The world was soundless and bathed in the light of daybreak.
The Nymph lay curled in her grove amongst the lilies. The morning light shone upon her fair skin which had gone cold and grey. She was still and silent, and her heart did not beat. She did not breathe, and she did not rise with the sun nor the birds.
The trees were hued in crimson and burnished by autumn, and a shadow passed over the meadow. The Wraith looked upon the Nymph and sighed, and his breath was cold and quiet as though he had no lungs with which to breathe.
'I have come to you at last,' said the Wraith. 'You must come now, away from this place.'
The day darkened suddenly, and the Nymph stirred. She rose slowly and found she was looking down upon herself. She was stricken with terror and she scrambled away, and the Wraith did not move.
'Do not fret,' continued the Wraith. 'You have died. Not by any illness, though I assume your passing was a sudden one.'
The Nymph wept and looked upon the Wraith, and to her horror found the meadow and the grove were gone. There was no mourning dove chirping tenderly with the dawn and there was no gentle sway of the trees. She found there was only darkness, cold, and the Wraith.
'If I have died,' said the Nymph. 'My meadow will soon die too.'
'I understand,' said the Wraith. 'But you have entered Death, and you must come away with me now.'
The Nymph was slow to rise and was displeased with the entity, but did not believe the Wraith to be evil. Loath as she was to follow him, far more afraid was she to remain here alone in nothingness. The Nymph drew near to the Wraith and kept his pace. They continued long into the dark until they came upon the shores of a vast river. The waters shimmered and shone, and the Nymph could not tell if they glimmered white or black. A long ebony bridge stretched along the crossing.
'You must cross,' said the Wraith. 'As all the dead do.'
The Nymph looked mournfully into the waters and became uncertain. 'I do not want to go alone.'
'Then I shall go with you,' said the Wraith. 'But do not fret and do not pity the damned that dwell in the waters, or they shall drag you down into the depths.'
The pair of them set to crossing the bridge and the Nymph did not look into the water. She took the Wraith's hand in her gentle and eager grasp, and found his hand was cold and gaunt. They did not speak for a long while and they crossed slowly, and the only sounds came from the surging waters.
'The fabric of your soul is very delicate,' said the Wraith finally. 'As all things made of dreams are.'
The Nymph said nothing, as she did not understand this. The Wraith continued on silently and guided her across the bridge. She reminded him of a wilted flower, truthfully rather fragile and melancholic, but he could see that there was not one thing that lived in the meadow that was not of the same fragility.
'Do not take offense,' continued the Wraith. 'For we are all tender-skinned and glass-boned no matter the disposition, living or dead. Though at times it may be difficult to see, you have allowed your grace, in its own form, to show you have lived a worthy life. You are still worthy in Death even when you feel you are a ghost.'
'You are a kind thing,' said the Nymph.
'I do not care to fill your ears with honeyed words,' said the Wraith. 'But you must not fear me. Do not forget Life, but do not cling to it.'
Regardless, the Nymph looked upon the Wraith with abject warmth. She had always been a hopelessly romantic creature, perhaps naively so, though she had grown to feel that she did not find it a bad thing. She held the Wraith's hand tenderly and pressed a delicate kiss to his knuckles. He slowed to a halt and turned to face her.
The Wraith said nothing, as he did not understand this. The Nymph did not release his hand, and he did not withdraw from her grasp. He was still and silent like a long abandoned gravestone, though the Nymph was no longer afraid.
'You have dubbed me something kind,' began the Wraith. 'I have only been your guide through Death.'
'You feel Life's truth in your bones as I do,' said the Nymph. 'Never shall you or I go through anything alone again, for our roots are made of the same eternal understanding.'
The Wraith was silent for a long moment before speaking, 'You will be cradled with the same gentleness that has run through your veins since birth, but it will not be by me.'
'Can you not love?' asked the Nymph.
'I cannot,' answered the Wraith.
'You have not tried,' retorted the Nymph. 'I know you have not.'
'Do not mistake me for a man,' warned the Wraith.
'You are not wrong like this place.'
Neither spoke for a long stretch of silence, and again only the sound of the waters swelled around them. The Wraith watched her with indifference, and his thoughts were lost upon her.
'I do not understand why you should want to be loved by me,' came his answer. 'Though your unfathomable, unbounded openness has been the constant in the things you have loved, and the things that have loved you upon death.
'I have watched you in Life. You danced with the wolves at dawn and wove flowers into the tresses of the dead where they lay in their graves. You were loved by the sun and the trees, and the creatures of your meadow. The trees, they danced with you and your melody was the breeze. I cannot dance with you in the grove, nor can I sing with you your mild melodies. I cannot understand what you hope to find.'
The Nymph drew nearer and took the Wraith's face into her gentle hands.
'I have died. Never again can I dance at daybreak, nor sing the dead their lullabies. You have told me to remember Life, but not to cling to it. I shall follow you, my Wraith, into Death – and while I cannot love my meadow any longer, I will love you.'
The silence fell upon them like a blanket once more in the dark. The Nymph and the Wraith continued along the bridge then, crossing into eternity side by side.
