Within the dark and cavernous throne room, Vasilias sat and cursed the silence. It was something he had never anticipated, that silence. Even at the height of his power, the apex of his empire, when pure, pristine order had blessed his worlds, there had never been silence. Always, there had been motion, and conversation, and music.

Vasilias closed his ancient eyes and forced himself to remember. He remembered the din of a thousand glorious feasts, and the melodies of a thousand marvelous songs that would never be sung again. He remembered those moments, those rare and precious moments, when Vasilias the Conqueror, Vasilias the Mighty, Vasilias the King, allowed himself to simply, if only briefly, be Vasilias. Just Vasilias.

Agonizingly slowly, Vasilias looked down at his right hand, bedecked and infused with gold, the just desserts of his station. But gold was not his desire now. Gold was not his pleasure. With a sudden surge of will, Vasilias conjured within his golden grasp a simple, long wooden flute. The ancient, decrepit king turned his hand over to examine the instrument, realizing that he didn't even remember where he had obtained the thing. He stared for a long while, and then suddenly, violently, threw the flute to the floor off to his right. There it broke the silence, if only for a moment, before it rolled to the feet of Renn Winmoore.

Without turning his head to look at him, Vasilias spoke, his voice soft, almost human again. "Play."

"What?" Renn asked, shocked.

"I said play the flute, Boy!" the King answered, allowing an eldritch edge to enter his voice.

Renn felt the pull of Vasilias's command on his mind, and he found himself obeying. He reached down and picked up the simple flute and, without really knowing how or why, he began to play. At first, the sound was high and uneven, but something beyond Renn's experience seemed to overcome his ignorance, and the sound became pleasing. Renn did not even know the song he played. He simply allowed the music to come. It was an ancient song from a simpler time. A time Vasilias had nearly forgotten.

In his throne, Vasilias closed his eyes and remembered. He remembered a time when Vasilias, neither King nor Conqueror, danced to this song like a young child. He imagined himself, even now, rising from that throne and moving his body in the cold, empty darkness of his palace in Ariva. He imagined what it would be like, for just a few brief moments, to surrender to the music and allow himself a freedom he had cost himself years ago, far longer ago even than he had pried Ariva from Ikass. In the lonely darkness of indentured immortality, Vasilias imagined what it would be like to dance again. He wondered what it would be like to live.