"It is good to meet you, then, Melpo," he told her.

Her question briefly had him puzzled (his ears rotating and catching no sound). Her own magic had echoed her voice--perhaps she did not understand this?--but it reminded him, after a beat, of Vyette and of Kazgut: his pack, so esoterically strange and inextricably linked, who had one day wandered off together. He had not seen them since: the half-frail, ethereal white Vyette, slender and gentle, something otherworldly in her. And the strong black dog, distant and loyal, the shadow to her moonlight.

He wondered, for a moment, where they might have gone--as sometimes he did--but then looked to Melpomene. She was as if the two of them had merged: faintly-other, black and white both, and her stone, even, was faintly reminiscent of the shimmering moonstone that had made up Kazgut's teeth. Not the same, no; but like a remote echo of it. And Vyette had ever been, had she not?--half-part of some distant, other world, head tilted as though she listened, delicately, to something no one else could ever hear.

Fireheart's answer, then, came matter-of-fact, yet thoughtful; his mind was open to the idea that the bird could, perhaps, hear things that he could not. Or, he thought, wryly, perhaps she truly did hear someone hiding and whispering--or just an echo of herself.

"I do not hear whispering," he answered, carefully, slowly; "but I have known others who hear things that I cannot. Or see things I do not. We all have our own magic, I think, and it might do many things. Mine is heat, and fire. Light, warmth, to provide life, or destruction."

Fireheart paused, and tilted his head, peering down at Melpomene. "Your magic echoed your voice through the bones; that much I heard. Perhaps you can try again?" he added, his gaze kind, encouraging, as was his tone.

@Melpomene

.

"Good to meet! Fireheart!" She chirped fondly, then she added, (for he said it well, and she should learn from him), "S'good to meet you."

Melpo settled in to listen to him, and though she was initially surprised that he couldn't hear the song, it settled into a secret glee in her heart. So they only sang to her? To think, their song would be hers and hers alone! How lesser the world might seem without their chorus! She found herself excited, and her singed, dusty feather-down was standing on end from this revelation, so she rubbed her cheek against its warm fur to calm herself and pay attention. Yes, Fireheart had the gift of heat; such made so much sense that she gave it little thought. The intense wave of heat that rolled over her prison must have come from him, as would the comfortable warmth coming from it now.

What Fireheart said further about magic was intriguing. It cemented that what had occured when she'd spoken without speaking and felt the warmth in her breast had been magic, but how interesting that others held a unique hold over their own! Were there many different kinds, then? Were there many others like her and Fireheart? Again she felt excitement stir in her. She wanted to see other kinds of magic! She wanted to meet others like Fireheart!

But first, she was asked for something, and she would do it. It would be a shame for Fireheart to not hear the lovely song she heard, so perhaps she could try to give voice to them. Excitement gave way to a restless energy under her skin, and she tried to call them to sing.

And sing they did. Slowly, at first, coming from all around the two of them. Bones hidden under stones, bones creating the fortress that loomed over them, bones lying under Fireheart's very paws - they sang together in a macabre chorus, at first only whispers, and then joining together to raise their voices.

To Melpomene, it was a beautiful sound, and she was joyous within the safe embrace of Fireheart's warmth. To any and all that might hear it, it was as if the hatchling had given voice to the dead. Discordant laughter danced around haggard and indistinguishable words that harshly sneered whilst buried under a dozen other voices. Perhaps one or two could be singing, but the melody was a twisted thing made to set your teeth on edge. It was impossible to pick one voice among the many to understand, and it became a horrible thing as a whole, surrounding them both with an ominous weight.

Melpomene could not be prouder. "Hear now? Song!"

When I speak.

When I whisper.

@Fireheart

The big white wolf's head slowly turned, this way and that, as what the crow called her "song" began. It was a discordant melody, wrapped and weaved around the bones of the dead, and none of it was particularly pleasant. Fireheart felt himself tense, faintly--not out of any real fear, or even concern, but because the song itself was deeply unsettling.

If one could even call it song.

