The pure Ting! of brass on iron still vibrated in Lysander's bones, a phantom note echoing the tangible resonance he'd discovered. The piano frame wasn't a corpse; it was an oracle of iron, whispering secrets in a language of vibration and force. Brynn's challenge – "Learn its song… then weave it into the bigger sound" – hung in the cold air of the Crucible recess, a gauntlet thrown. He clutched the brass mallet Mira had gifted him, its cool weight an anchor. His back throbbed, a deep, familiar counterpoint, but the sharp agony had dulled to a heavy ache. Healing was slow, but the vessel was stabilizing.
He spent hours that blurred into days in the recess. The crate became his perch, the charcoal notebook his scripture. He mapped the iron frame's sonic landscape with meticulous, painful care. Each tap, each Ting!, Tonk!, Dooong!, or Ping! was meticulously recorded. He noted the mallet used (brass, copper, steel), the precise point of impact (marked on a rough sketch of the frame), the resulting pitch, timbre, and decay. He discovered nodes where the iron sang – clear, sustained tones – and dead zones where it only thudded. He learned the frame's grammar: a diagonal brace near the bass end yielded a deep, guttural Dooong with the brass mallet; a specific junction high on the treble side gave a bright, almost bell-like Ping! with steel. It was a lexicon written in rust and force, a scale devoid of traditional notes but brimming with raw sonic character.
One grey afternoon, hunched over his notebook, a shadow fell across the page. Remy leaned against the dormant boiler nearby, whittling a small piece of dense, dark wood – a bridge for his lute, perhaps. His gaze wasn't on Lysander's sketch, but on the exposed innards of the piano frame.
"Found the weeping spot yet?" Remy asked, his voice a low rumble.
Lysander looked up, startled. "Weeping spot?"
Remy pointed his knife towards a thick, vertical strut near the center of the frame, heavily scarred by rust and time. "Tap there. Gentle-like. With the copper."
Intrigued, Lysander picked up the copper mallet. He positioned it against the pitted metal, struck lightly.
Waaannnnng…
The sound was unlike any he'd elicited before. A low, dissonant moan that seemed to shiver through the iron itself, vibrating unpleasantly in Lysander's teeth. It didn't ring cleanly; it wailed, thin and metallic, before fading into a hollow whisper. It was the sound of profound stress, of metal pushed to its limit long ago.
"That's where the water pooled inside," Remy explained, his knife scraping rhythmically. "Rusted it deep. Weakens the bone. Can't hold a true note. Only the hurt." He nodded at the frame. "Every instrument's got wounds. Some sing 'em. Some weep 'em. Important to know which is which."
Lysander stared at the strut, then marked it in his notebook: Wailing Point - Copper - Deep Stress/Weeping. Remy's insight was profound. The frame wasn't just a source of sound; it was a repository of history, its resonance shaped by damage and endurance. Just like him. His fingers traced the crude stitches beneath his tunic – Silas's brutal composition on his own flesh. Did he sing his wounds now, or weep them?
He looked up to thank Remy, but the instrument maker had already limped back towards his bench, leaving only the rhythmic scritch-scritch of his knife and the lingering ghost of the wail.
Later, as the foundry's light dimmed towards evening, Brynn appeared. She didn't speak, just stood listening as Lysander explored a sequence: Ping! (Steel, High Treble) – Ting! (Brass, Mid) – Dooong! (Brass, Bass). He varied the rhythm, listening to the overtones clash and blend. It wasn't melody; it was texture, atmosphere – the sonic equivalent of smoke and grinding gears.
When he finished, breathing slightly harder, Brynn grunted. "Getting less clumsy. Still sounds like a drunk blacksmith falling down stairs." Her eyes, however, held a flicker of something akin to approval. She jerked her chin towards the main floor, where Mira's loom pulsed its relentless clack-THUMP, clack-THUMP. "Hear that? She's weaving anger today. Thump's harder. Faster. Thread's snagging."
Lysander closed his eyes, focusing past the immediate rhythm. Brynn was right. The THUMP was more emphatic, almost violent. The pauses between cycles were tighter, breathless. An undercurrent of frustration vibrated beneath the mechanical beat.
"Now," Brynn commanded, "Answer it."
Lysander's brow furrowed. "Answer it? How?"
"With the bone, bird. Don't just listen to the big sound. Feel it. Then hit back." She crossed her arms, waiting.
He took a deep breath, wincing at the pull on his stitches. He focused on the loom's rhythm, absorbing its agitated pulse. Clack-THUMP… clack-THUMP… clack-THUMP… He waited for the next heavy THUMP. As it landed, vibrating faintly through the stone floor even to his corner, he struck the frame's deepest Dooong! point with the brass mallet.
THUMP-Dooong!
The sounds merged. The loom's percussive punctuation was amplified, deepened, extended by the iron frame's resonant groan. It wasn't harmony; it was emphasis. A sonic underline beneath Mira's frustration.
Across the foundry, Mira's hands didn't falter on the shuttle. But her head lifted, just fractionally. Her gaze, usually locked on the intricate dance of threads, flickered towards the recess. Not to Lysander, but to the source of the resonant Dooong! that had underscored her own forceful THUMP. There was no smile, but a subtle tightening around her eyes, a silent acknowledgment. Heard you.
Lysander lowered the mallet, a surge of connection warming him despite the foundry's chill. It wasn't just mapping, or even playing. It was conversing. Weaving his frame's resonant voice into the living tapestry of the Crucible's sound. Brynn gave a single, curt nod.
"Better. Now you're starting to listen with the place, not just at it." She turned to leave, then paused. "The wailing spot Remy showed you? Don't avoid it. Sometimes the weave needs the ache too. Just know when to use it." She vanished into the gathering gloom near the fire pit.
Lysander picked up the charcoal. On his sonic map, he drew a thick, bold arrow connecting the frame's Dooong! point to Mira's loom. He labeled it not with a technical term, but with two words that resonated deeper than any pitch: Fury Shared.
He looked at the frame, then towards Mira, already absorbed back into her rhythmic storm. He picked up the copper mallet and approached the rust-scarred "weeping spot" Remy had identified. He didn't strike it yet. He laid the rounded copper head gently against the pitted metal, feeling the cold, rough texture. The ache of the iron seemed to seep into the mallet, into his hand, resonating with the deep, healing throb in his own back. Waaannnnng… The dissonant cry echoed in his memory.
The canvas was vast. The brush was forged from scrap and bone. The palette held not just the bright Ting! and the warm Tonk, but the deep Dooong and the dissonant Waaannnnng… of shared wounds. The weaving had begun, thread by resonant thread, into the defiant, dissonant, utterly alive symphony of the Crucible. He was no longer just listening. He was part of the pulse.