"Hush, my dear… listen carefully. Do you hear the melody?"
– A Beloved Mother
I took the entity's hand—gently, reverently—and drew her fully into view. She flowed like calm water given form: a veil cascading over her head like a river in endless motion, her translucent body shimmering with tiny fish darting through her depths—silver and blue scales flashing like stars beneath a clear stream. No legs; her lower half rippled and swayed as though she wore a living gown of liquid. Four arms: two still wrapped tenderly around my neck, the third and fourth clasped in mine in a perfect dancer's pose.
We descended slowly toward the ground, hymns shifting from martial thunder to a languid, swaying melody—perfect for a waltz.
Just above the mutants' heads, we halted, as though standing on solid air. All nearby creatures froze, time itself seeming to pause in deference.
Then the dance began.
The hymn returned to warlike intensity, transforming the ballroom into a battlefield of grace. We waltzed; wind from our movements scythed outward, slicing frozen monsters into fine diamond dust that swirled around us like glittering snow. More charged—only to be turned to ice mid-stride, shattered by a twirl, reduced to sparkling motes that caught the light in ethereal patterns. The roars and screams drowned beneath the bewitching song; the reek of blood and flesh yielded to the clean scent of rivers and lakes—fresh, ancient, and alive.
Emptiness filled with joy. Satisfaction. I had truly missed this dance.
Soon, the first act ended. I surveyed the hall: every lesser mutant had become ice sculpture or diamond dust drifting in lazy spirals. The giant construct roared in protest, lunging with its grotesque arm. A hand materialised before me—pale, graceful, emerging from nowhere. It waved once. A gentle breeze raced outward, striking the arm. It exploded in a spray of frozen gore; ice sealed the wound instantly, even as blood began to surge from it, preventing regeneration.
The monstrosity screamed—rage, pain, and futility. The spirits paid it no mind.
A soft wind brushed past me, fresh and fragrant like a blooming field. I watched as that same wind surged toward the beast, shredding its grotesque flesh, yet it healed as quickly as it was wounded, a fact that clearly amused the spirits.
A hand turned my face away from the spectacle and back to the lady in my arms.
"Gazing elsewhere?" she teased. "You will make us jealous; you know."
"Forgive me, my lady," I murmured. "I was merely astounded—again—by you and your sisters' power. It is… entertaining to witness."
"More entertaining than this dance?"
"Never, my lady. Never."
Behind the veil, I glimpsed a smile—childlike joy twinkling in eyes older than stars. The second act began. The hymn slowed and became intimate—bewitching in a different way.
We danced languidly, savouring the embrace of music and the moment. The monstrosity birthed new horrors from discarded flesh—mutants crawling forth, only to meet swift ends. Some were turned to stone, their limbs crumbling away to leave behind statues worthy of galleries. Others sprouted leaves and vines, transforming into strange gardens of twisted shrubs. Still others were shredded so finely they became part of the wind itself—dissolving into the melody.
Each birth was brief and futile. The construct tried miasma—thick, corrosive waves. The spirits gathered it effortlessly, transmuting it into the purest mana—the truest arcane residue, power reserved for gods—and blew it toward me. It splashed across my skin, cool and revitalising, quenching a thirst I had not acknowledged.
The monster fought. It failed. The spirits cared neither for their life nor death—only for the dance. They had starved for so long.
Eventually, the second act ended. Though it felt like hours, I felt no fatigue—only the joy and quiet curse of the spirits' waltz.
"Qulien," she whispered, "return with us to the fae realm."
"I am sorry, my lady. I cannot. I have found enjoyment in this realm. I wish it to remain—for as long as possible."
"Even though your time here is limited?"
"Especially because it is limited."
She sighed. A chorus of sighs followed—regretful, affectionate.
"You were always stubborn," she said. "But no matter. That girl gave you an elixir. It should help that wretched body you wear survive a little longer."
At first, I was confused. Then I realised she was speaking of Lady Crimson. Was that drink truly an elixir? And if so… why give it to me, knowing that I am dying? After all, an unnaturally born fae cannot survive long within the human world. Questions for later.
"Now, my lady," I said gently, "let us complete the final act before I must depart."
"Already?" Her voice carried mock offence. "Are you trying to leave us again?"
"No, my lady. I simply have other matters to attend."
"Always excuses, Qulien. When will you stop?"
"I have no idea what you mean, my lady."
Laughter—different tones, different voices—rippled around me. I felt another pair of hands pat my head tenderly.
"Oh, Qulien," the voices whispered, "we have missed you… Bringer of the Silent Choir."
It had been a very long time since I last heard that title.
Far too long.
"Please, my lady," I replied calmly, "I am now Alezander Von Holms, not Qulien. And my title is the Hanged Man—not the Bringer of the Silent Choir."
One of her arms wrapped around my neck and gently lifted my chin so that I faced her.
"Regardless of the body you wear," she said softly, "or the name or title you claim… you are Qulien to us. Our Bringer."
A quiet warmth stirred in my chest, and yet I chose not to show it.
If they noticed, they would surely tease me for it.
"Now then, my lady," I continued, "the third act remains. Where shall our stage be?"
A gust of wind surged past my head toward the exhausted monstrosity. It froze, then began to change. Flesh hardened to stone; ice crept over wounds; vines and flowers erupted, absorbing miasma and exhaling sweet fragrance. Limbs crumbled into sculpted ruins; the body reshaped itself into a majestic stage—polished marble veined with living ivy, with petals drifting in the air.
The construct died in silence. What remained was beautiful—ready for the final act.
We slowly drifted toward the stage as the third act began.
"Come, our bringer," she whispered. "Let us waltz until eternity arrives as time watches in envy."