The Court of Song

Apr. 5th, 2025 10:54 pm[personal profile] thelisan
thelisan: A portrait of a witch with dark brown hair (Default)

21 Hazemoon, 2E 222


I hear a faint humming. I brush it off at first, surely that can't be right? But it's there, a drone without melody. And then I hear the voice, a man's voice, screaming from the door. "HELP ME! PLEASE!" he begs, audibly on the verge of tears.

Sliding the viewing window of the door open, I look over the man. His condition is readily apparent, and alarming. His skin has a waxy, yellowish sheen, worn at the joints from motion, and bands of hexagons are raised from the skin. Some are hollow depressions returning to the normal surface level, some are holes that go below the skin, and others are... full? Filled? It's all I can do to look the man in the eye, in truth; something is going on that has left this man very wrong.

"Slow down, good sir. What is the issue?" I ask, trying to keep my voice calm and comforting.

"Can't you hear them? Can't you see them?!" he groans, and I see that his eyes are red and slightly glazed over. Hear them? Now I do again, that same humming from earlier, but louder now from proximity. Then I see the cause: bees, small ones, buzzing around the man.

"I- yes. Yes, I see them. But that doesn't..." I trail off as one of the hexagons on his right arm... quivers? Soon after, another bee breaks free from his skin. A larva squirms out from under his eyelid. "Water preserve me," I mutter in disbelief. I know where this is going and I do not like it. "This looks like fae magic. Melina, Lucinda, come help me with this," I call as the man steps toward the door. "No, you stay out there." He freezes with a defeated sigh.

I slide the shutter closed and we walk out together, opening the door as little as possible. Turning to Melina, I explain, "This is fae magic. Our first task is to identify the source. The fae courts will mark someone their Edicts target, and each court has its own style of marking." Turning to the man, I gesture for him to turn his back toward us. When he does, I lift his shirt. "The coverage of the mark broadly correlates with the intensity of the charm," I explain, gesturing toward the deep red-brown pattern covering his back. It is a square implied, made up of four sets of concentric quarter-circles with the centerpoint of each set as a corner, and a cross drawn through the four corners. "Sometimes a mark is ambiguous. This is not, not at all."

"Who did it?" the man asks. He sounds like he's trying to get angry as a way to pull out of his fear, but it's only making his fear worse.

"The Court of Song," I respond with absolute certainty. "Patterns of concentric arcs, surrounding a central target point. Classic mark of Dissonance. You angered them. Badly."

"Can you fix it?!" he shouts, desperate for an escape. There is a grunt of pain as a bee, fully-formed, flies from his right earlobe.

"I cannot. They can," I explain apologetically. "I will contact them on your behalf. You stay here," I instruct, leading Melina and Lucinda to the opposite side of my cottage. "Contacting the Courts can be difficult, as there are specific protocols and invocations that each respond to. I have dealt with the Court of Song before, however, which - alongside the birdsong you hear now - will make things easier." We gather loose sticks to use to mark a circle, and I direct Melina and Lucinda to the positions I need them at; the three of us stand in an arc facing the center of the circle, as if a chorus. "Listen to the song around us," I instruct, "And follow my lead."

The birdsong shifts in that moment, and I nod encouragingly; I cannot make a sound that's not the calling, but they must be made to know this is normal. An unseen bird far to my right sings a musical phrase, and one far to my left sings a response. The first bird calls again, and the second waits silently; I echo its prior call. The process repeats for Melina, with a more elaborate call. She continues the tune without incident. When Lucinda's turn comes around, the response is never provided, but she intuits an appropriate reply on her own. The third phrase should at least have had a start provided, I know the forms well. The only explanation I can see is that they know why I am contacting them, and wish to avoid the matter.

Unfortunately, I have my duty.

The forest goes utterly mute for a moment. I cannot hear anything, not my own breath. Melina's feet shift on loose rocks in total silence. Then in a cacophony, a form appears in the center of the circle, transient and rippling, as if a lake disturbed by a stone or dust shaken loose by breath. "I bid you well come, impresario," I declare with practiced formality.

