Anatia

Late the next morning Cinis found herself with some free time, a luxury she wasn't often allowed but which she thoroughly enjoyed. She decided she would have some fun, but not the sort that got her into trouble with the king. The sort that caused noise complaints. So she grabbed her guitar and plopped onto her array of pillows and cushions and blankets that she lounged on. The guitar was a gift from Ben. She had once told him, a few years back, that she had begun to learn to play as a child but hadn't been able to for years, that year he secretly gave her a guitar for Winter Solstice.

She didn't know how to play, at least not correctly, but she loved to play. It wasn't that she was good, she wasn't, and she honestly did want to gain any talent with the instrument, if only for the reason that she liked to mindlessly pluck the strings to hear the notes themselves. She let out her emotions but not how other people did with music, she didn't turn her emotions into ballads of love or anger, she used her anger to pluck or strum. She used the energy to actually play, not fuel the music. This method of course often led to broken strings when she was in a pissy mood and plucked the strings a bit too hard. It happened so often in fact that she had 6 back up strings and had memorized the motions of replacing a string to the point where she could do so in a matter of moments.

The guitar wasn't wan't fancy, it had nicks and scrapes, but it was in the same way she had scars, they told a story. So she plopped onto her the tasseled purple velvet cushion, the one that always seemed to support her just enough and started plucking. Tuning, she had by no means perfect pitch, but she could normally get within decent range of the target note, but it didn't really matter for her purposes anyway.

The day was cool and the breeze streamed in with the sun through the windows which had been left slightly ajar. The diaphanous thin white curtains drifted with the gale, the bits of dust catching in the light. She pressed her finger on one of the points on the second string in the way that made the sound vibrant and whole. The note that sounded was perfect and she just took a second to marvel at it. At first it sounded sweet, like the rest of the notes on that string always seemed but when she plucked it again and let it ring out, and this time she heard something beneath, not beside the sweet trill. Not the shadow on the floor but the shadow on the object itself, the darker side of the half moon. And it wasn't bitter, but salty and sour, like a tang was threaded through it, a vibrant orange shadowing an impression of pastel pink. Her favorite note. She didn't know what it was called. She'd forgotten everything she had learned back when she had started to be taught, back when she was little. And she was glad of it, if she gave this sound a name then it would no longer be the sound, but the name, it would become just another note, not an emotion, not a feeling or a day or a moment. If she gave it a name it would turn into one of many instead of being this singular perfect thing. Well not perfect, it wasn't perfect, no when she plucked the note a third time it came out dull, she hadn't pressed her finger down on the board hard enough. But no, that note didn't come out dull at all, it came out like a drum beat, like the tropical tunes from the Southern Islands, the drums there held rhythm in every singular beat. She plucked the note like that again, like the drum, then moved to the first string and placed her finger similarly, the drum beat sound now altered to the different pitch of the note. She liked those notes, not just the actual notes but the way they could change from bells ringing out to a thumping drum, a beating heart. So she plucked that note again, then the first then the second twice more, falling into one of her flitting rhythms. She couldn't read or write music, didn't want to, even if Ben often told her she should write these little jingles down so she wouldn't forget them. But she didn't want to write them down, she wanted to play them, play with them. She wanted to forget them, because then the next one came, and she didn't know if she would play it again or if she'd played it before, just that she was playing it now because it thrummed in time with her pulsing life. Not her heartbeat. No, not the physical pumping of blood, though the moments when that fell into synchronicity with her rhythms always felt magnificent. No this was a different kind of heartbeat. Like a heartbeat for her soul, her spirit, her core. The beat of whatever felt these emotions that were weaving these rhythms and tunes. One one two, one one two, the rhythm shifted and evolved with that ever-changing soul beat, that pulse of life. One one two, one one two, one one three. She added an extra note, that same drum sound and pressure but a little higher in pitch, lower on the neck. It was like a singer she had heard at a tavern a few weeks ago, she'd been watching a target, watching his movements discreetly, and while she was sitting at the bar the women singing on the little platform near the back had caught her attention. Not the song or melody or words. But the way the voice sang them. She had heard the song before, an old lover's tale put to song, but the way the lady sang it, like she was telling a story, with the intonation and rhythm of speech but in a flowing lengthy river of singing. The rhythm of her voice and the rhythm of the song were aligned but there was a sense that it was coincidental, that she wasn't so much singing along to the song so much as it was flowing through the notes for her. It had distracted her so much that her target had left the tavern and Cinis hadn't even noticed almost 3 songs later. Despite the drum beat sound this rhythm reminded her of that lady, or at least that last spontaneous note did, it turned a three note beat into a story, with what if's and unlesses and musts. She played that a few more times before pausing and lightly running her fingers over the first to strings.

The Silver Strings she called them in her head. They were thinner and higher than the rest, not in the way that each note was higher than the last but in a different sort of way. They went together but when she tried to tie them into a rhythm with the 3rd or 4th string they always sounded out of place. And they looked different too, not just thinner but more shining and gleaming and like silver instead of the bronze gold of the others. The first two strings also felt different, where the other four strings seemed to have small lines running across them, these two were sleek and smooth, no not smooth, sharp. She remembers when she was little the first time she had seen the strings she had thought they might cut her if she pressed too hard, like they were blades turned into thread. Now she ran her fingers down them and still marveled at the uncut pads of her fingers. Then she plucked those same notes but with more pressure on the neck, and they came out vibrant and ringing once more. She plucked one two then the third string, which came out dull, as the wrist of the hand she was plucking the strings with was resting on the third, fourth and fifth strings. But no matter, she liked the drum sound, and with the singing notes of the silver strings it sounded like a song sung for a hand clap game, like the ones she heard the children playing when she was walking through the city.