His mind reacted in a way that, in retrospect, he could only call a frown, though to say he'd mentally frowned would be rather a strange description. But he looked around, regardless, ears shifting and twitching to listen to the whispers.

He then peered down at Melpomene, and if he could have arched a brow in quizzical questioning, he would have. Is this what she had intended-? he asked himself--and given the proud, contented way she lay settled against him, it seemed that it was. It was no failure, no backfire of her magic; no, she thought this sort of thing beautiful.

Strange.

"I hear it," he answered, at last, muzzle tipping up and slowly panning to and fro as he once again listened. He leaned down to offer another shimmering wave of heat, jaws open--not overpowering, but warming to her damp feathers--before he spoke further. "It is poetic--do you know what that means?--but it does almost sound like the whispers of the dead. Bones--those are what remains when a creature, like you or I, is killed. Is no more. That song--those whispers--I warn you," he offered down, gently but solemnly, "I warn you that if you find that whispering pleasant--many will find it terrible. It rather grates on the nerves," he added.

His speech was perhaps sophisticated for one so young, but he spoke slowly, using tone and nods of his snout as much as anything; he hoped she'd understand. But to summarize, just in case: "Be careful who you use it around. Not all may see it kindly." A pause, then, curiosity lacing his mind as the haunted sussurrus continued to claw at his ears. "And you hear this all the time-?" Perhaps, he thought, pondering, that is truly the sound that they make; and perhaps her magic allows her to hear it. Terribly unsettling, if so. I wonder... do they suffer?

Fireheart's eyes roamed over the bones, his mind flicking through uncomfortable possibilities, though his body remained motionless for the benefit of the bird.

@Melpomene

.

She had closed her eyes to listen to the song, moving her tiny beak in soft figure-eight patterns to utterly no discernible beat, as pleased as could be. Fireheart said they could hear it, and she shifted in satisfaction. Good, good! Then there came a gentle wave of warmth, and she chirped happily, rustling and bathing in it before burrowing back into Fireheart's fur.

The song was labeled as 'poetic,' but the word, among other terms, were just as mysterious as magic was, offering up too many questions. Her eyes opened to vaguely stare at the bones Fireheart spoke about, her pleasure dimming in tandem with the song. Poetic? Poems? Bones were vestiges of death? She'd mildly heard of death among the whispered song, but what was it, really?

She had no time to ponder these questions, nor interest really, for Fireheart was warning her that others would not appreciate the song. Why! How could anyone find the song anything less than lovely!

"No! No no no! Song is pretty! Beau'ful! They.....they wrong," Melpo protested - but already, she could feel a bone-deep tiredness wash over her. Maintaining the chorus after the exertion of breaking free was too taxing. "I hear....always.....sleep-song," Her eyes were so heavy. The magic was petering out as if each voice was bowing their way off the metaphorical stage, and Melpomene found herself leaning fully against Fireheart.

".....meet others...show them...." were her last murmurs before sleep took the child. Such was the conclusion to her first awakening.

When I speak.

When I whisper.

[Exit Melpomene]

@Fireheart

For a moment--startled--the wolf feared that Melpomene was dying. Those brief, grim topics, the bird's head dropping low, sent short-lived fright through him. But he realized then that she was simply nodding off--and he hadn't intended to stop here all day, but he found that he could not simply pick up and leave. Ahh, well; I was hardly in any rush to be anywhere.
He decided at least to rest here with her--though she'd just emerged (and isn't it strange, he thought to himself, how sometimes a long rest can be most exhausting of all?) until she woke. The whispers, now, had faded, and Fireheart turned to peer this way, then that, his ears rotating. Finding nothing to alarm him, he settled lower on the stone; a sigh escaping his nose, his hind legs pushing out from beneath him, so that his hind end was splayed out on its side rather than lying upright, like a sphinx. Thick-ruffed neck lowered down, eclipsing Melpomene's downy feathers, and he laid his long muzzle alongside her, pressed to his own slender limbs.

Firelit eyes remained open, for the most part; scanning the cave with absent alertness, though sometimes, they slipped closed, and--briefly--the white wolf slept.

exit Fireheart