Page 98 of Into the Heartless Wood
to the music of his magical device.
Of the hatred in his eyes
when his mother turned to ash.
Of
his
blade
at
my
throat.
You are only a monster because you choose to be.
This is me.
Choosing.
I say: “I am certain.”
I bow my head.
My brothers begin to sing.
Their voices twine together in an intricate counterpoint,
around and between and through,
swelling louder and louder
until their song seems to envelop the wood.
The ground beneath me
shakes.
The waterfall behind me
roars.
Their music sinks into me,
slips under my skin,
through muscle and bone,
down to my heart.
It is slippery and silver,
sharp and cold.
Pain sears through me.
