By way of apologizing for not posting anything, for-like-ever, I'm republishing the story that started this whole thing. Enjoy. :)
In the beginning was the Song. There was always the Song. Eternal. A dance from discords to concords, melodies blending, entwining, crashing, roaring, whispering, pounding, driving. Singing in the night.
Here, in this place, the music has be quiet for a while. Never gone, of course; the pulses and rhythms always remain. But now a new line begins to build among the whispers. First, a great, deep but almost inaudible hum, which settled down to a slow, regular thrumming. The line begins to swirl in a great circle; at first trying to fling the notes out into the deep, hungry darkness. But the melody is drawn inward, ever inward. Sweeping out their great arcs of sound, the strains spiraling in on themselves, building dissonances, piling subtle clashes until it seems no resolution can possibly break the tension. And then in a great brassy, blare: the joyous proclamation, the great sounding-forth that "I AM!"
Now the theme begins to settle. At first some slithery zitherings, a thunderclap or two and contrapuntal lines crossing, but as the eons pass, he settles down to a steady throb, a rolling, purposeful and stately march, neither exuberantly giddy nor excessively somber but blending the best qualities of both. He reaches out to the Singers around it, binding itself into the tapestry of sound. He samples the others, reveling in the variety and uniqueness of each tune: singers with vast ranges in strength, some who hold choirs billions-strong in thrall. Some who swoop by in a great whoosh of sound. Some who stay and blend their melodies with him for a while. But all exquisitely beautiful. Even the song that underlies all the others: the Song of The Darkness Itself. A high, cold, proud, cruel song of death, of endings and of the inevitable Great Silence which will come at the end of all things. But sometimes he hears piercing through in that song's quietest moments a faint sound of loneliness, a longing that things could be other than they are: long wished for, never fulfilled.
So the Song continued through the ages, punctuated by the rapid comings and goings of smaller motifs, but always held fast by the sweep and majesty of great melodies like himself. Until all at once sounded a great Call. And the Call spoke to him and named him and ask his help. And he assented.
Suddenly, he was elsewhere in the Song, among singers more rapid and excitable than he had ever thought possible. He sang back to them: strange, they were. Strident and often thrusting their melodies together harshly, but coming back into accord just as quickly. Yes, quick was indeed the word for them: developments which elsewhere would have defined entire epochs passed here sooner then moments. As always, there was the Song of the Dark Singer: as always, high, cold, proud and cruel. But even that was different here. More confident, sure of itself. The strains of triumph seemed stronger here, as if victory was within Its grasp. Yet, if the triumphs were more pronounced, it seemed as though when It was defeated here, those defeats were as complete as Its victories seemed assured. Different too was the interplay between the Songs. Where he had been, the strife was a clash of melody against melody, with the stronger song banishing the weaker. Here, the strife was a series of advances and reversals: the Dark Singer would build a great chorus until Its song would seem to overwhelm all others; then, one of their singers would take the Dark Singer's theme and blend it with their song, turning it back on the Dark Singer's symphony bringing it to a totally unexpected but triumphant finale in which even the Dark Singer's screams of frustration were transformed into a graceful aria.
A strange place indeed.
And so the moment's began to accelerate, traveling with the Singers-Who-Sung-Together, those who had sent out the Call. They sang with each other and learned of each other. They were new singers, just exploring the Song for the first time. It wasn't easy for them, for this was one of the rare places where the Singers-Must-Keep-Silent. And then, as always happens to new singers, they all found themselves thrust against the Dark Singer Itself and in one of the places that sang only Its song. It had stolen the Bright Book of Melodies! Trading with the Jealous-Singer-Who-Hoards a Dark Book for the Bright One, they escape back to their own world pursued by the Dark Singer Itself. Striving melody against melody, they sing from the Bright Book to remind the world of the Song it is supposed to sing. And then the Dark Singer rose up and Extinguished their great singer!
The Darkness quaked with mirthless, noiseless laughter. A great Silence fell. Looking at the Singers-Who-Sung-Together, He-Who-Came-From-Far-Away sang out one small word.
"No."
And from him burst forth a Song such as never he had ever Sung. He sang Defiance. He sang Joy. He sang Brilliance and Fierceness and Life. And in his song grew the strains of the Great Song from which all other songs proceed, pouring into it and drawing out of him until he had nothing left to sing. And yet still he sang. Rising higher, grander he guided the song to its shining, shimmering climax so powerful as to drown out all other songs and so beautiful as to break the heart of the Darkness Itself.