So she plucked, one two three three three, one two three three three. These were the songs they'd sing in the meadows. Running among the tall grass and thin stemmed white flowers that caught in her hair, her dress, her hands, as she ran through, leaving her with a head of flower buds and blossoms and petals coating her dress. Their laughter rings like bells above the padding of their bare feet on the ground. Their white hair letting them blend into the flowers while her ruby locks stood out starkly against the field. The cool breeze sent to blow her hair back-

She stopped strumming, she didn't think about that life, not here, in this place. But it wouldn't leave her, that memory, it wouldn't go from her mind. So she packed up her guitar and left the Iron Castle.

No one questioned her leaving; they just noted it silently. She walked out of the Castle and out of the city. She walked until her feet hurt and she began to feel blisters form on her feet. She walked until she entered the forest, until she reached a clearing, with a stream, and a large rock, and a small bed of wild flowers. And so she sat on the rock and let herself strum that tune. Let herself remember those days, not the details, not the people, not herself, but the feeling of the moment, the untamed joy. She brushed her silver strings lightly and the soft notes whispered in the light breeze, the core of the note sounding clear in her head at the echo in the wind. The wind, it seemed to hold a melody of its own, but she couldn't hear it. But now she could hear something, she stopped strumming the guitar and she let the wind blow past her. The guitar strings seemed to hum with the movement of the wind, only slightly but it was there. It was there and it was like the distant ringing of a bell. Two one three, three two one, two one three, three two one. The third note was high, and it sounded like some long forgotten voice, like laughter in a field, like a voice calling her name, her name, her name.

She jolted upright nearly toppling off her cushion. Her room, she was still in her room at the castle. She was still holding the guitar. She had fallen asleep. But the voice. No, there was a voice and it was saying something. She looked up and found Alonzo chiding her about something or another, she wasn't listening, she just nodded and started to put away the guitar. Alonzo hadn't really liked her guitar, though she doubted it was because of her "rambling music"as he called it, though it was hardly rambling or music.

"You know you are supposed to be on guard duty at tonight's dinner." Alonzo's words managed to make it through her fog and wake her up.

"Wait what? Why am I on guard duty? Doesn't the king have more important things for me to do?" Alonzo gave her that look that said don't be stupid you know it isn't really guard duty. No, no it wasn't really guard duty at all, though she would be expected to actually guard the king, the primary reason the King wanted her there was no doubt intimidation, an easy way to shut down any challenges to his decisions. That meant whatever dignitary or noble visiting the Castle was someone with enough sway that they could be a problem. This was just great, she had hoped she would get to relax tonight, maybe read a book, but instead she would be standing behind the King, guarding him, maybe glaring at Ben for letting her get put on guard duty, even if she knew it wasn't really his decision in the end. Ben, he had told her the other day that someone was visiting and the king wanted them here, she should have known that the king only wanted her here for some pageantry bullshit.

"Check in with Ben to see where you have to be when, but don't forget, this is important." translation, if you're late he will kill you. That went without saying though, the king liked to hold that threat over her head, so everything was important. So no she would not be skipping guard duty tonight, certainly not if she was guarding the king himself. She could get away with not being on guard duty when the king wanted her watching a part of the castle, so long as he wasn't there to notice, so long as whether or not she was there didn't impact him directly, she could get away with that. But when it was something this noticeable, when it was something Alonzo came to remind her about. Yeah, she wouldn't be skipping this particular assignment.

She huffed a reluctant, "Fine." which seemed to satisfy Alonzo enough that he turned to leave. But right before he opened the door to go he turned around with a cruel grin on his face.

"By the way some of the King's guests tonight may be-" he paused, like he was looking for the right word, the one that would hurt the most, and he gave a cruel sort of grin as he finished "old friends."

It unsettled her and she couldn't sit still anymore and play her guitar. Those words 'old friends' had her on edge. She went to the barracks training rooms. She wrapped up her hands, found a bag and started punching. She danced around dodging imaginary blows and soon her hair was plastered to her brow and she was huffing.

"What are you doing here?" she turned and found Ben looking exhausted and some of the energy deflated from her anxious limbs. "Nevermind it doesn't matter we just-" he sighed and she started to unwrap her hands, " The king's dinner will be starting in an hour and you need to be there." He paused as if sensing that she would gladly go in what she was wearing now instead of that stuffy uniform, "And you need to get ready and change before then." she let out a long exaggerated sigh,

"Do you think he'd notice if I wore this?" her tone was exaggerated and he laughed at the joke. She walked over as he poured a glass of water from a pitcher on a bench. She took it and gulped back the whole glass. She handed it back and he refilled it. She drank the glass in one gulp and handed it back again.

"Careful. I don't think the king would be happy if you threw up all over his guests."

"Angry enough to make sure I don't attend anymore dinners?" she said with a pho hopeful expression.

"Angry enough to lock you in the dungeon for a month." She made a face as if she was thinking it over and Ben gave her a shove. She laughed and he put his arms around her shoulders and they walked out of the training room laughing side by side.