Minuet
Legacy Name: Minuet

Fear. Fear was the first thing she felt when her eyes met his. Fear was what paralyzed her body as he approached her, skeletal maw open as saliva and blood dripped from it. Fear was what finally made her move, legs scrambling over the moist ground as cackles rang in her ears.

Fear was what had made her weak.

It had been her uncle who had taught her how to listen to the songs that the trees sang. Their songs were different from what the birds trilled, different from what the wolves howled, different in that their songs were almost ethereal. The trees were an ancient symphony, great guardians that bellowed in low voices, yet melodious and in such harmony that they rang clearer than any other creature.

Listen closely with your soul and not with your ears. She remembered her uncle saying. She remembered herself struggling, her hooves stamping in agitation and impatience over the lack of results. She remembered her uncle's chuckles, a light laugh that flew with the breeze. She remembered screwing her eyes shut at his prompting, how she would hold her breath in frustration until her cheeks shone a rosy red.

Listen carefully, little one. He had said to her, his presence only a gentle splash of color behind her eyelids. The trees sing to nobody else but to themselves and to the Mother. You must listen with your soul, and not with your ears.

And finally, finally, she remembered the smallest of whispers slithering into her mind. She remembered beaming brightly at her uncle, and how proud he had been when she had first heard the old notes of a long forgotten song.

She still hears their songs sometimes, but only in her memories.

The trees were decaying, their mournful cries a cacophony in her mind. Her hooves trod with barely a whisper over the soft mud, the dried leaves crinkling under each step. Everywhere was silence, the birds having taken flight to warmer climates, the creatures that crawled on the earth leaving without a sound to find better lands. The winds were cold now, the sun shining weakly as the days grew shorter.

The winter moon had arrived, but it wasn't the turning of seasons that made the trees cry in agony.

Black crude that stained the earth like blood as wounds began to appear in the Mother's beautiful forests. The trees were dying, and the once vibrant lands were slowly turning to ash.

And she could do nothing but weep.

Her father had been the king and faithful guardian of the Mother's favorite garden. He would patrol the edges of the forests and watch over her beloved creatures with careful and kind eyes, his antlers gleaming proudly in the sunlight that dappled the ground. His hooves were light on the ground, but his hand was a heavy and comforting presence when he playfully ruffled her wild hair.

Her mother was softer in personality, yet strong in spirit. She spoke with quiet voice, and sang some of the most beautiful songs that could rival the playful lark's calls. Her hands were like silk when she laid them upon her cheek, her smile brighter than the moon's laughing face.

Your name her mother would whisper softly to her as she brushed dried leaves out of her unruly hair. Your name was given to us by song from the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Your name is the slow dance that the Mother dances with the sun and moon.

She saw them alive and happy, a constant in her life that she never imagined living without.

She saw them dead on the ground, their innards torn out, and her uncle's blood-stained and gaping maw laughing sadistically at her fear.

There were many like her in that forest, small fauns that flit from one tree to the next as their high pitched squeals and giggles filled the air. They loved the forest, and how the forest gladly embraced them in its ancient arms and song. They each heard the forest song and added their own voices to its symphony.

Her uncle was the strongest of all spirit-talkers, for even the most stubborn of trees would bend its branches to aid him. He had been her mentor when her father was absent because of his patrols, and he taught her how to hear even the most quiet of creatures.

He had taught her to love their voices. He had taught her to fear their silence.

The decay came with grinning jaw and flaming breath. Black blood oozed from what remained of the creature's body as empty sockets stared heartlessly at the damage it wrought. It infected the trees, burned creatures alive, and laughed while doing so. She witnessed her fellow kin burn beneath unquenchable hellfire, and was unable to help them as their bodies smoldered into ash. The trees that day had screamed as the forest fled beneath the onslaught at the face of this tar stained evil.

She saw her brave uncle, the strongest of spirit-talkers try to combat the creature, only for the creature's deadly toxic blood touch him and morph him into a being as mad as it. She saw her brave uncle turn on her dear mother and father and rip them apart in front of her, devouring their flesh and bone in a crazed frenzy.

The laughs pounded in her ears and followed her every breath as she fled from the doomed forest.

She could not remember her name, for the wind no longer carried stories of the Mother's dances with the sun and moon. The birds rarely trilled of the coming of spring, and the trees stood silent like diminished sentinels. The Mother's creations no longer gladly welcomed her, for they had grown too weak as the seasons turned and the decay only grew. The sun was no longer a blessing, the moon only a mourning witness in front of what was slowly becoming a grave.

She stood in the middle of it all, helpless as she had been when she was a mere child.

She could only move on.