dance of the dead story

Tekst utworu

[narrator] The minor-key waltz dragged through the cavernous hall like a slow bleed. The faceless phantoms pressed close, their silver-threaded silks brushing against him, filling his silver chalice with shallow, sweet validations. He drank, but the fluid ran through him, leaving his heart a cold, hole-ridden cup. He looked over the spinning shoulders of the dead, desperately seeking the one face he knew. Suddenly, the crowd parted. There she was. Lorna. She stood under the fractured light of the iron chandelier, looking exactly as she did the night he walked away. The sight of her triggered a violent, agonizing swell of memory— a vivid flashback cutting through the ballroom’s opulence, dragging him back to the final months of their reality. He remembered the way her shoulders had begun to slouch, heavy under the sheer intensity of his devotion. His love hadn't been a sanctuary; it had been an atmosphere too thick to breathe. He had demanded all of her, holding her so tightly that her color began to fade, her brightness collapsing under the gravity of his suffocating attachments. Then, there was the darker truth. He had seen the shadows circling her. He had felt the creeping, destructive influence of a malice that wanted to claim them both. To keep her safe, to preserve the last fragile pieces of her spirit from the Evil Queen— the dark force he had surrendered to in his own mind— he had made the noble mistake. He had cut the cord. He had broken her heart to save her life, walking away under the false pretense of heroism, leaving them both shattered in the ash. "You left me," the phantom of Lorna whispered, stepping into his space. Her hand, cold as river ice, touching his cheek. "If ashes learn to kneel and silence learns to sing..." "I did it to keep you safe," he choked out, his eyes stinging. But as he reached out to clasp her waist, to finally hold her in the ballroom of his mind, Lorna’s face began to glitch. The soft lines of her jaw hardened. Her bright eyes turned amber, burning with a cold, predatory fire. The silk of her dress decayed into a gown of black, iridescent feathers that rustled like dry leaves. [instrumental] [romantic strings] [hook] [quiet] [defeated] if ashes learn to kneel and silence learns to sing then i am yours beyond the ending of all things