Shadows danced upon the wall in intricate movements, fleeting and flickering in unison with the undulating stirs of torchlight. The fiery motions threw a mirage of indecipherable stories on the stone. Written with intangible allure, they spoke of merriment and madness. They spoke mutely of the highest hopes and of deepest despair.

Iridescent moonlight streamed through the windows, bathing the hallway in gentle azure light, each ray a bane of darkness. The soft blue of the moon and the harsh red of each torch mingled and fought, telling their own struggling stories against the swallowing tide of black.

Silence permeated each story.

Amidst the scene of light and dark, a forlorn figure stepped in and disturbed the narrative. Rhythmic footfalls announced the newcomer’s appearance, puncturing the quiet like solitary notes on a soundless score. The walls echoed with ancient riddles and old secrets, but they also rang with the noise of more recent battles, fresher wounds.

Soft words rose to fill the hollow in between.

When lovers’ stars shall meet in sweet embrace

And sky above shall greet earth with a kiss

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If distant lands shall quake with great unrest

Should dragons rise in mirth from the abyss

All this shall fail to pierce my love professed

So flee the day and fill the night with grace

The voice that stirred the silence and tamed the clashes sang sweeter than honey, softer than silk, yet it rang drear and distant, panged by bitter sorrow. The light shone upon silver hair, but the stranger’s mien could not be discerned. A cowl hid the figure’s face, as though the shadowy commotion had once more become oppressive and deafening, re-forming when the music faded.

In truth, no ballad or song could soothe the anguish that seemed to have settled into the very bones of the earth and the voice of the wind. It was as if the ground had become harder and the air heavier. It was as if the force of life struggled to flow and fly in every living thing, like a river choked and dammed by stifling stones.

Petrified and dense.

Stagnant.

The furtive stories woven restlessly in the fabric of daylight could not begin to tell of the burden that plagued this place. Every place, in fact.

The figure reached their destination. A secluded desk lay illumined by a single candle and surrounded by a thousand tomes peering curiously from behind unseeing fog. The figure sat.

The scars in the stone, the clash in the light, the heaviness in the air. All would be shaped into story.

The world must never forget what happened.

The writer took up pen and parchment.