A/N: This started out as a fifteen minute free-writing exercise, which turned into forty-five minutes, which turned into a story with no end in sight.

Yes, I know, Dog isn’t finished yet. Yes, I know, there are still people who read it. Yes, I will work on it. Someday. Eventually. When I figure out where the hell the plot is actually going. Until then, have a random almost-fairy-tale that is more complicated than it first appears.

Each part is probably going to be pretty short, but this means more frequent updates (hopefully). It also probably means more cliffhangers. Oops.

Part One

The boy loved music, although he had a voice like a sickly donkey and his fingers always stumbled when he tried to play any instrument and he could neither read nor write music (or anything else, for that matter). He loved it anyway, and often made up tunes for himself and thought them in the back of his head. He did not dare try to hum them aloud.

When the stranger arrived and moved into the old house where the witch used to live - before they burned her alive - the village could talk of nothing else for weeks. He had a voice like summer, like quicksilver, like the first cool breeze after a drought. He brought with him instruments of kind and quality that no one in the village had ever thought of, much less seen.

And he offered to teach the children of the villagers to sing as he did. Some parents were wary. Some thought it was a frivolous thing, but would do no harm. The children thought it would be a good way to get out of particularly unpleasant chores and so were more than eager for the lessons to begin.

No one thought to invite the boy - he lived with the tanner, although he was not his son, and no one wanted much to do with him. He smelled.

Anyway, not even this bright stranger could have taught him to sing. That was, of course, impossible.

But the boy came to the first lesson anyway, having heard about it from the other children when they were taunting him about it. He washed as best as he could in the stream and combed his matted hair with his fingers. The other children made no special effort, although most of them had had their faces rubbed clean by their mothers' aprons.

The singer stood in front and smiled at them all. His teeth were very white and looked hardly used, like a baby's.

"Welcome, children. Now, all of you, please sing this note."

He opened his mouth, and the boy thought he could not ever describe the sound that came out. A tone as clear and pure and sweet as sunlight after a rain soared over the children and slowly died away, leaving the boy trembling and in awe.

The rest of them obediently tried to mimic their new teacher, with widely varying degrees of success. He moved among them, touching a shoulder here, the top of a head there, picking out a few of them and ignoring the rest. He did not touch the boy, but that was only to be expected. He was standing at the back and his mouth was firmly closed, for he knew he couldn't sing right anyway.

When the last faltering attempt faded, the stranger stood in front of them again, smiling. He was always smiling.

"If I touched you, you may stay and be taught. The rest of you, go home and learn farming, for you will never make singers."

Those he had singled out, five in all, beamed smugly at their former playfellows. Those he had not chosen left, grumbling for a moment before forgetting their disappointment in a game of tag.

The boy hesitated.

"Please, sir, may I stay?"

"You did not even try, child. Why teach one who will not consent to learn?"

"I don't mean to sing," he explained. "I want to listen. Please?"

The giggles of the five were silenced by a glance from the stranger.

"If you will be silent, you may stay."

The boy nodded and sat down cross-legged in the corner, watching the singer with hungry eyes.

He never spoke again.