((Note: I am not the author of this story. This was written by the player of Anguloceyon and is being posted with his permission.))
There is only a single field of light, golden, soft at the edges where the mirrored sheen of wooden slats melt into an all-consuming darkness, as though all the world has been reduced to this one disc of brilliance where a single, red-haired woman in fitted black gown sits on an ebony bench before a large ebony desk.
But it cannot be a desk. The construction is too awkward. The surface is high, at neck level rather than waist, and has been raised and slanted along a side edge so that a long, curved slab of shining black hangs like a low sail over the inner contents, a collection of many dozens of strings, some huge harp laid down within. The woman’s hands rest on fingertips above a shallow shelf in the front, a shelf not large enough for unfurling a scroll to write upon. The shelf is brilliantly white, with ridges of a black wood more dull than the rest of the construction set at intervals, two then three, across the length.
The woman raises her hands slightly, then brings them down upon the shelf. It is not a solid surface. The white and black portions are split into levers which depress as her fingers touch upon them. And when she touches them, a resonant note rises into the surrounding darkness. Many notes, played in chords or in swift runs, match the movements of her fingers. The entire desk is an instrument, played by this woman in her circle of golden light.
And the light is majestic. The player glows as if radiant herself, as if she has the power of the Witchfire surrounding like a barrier against the encroaching emptiness. She sways enrapt as she plays, and the song is the melody of the Witchfire realm, without question. When she turns her head, eyelids pinched in concentration while she selects the position of her hands which will call out the next notes of the melody and harmony, her face is one of the lineage of the witches, all the marks present.
This is the end of time.
The Witchfire has endured the passing of ages, the decay and fading of the world until the void has reclaimed all but this small enclave of reality where the last witch plays the song of the golden light to stave off the elimination of all being upon this miraculous instrument. She looks so very young, barely a woman grown, and all alone in this minuscule world she vainly protects with her music and power.
How long has she been here? That is next to learn, to delve into the history of this witch and learn her devotion to a desolate world left to her by the power of the light. For now, watch the player, hear her song. The verses build in ornament to a conclusion. There is a pause, a chord held to dissipation, and then a flurry of skill where the song is impossibly complex, beyond the human mind to separate, played not with individual intent but sheer intuition. And calmness. Simply struck chords lay out the melody and a soothing support beneath. The song ends.
There is a rushing roar, like waves upon rock in a tempest. Is the darkness coming at last, to flood the disc of light?
But no.
The light expands, suddenly, widely. All the darkness is driven away in a moment by smaller points of light. The crashing surf is applause. The clapping of a dozen towns worth of people all assembled in a half ring around the woman. There is an impossibly large audience in a hall the size of a fortress, and all these people gathered to listen to a song, the song of the Witchfire.
This is the world which will come to be, crowds like armies gathered to praise a musician, to join in thunderous jubilation over the presentation of a melody on an instrument so large it must be fixed in its place. The people are all softly cattle-faced, even the hardest eyes among them not intimately familiar with death. Their clothes are clean and fresh as no villager ever wears, as if each one is a sea-faring noble of the drowned kingdom. Their numbers could strip the land of food simply by marching through, not that their finery tells of any suffering travel. How can the world support such opulence? When does this come to pass?
The woman player finishes her bows to the crowd and strides off to a dark alcove behind stone pillars and curtains. She follows a hall of clean, immaculately clean, plaster, tiles cut so perfectly that each is the work of a lifelong master, and this laid out of sight, a mere use-path. Down she goes to a room with a rich red divan and a true desk with mirror rimmed by golden orbs of light. She sits upright on the divan and exhales proudly, with a hint of a child-like smile. She does not rest long before someone knocks on her dressing room.
“Are you able to receive company?” the authoritative and deep voice asks from outside.
“Just a moment,” the woman calls out vibrantly, crossing the floor, making neat her dress and twisting the handle to see her caller.
