In darkness born lay the child, a silence, strange, steeped the heavy air. The woman hollowed, lay taut in the very stillness of that final victory, thrusting life from the jaws of death, only to fall herself into that consuming void. Unheeded by marble flesh, the babe did not stir when the silence shattered into ebon crystal shards. Ash shrouded stalked the mage into the hovel, seeking the source of song. Eyes ice pale laid brief on a face yet writ with shock at Fate's last jest. But corpse song he did not seek, its chorus was too common for savoring. There, wrapped in utter silence, sang that pure and painful note, which had drawn answering cry from his own lost soul as notes tortured from a lyre. Sustained concert unwilled by him, impossible to believe, to bear. Yet there, new and empty and near devoid of life, lay the source of song. He raised the babe from Death's hard and loving embrace. Cradling her against his pale, flat breast, he bade milk to come. From that charnel house he strode, captivated, into the gathering mists of dawn. The child grew. She bathed in clear, still pools of secret power, fed on the essence of dreams, drank of Life itself and danced with Death. A blossom of singular purity, she flowered in the private garden. The ash-cloaked mage fed her the milk of his breast and the blood of his heart and denied her nothing but his seed. His soul still groaned with that single piercing note which bound him to her so that he could not bear to stand apart. The sable flower blossomed, rich, vibrant, ready for harvest. Draped in gauze of ash, trembling, he knelt at her feet and offered her the one gift he had ever denied her. Rapacious in newfound lust, that gift she took and more. From the ash mage she drew the milk of his breast, the blood of his heart, the seed of his loins, the breath of his lungs, and the song of his soul, till nothing was left but a husk. In gluttonous languor she blinked at the hollow shell by her side. She brushed the parted lips with a kiss, and he fell to dust. Ash smudged, void of warmth, she found the pool gone tepid and rank. Hungry she fed, thirsty she drank, but Dreams and Life could not blunt her need. She called out to Death to come and dance again, but the song was consumed and Death had run off with the ash mage. In darkness waited the woman, a silence, strange, steeped the heavy air. Questing, she sought another song, another piercing note to sustain her. A source to feed her hollow hunger. The wizard rose from his wife's bed, a compelling, agonizing resonance drawing him out into the snow. Piercing, steady, unrelenting, it drew him foundering across the ice to the forbidden keep. Her lips were warm when they embraced. Death came again and danced for a while, for there was a new song at the keep. At last she could not bear to tantalize with tastes of promised repast and feasted till Death ran away with the mage. She became a great composer, each song but one note, each note the tune of a grand ball. A masqued ball, with but three guests; a wizard, a hunger, and Death. At the end of the ball, the masks were removed, the hunger was sated, the song died, and Death ran away with the wizard. Death is a fickle lover. He will dance with you all evening and leave with someone else. Passion's greed fed reason's storehouse. Consuming only the transitory nature of man, she stored the essence of his power till she was fat with magic. Knowledge could hone the fat to muscle, forge the power into Power. With such Power she could compose one single song of many notes that would go on and on and on. All the world would dance. Seeking knowledge she went into the world. Weaving knowledge and power like crystal threads she composes. If you listen with your soul you can feel the beginnings to the song. Listen closely, and you too may dance with Death. Perhaps he may even leave with you. |
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