The Nymph lay curled in her grove amongst the lilies. The morning light shone upon her fair skin which had gone cold and grey. She was still and silent, and her heart did not beat. She did not breathe, and she did not rise with the sun nor the birds.
The trees were hued in crimson and burnished by autumn, and a shadow passed over the meadow. The Wraith looked upon the Nymph and sighed, and his breath was cold and quiet as though he had no lungs with which to breathe.
'I have come to you at last,' said the Wraith. 'You must come now, away from this place.'
The day darkened suddenly, and the Nymph stirred. She rose slowly and found she was looking down upon herself. She was stricken with terror and she scrambled away, and the Wraith did not move.
'Do not fret,' continued the Wraith. 'You have died. Not by any illness, though I assume your passing was a sudden one.'
The Nymph wept and looked upon the Wraith, and to her horror found the meadow and the grove were gone. There was no mourning dove chirping tenderly with the dawn and there was no gentle sway of the trees. She found there was only darkness, cold, and the Wraith.
'If I have died,' said the Nymph. 'My meadow will soon die too.'
'I understand,' said the Wraith. 'But you have entered Death, and you must come away with me now.'
The Nymph was slow to rise and was displeased with the entity, but did not believe the Wraith to be evil. Loath as she was to follow him, far more afraid was she to remain here alone in nothingness. The Nymph drew near to the Wraith and kept his pace. They continued long into the dark until they came upon the shores of a vast river. The waters shimmered and shone, and the Nymph could not tell if they glimmered white or black. A long ebony bridge stretched along the crossing.
'You must cross,' said the Wraith. 'As all the dead do.'
The Nymph looked mournfully into the waters and became uncertain. 'I do not want to go alone.'
'Then I shall go with you,' said the Wraith. 'But do not fret and do not pity the damned that dwell in the waters, or they shall drag you down into the depths.'
The pair of them set to crossing the bridge and the Nymph did not look into the water. She took the Wraith's hand in her gentle and eager grasp, and found his hand was cold and gaunt. They did not speak for a long while and they crossed slowly, and the only sounds came from the surging waters.
'The fabric of your soul is very delicate,' said the Wraith finally. 'As all things made of dreams are.'
The Nymph said nothing, as she did not understand this. The Wraith continued on silently and guided her across the bridge. She reminded him of a wilted flower, truthfully rather fragile and melancholic, but he could see that there was not one thing that lived in the meadow that was not of the same fragility.
'Do not take offense,' continued the Wraith. 'For we are all tender-skinned and glass-boned no matter the disposition, living or dead. Though at times it may be difficult to see, you have allowed your grace, in its own form, to show you have lived a worthy life. You are still worthy in Death even when you feel you are a ghost.'
'You are a kind thing,' said the Nymph.
'I do not care to fill your ears with honeyed words,' said the Wraith. 'But you must not fear me. Do not forget Life, but do not cling to it.'
Regardless, the Nymph looked upon the Wraith with abject warmth. She had always been a hopelessly romantic creature, perhaps naively so, though she had grown to feel that she did not find it a bad thing. She held the Wraith's hand tenderly and pressed a delicate kiss to his knuckles. He slowed to a halt and turned to face her.
The Wraith said nothing, as he did not understand this. The Nymph did not release his hand, and he did not withdraw from her grasp. He was still and silent like a long abandoned gravestone, though the Nymph was no longer afraid.
'You have dubbed me something kind,' began the Wraith. 'I have only been your guide through Death.'
'You feel Life's truth in your bones as I do,' said the Nymph. 'Never shall you or I go through anything alone again, for our roots are made of the same eternal understanding.'
The Wraith was silent for a long moment before speaking, 'You will be cradled with the same gentleness that has run through your veins since birth, but it will not be by me.'
'Can you not love?' asked the Nymph.
'I cannot,' answered the Wraith.
'You have not tried,' retorted the Nymph. 'I know you have not.'
'Do not mistake me for a man,' warned the Wraith.
'You are not wrong like this place.'
Neither spoke for a long stretch of silence, and again only the sound of the waters swelled around them. The Wraith watched her with indifference, and his thoughts were lost upon her.
'I do not understand why you should want to be loved by me,' came his answer. 'Though your unfathomable, unbounded openness has been the constant in the things you have loved, and the things that have loved you upon death.
'I have watched you in Life. You danced with the wolves at dawn and wove flowers into the tresses of the dead where they lay in their graves. You were loved by the sun and the trees, and the creatures of your meadow. The trees, they danced with you and your melody was the breeze. I cannot dance with you in the grove, nor can I sing with you your mild melodies. I cannot understand what you hope to find.'
The Nymph drew nearer and took the Wraith's face into her gentle hands.
'I have died. Never again can I dance at daybreak, nor sing the dead their lullabies. You have told me to remember Life, but not to cling to it. I shall follow you, my Wraith, into Death – and while I cannot love my meadow any longer, I will love you.'
The silence fell upon them like a blanket once more in the dark. The Nymph and the Wraith continued along the bridge then, crossing into eternity side by side.