The man outside wears a full-sleeved vestment of rich black with a clean, white, linen shirt underneath, threaded so finely that no weave can be seen. A pointed collar not unlike two fangs falls from his throat. His hair is long, down beyond his shoulders, and shines like white gold. His features are lean as an eagle’s, slender to the brink of being inhuman, but the more appealing for that. His stature is likewise beyond normal, a thin giant whose posture is not the least gawky.
She was not expecting him, perhaps not expecting anyone, and peers at him as if to read his purpose in the pause. He breaks the quiet.
“We have not met, but you know me as Alec Ducayon.”
The woman throws her door open wide at once. “Mister Ducayon! I am sorry I didn’t recognize you! Please, come in. Please.”
The man turns his eyes by a motion of his full face to examine her chamber. “Thank you, no. I will be departing shortly.” He lowers his gaze back upon her, a woman trembling like a field weed under mountain gust. “You need not worry that you did not know me. We have not been introduced. It was appropriate to do so after you completed your conservatory and shown the results of our patronage.”
The woman collects herself with a stout breath and places her hands demurely in front for a formal bow. “Mister Ducayon, you have my gratitude for all you have done for me. I only hope I satisfied your investment.”
The man does not answer at once. He bears himself like one whose time of thought is unhurried until he flashes out with decisiveness. The woman cautiously rights herself and watches him, though her attention falls upon a golden locket-like treasure on a chain in his breast pocket. For an instant it has the look of a mirror and viewing glass combined, but with a blink the appearance is gone.
“Yes,” he says, capturing her eye once more. “Your acquisition of skill fulfills the expectation from the funding. I enjoyed the performance and I look forward to further concerts. That is all.”
He turns to leave without excuse or dismissal, and the woman rushes into the doorway to reach out after, holding up her hand in a plea to halt.
“Wait!”
“Yes? Are you in need of additional supports?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just… I spoke to my mother. She says your company also offered her a scholarship, and to her mother as well. Why are you so concerned with supporting us?”
The tall man looks over his shoulder towards her, green eyes almost gleaming like spring torches. “There is an obligation between us which I am bound to honor. If this explanation feels like a denigration of your talent, you are free to refuse the patronage as your mother did.”
The woman swiftly shakes her head. “No, I don’t feel that way.” But she looks as though the implication of his purpose hadn’t yet set in. “I think I don’t really understand, but I am still grateful, and I want to earn the support by my playing.”
“Very good then.”
“But...” She nearly stammers, holding her composure admirably. “I might like to meet again, to try to understand better what has brought us, well, together.”
His stare is granite, immovable and blank. But she is not crushed by it.
“That is possible,” he says finally, and turns back down the hall, gait denying any further outbursts.
No need for the warning. The woman has steadied herself, standing as though elevated simply by sharing a casual word with him. As he walks, the hall fades out of view, a dissolving cloud of reality.
_______________________________________________________________________
Moyna squeezes her brows tightly, but the vision leaves her.
Her premonitions are powerful, though in this she sent out her ability to the unknown, to as far a time as she could seek, testing the limits of her foresight. With no web-road binding that moment to her own, it cannot be recalled.
She sneers at her own hovel, a patchwork of animal skins and bland tartan carpeting. The world can be so much more beautiful than what she received. She should have been born into that gentle richness, not this rough, brutish existence. She could outlast the barbarity and find that time again, in her own life. The Witchfire could sustain her to it. And not find it in a premonition, strolling through future lives to see it, but really reach those glorious ages.
Everyone had plans for her- her mother... her sister... the Infernus... She has already seen some of those future paths and where they lead. Should she fall in line? Could she? Was she only a steward of truths and beauties forever beyond experience? Impossible. Unforgivable.
That man though.
He was familiar. The outcry of the other witches claimed him somehow, but they weren’t telling her directly. No matter. If they knew him, she could find him in their lives again, somewhere.
And he was almost certainly not a man.