And with that final note of total triumph, he winked out and sang no more.
In the beginning was the Song. There was always the Song. Eternal. A dance from discords to concords, melodies blending, entwining, crashing, roaring, whispering, pounding, driving. Singing in the night.
Here, in this place, the music has be quiet for a while. Never gone, of course; the pulses and rhythms always remain. But now a new line begins to build among the whispers. First, a great, deep but almost inaudible hum, which settled down to a slow, regular thrumming. The line begins to swirl in a great circle; at first trying to fling the notes out into the deep, hungry darkness. But the melody is drawn inward, ever inward. Sweeping out their great arcs of sound, the strains spiraling in on themselves, building dissonances, piling subtle clashes until it seems no resolution can possibly break the tension. And then in a great brassy, blare: the joyous proclamation, the great sounding-forth that "I AM!"
Now the theme begins to settle. At first some slithery zitherings, a thunderclap or two and contrapuntal lines crossing, but as the eons pass, he settles down to a steady throb, a rolling, purposeful and stately march, neither exuberantly giddy nor excessively somber but blending the best qualities of both. He reaches out to the Singers around it, binding itself into the tapestry of sound. He samples the others, reveling in the variety and uniqueness of each tune: singers with vast ranges in strength, some who hold choirs billions-strong in thrall. Some who swoop by in a great whoosh of sound. Some who stay and blend their melodies with him for a while. But all exquisitely beautiful. Even the song that underlies all the others: the Song of The Darkness Itself. A high, cold, proud, cruel song of death, of endings and of the inevitable Great Silence which will come at the end of all things. But sometimes he hears piercing through in that song's quietest moments a faint sound of loneliness, a longing that things could be other than they are: long wished for, never fulfilled.
So the Song continued through the ages, punctuated by the rapid comings and goings of smaller motifs, but always held fast by the sweep and majesty of great melodies like himself. Until all at once sounded a great Call. And the Call spoke to him and named him and ask his help. And he assented.
Suddenly, he was elsewhere in the Song, among singers more rapid and excitable than he had ever thought possible. He sang back to them: strange, they were. Strident and often thrusting their melodies together harshly, but coming back into accord just as quickly. Yes, quick was indeed the word for them: developments which elsewhere would have defined entire epochs passed here sooner then moments. As always, there was the Song of the Dark Singer: as always, high, cold, proud and cruel. But even that was different here. More confident, sure of itself. The strains of triumph seemed stronger here, as if victory was within Its grasp. Yet, if the triumphs were more pronounced, it seemed as though when It was defeated here, those defeats were as complete as Its victories seemed assured. Different too was the interplay between the Songs. Where he had been, the strife was a clash of melody against melody, with the stronger song banishing the weaker. Here, the strife was a series of advances and reversals: the Dark Singer would build a great chorus until Its song would seem to overwhelm all others; then, one of their singers would take the Dark Singer's theme and blend it with their song, turning it back on the Dark Singer's symphony bringing it to a totally unexpected but triumphant finale in which even the Dark Singer's screams of frustration were transformed into a graceful aria.
A strange place indeed.
And so the moment's began to accelerate, traveling with the Singers-Who-Sung-Together, those who had sent out the Call. They sang with each other and learned of each other. They were new singers, just exploring the Song for the first time. It wasn't easy for them, for this was one of the rare places where the Singers-Must-Keep-Silent. And then, as always happens to new singers, they all found themselves thrust against the Dark Singer Itself and in one of the places that sang only Its song. It had stolen the Bright Book of Melodies! Trading with the Jealous-Singer-Who-Hoards a Dark Book for the Bright One, they escape back to their own world pursued by the Dark Singer Itself. Striving melody against melody, they sing from the Bright Book to remind the world of the Song it is supposed to sing. And then the Dark Singer rose up and Extinguished their great singer!
The Darkness quaked with mirthless, noiseless laughter. A great Silence fell. Looking at the Singers-Who-Sung-Together, He-Who-Came-From-Far-Away sang out one small word.
"No."
And from him burst forth a Song such as never he had ever Sung. He sang Defiance. He sang Joy. He sang Brilliance and Fierceness and Life. And in his song grew the strains of the Great Song from which all other songs proceed, pouring into it and drawing out of him until he had nothing left to sing. And yet still he sang. Rising higher, grander he guided the song to its shining, shimmering climax so powerful as to drown out all other songs and so beautiful as to break the heart of the Darkness Itself.
And with that final note of total triumph, he winked out and sang no more.
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