To those who can hear it, the world sings.

The night before yesterday, the hill sang of nature, of arias of birds, of howls of packs on the prowl, of water playing its soft cadence as it continues its unrelenting march to the sea. Neither pleasant nor cruel, but of primal existence. The wolf had no thoughts of happiness as it sought to fill its gullet, nor did the babbling stream feel anything more than the allure of the sea.

Yesterday morn, the hill sang a different primal song. Gone was the trilling of birds attracting new mates, gone were the harmonics of wolves. The hill rang out with reverberations of swords beating against shields, cheers for the glory ahead, the regular percussion of boots marching. It sang a duet of glory and excitement, and of anxiety and apprehension, both harmonies a chorus of what would come. This song would not last long.

The song the hill sang most of yesterday was a song of war cries and blood. The new recruit whimpered in panic and fear, and the frantic desire to live most of all. A fallen knight gurgled the beat of his last regrets, knowing that soon, far away, a lady would compose a requiem with her falling tears. A nearby drengr screamed for his glorious fight, and his inevitable rise to the halls of the chosen. Many such chords drenched the hill, and like always, the hill sang along, indifferent of the strains the wavered and the lyrics that would reach their grim conclusion.

Somewhere on the hill, a voice of authority roared a resounding commanding cry.

Once more, the song of the hill slowly changed. It began to fill with sighs of relief and regret, hissing nausea and disgust, hoots of accomplishment and glory. The gasps for air of the fleeing man as he frantically swims for safety across the stream. The chimes of chains and the moans of prisoners and the howls of men who lost their kin. Somewhere hummed the soft melodic breath of the man beyond saving, ending with the percussive gasp as his son's steel lullaby released him from his agony. Soon, the songs of man began to leave the hill to its song, friends grunting their rhythmic labor to bring back their fallen comrades, others with enthusiastic anthems beating in their victorious hearts.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

For a time, last night, the hill sang out alone, vibrating its imperceptible melody, all its accompaniments having fled, or died, or left victoriously. Yet as always, the hill sang on, unperturbed.

Today, the hill sings a song of calming death, of Helheim. Overnight the harmonies of birds and beasts once more joined in. The cawing of our lesser brethren hopping around looking for a tasty eyeball. The snarling of mangy curs having by chance glared at the same morsel of flesh; each seeking to drive off their competitor. Buzzing of flies lace the air and the keening of the blood drenched earth has gotten louder, unbearable almost, chanting its slow and soft cadences of decay and nourishment for the coming growth. The songs of man have come back today as well, the warbling and whispers of cowards and looters seeking to deprive the dead of their treasures in Valhalla.

We have heard the songs of the world for lifetimes. We are familiar with its patterns and repetitions. Out of the dismal dirges of death and decay is where the truly pleasant tunes grow, and those notes are the worth of the world. The notes may be sung in the painful cry of new life as the distant lady welcomes the fallen knight's last gift, or when the young recruit's back bends with the weight of years, regaling his grandchildren with his ballad of courage and valor, chanting a secret hymn to thank his gods for his longevity. The notes may tumble free when the earth has finished its feast and the sparrows return to a newly fertile land, or when the deer consume the new layers of grass, or when the wolves come to stalk them. We listen to all the songs that others refuse to hear and recount the tunes to the young fool. With one eye seeing the wisdom of the ages, and the other the foolishness of his youth, only he of all we tell care to listen. He is still a young fool yet, though he sports a grey beard. He still makes foolish decisions in order to stave off the sting of inevitable death. But he listens. Perhaps soon he will hear for himself.