How long had it been since a bard had sat at the piano upstairs, she didn’t know. Too long, then, if she’d never heard them. It was a brief thought as she let the guidance of a song once recorded into her stone pull at her hands. A memory cracked by the Good Doctor’s surgery came to mind; she’d sat here with another once, watching hands that were more adept than her own with this particular instrument. But her stone knew many songs and she followed the guidance of it. The music, though great, was not the thing to note.
With the confidence of one ignorant to the possibility of anyone hearing, she sang. Her voice filled the upper floor, spilling down the staircase and into the halls. For fun. Perhaps the lyrics were full of uncertainty and loss, but there was no purpose for her voice beyond the desire to sing.
No duties were tied to this song.
It was only for fun, as Zeha had asked of her so many years ago.
The upper floor was a golden, aether filled place of tall buildings of a once city, Garlemald only half standing these days. But here, although dated to the memories of a decade previous, it stood whole. Tall, great buildings stretched beyond the ceiling of At Wits End, the wood above obscured by golden clouds full of snow to leave the upper floor feeling much taller than it could possibly be. Three figures stood behind the piano bench, listening, an adolescent male flanked on each side by two women. The music thrummed outwards, a cool feeling, belonging to someone generations before Mine, but the words and voice were her own.
And that was a great thing.
