snotlout blew out the one candle that lit the room and that darkness was how it felt for the boy to know he couldn't play his favorite song ever again. Oh sure there would be new sounds, but they would all gradually replace the fond memories of his mother.
He pulled his covers over his head and hid his tears from the world.
Not long after darkness settled he felt a pressure on his bed.
"Why was Dad yelling at you?"
It was Brig. She had sneaked out of her room and decided to investigate.
"I can't ever play that song again. You know the one," he uncovered his face but it did little to help see in the dark.
"He is so bossy," he could hear a frown in her voice.
You're one to talk, Cur thought of all the times Brigid bossed him around—almost every time she let out a breath.
"I thought you hated the song too? You should be happy you can never hear it again."
"I never said I hated it, it just makes me sad. I think it makes Dad too sad to hear it."
"I could play it somewhere else, he didn't have to say I could never play it again," his voice caught on a lump because his father's tone and scowl re-played through his memory. He covered his head again. He wanted his father to like his music again.
Brig couldn't do anything about it. He didn't expect her to understand either. She was bossy and mean too. He sniffed back his tears once more.
"Remember what Mom said?"
"Momma said a lot of things," he mumbled through his quilt.
"An rud is annamh is íontach."
What is seldom is wonderful.
He laid there pondering that proverb, remembering his mother say it a handful of times when they wanted more of something—food, drink, playtime—she said they would appreciate things more when not at an excess.
Nosey Brig interrupted his thoughts and joined him under his quilt. Why couldn't she just go back to her own bed? She shared one with Fin but Fin was so quiet it was like having no one there.
But then his annoyance melted and his ears perked up because Brig was humming something.
It was hushed but the silence cleared a little to reveal his mother's lullaby. Brig was humming it to him. After all, his father never said they couldn't hum it. He rolled over and gave her a big hug of thanks, pressing his cheek against hers only to feel wetness.
She was crying too.
Maybe his older sister did understand, and more than he gave her credit for.
A/N: Wow, way to turn the lightness of the Kid's story so heavy, thanks a lot Gumdrop *rolleye* Sorry it's been so long guys., this chapter eluded me for awhile being the victim of multiple unsaved crashes.
'Speck' the Terrible Terror is Contraltissimo's brain child, and she was nice enough to let me re-use him here :)