"π‘Šπ‘’ π‘Žπ‘π‘˜π‘›π‘œπ‘€π‘™π‘’π‘‘π‘”π‘’ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘£π‘’π‘›'𝑠 π‘π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿπ‘‘π‘’π‘œπ‘’π‘  π‘Žπ‘‘π‘‘π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘ π‘ ," the fae spirit replies, its non-form rippling with each syllable, every word echoing off itself. "πΉπ‘œπ‘Ÿ π‘€β„Žπ‘Žπ‘‘ π‘π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘π‘œπ‘ π‘’ β„Žπ‘Žπ‘  π‘ β„Žπ‘’ π‘π‘Žπ‘™π‘™π‘’π‘‘ 𝑒𝑠?"

"There is a man that has been Marked by your court," I explain. "He has appealed to me for a resolution, but I know not his crime."

"π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘£π‘’π‘› π‘ π‘π‘’π‘Žπ‘˜π‘  π‘œπ‘“ 𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑑-π‘π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘Žπ‘˜π‘’π‘Ÿ, β„Žπ‘–π‘£π‘’-π‘π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘ β„Žπ‘’π‘Ÿ. π‘¬π’π’†π’Žπ’š 𝒐𝒇 π’”π’π’π’ˆ," the fae says scornfully. "𝐼𝑑 β„Žπ‘Žπ‘  𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 π‘”π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘›π‘‘π‘’π‘‘ 𝑗𝑒𝑠𝑑 π‘π‘’π‘›π‘–π‘ β„Žπ‘šπ‘’π‘›π‘‘. πΈπ‘žπ‘’π‘–π‘£π‘Žπ‘™π‘’π‘›π‘‘ 𝑒π‘₯π‘β„Žπ‘Žπ‘›π‘”π‘’, π‘…π‘’π‘π‘–π‘π‘Ÿπ‘œπ‘π‘–π‘‘π‘¦, 𝑖𝑛 π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘£π‘’π‘›'𝑠 π‘€π‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘‘π‘ .."

I very faintly hear the man shouting something, but its sound is muffled to unintelligibility. It is unusual for the Court of Song to silence someone, and speaks volumes of their fury. "Then when he restores what he destroyed, Reciprocity will be served?" I ask, annoyed that the man couldn't connect the dots.

"π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘£π‘’π‘› π‘’π‘›π‘‘π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘ π‘‘π‘Žπ‘›π‘‘π‘ ."

"Pray forgive my presumption, but he is soon to collapse from fatigue," I begin, choosing my words with utmost caution. "No human can go without sleep for so long, and should he lie down, or worse yet collapse, that would bring further harm to Song."

The envoy is silent for a moment in contemplation. "π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘£π‘’π‘› π‘ π‘π‘’π‘Žπ‘˜π‘  π‘‘π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘‘β„Ž," they eventually concede. "𝐡𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑑 π‘šπ‘’π‘ π‘‘ 𝑦𝑒𝑑 π‘šπ‘Žπ‘˜π‘’ π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘ π‘‘π‘–π‘‘π‘’π‘‘π‘–π‘œπ‘› π‘“π‘œπ‘Ÿ 𝑖𝑑𝑠 π‘π‘Ÿπ‘–π‘šπ‘’π‘ ." It is unclear, but I faintly see an arcing projection raised over the envoy, heralding a muffled scream and a keening that makes my teeth vibrate. Mercifully, it is over before long. "π‘‡β„Žπ‘’ π‘€π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘˜ 𝑖𝑠 π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘ π‘π‘–π‘›π‘‘π‘’π‘‘. 𝑰𝒕 π’˜π’Šπ’π’ π’”π’•π’Šπ’π’ π’‡π’Šπ’π’… π’‹π’–π’”π’•π’Šπ’„π’†."

"I thank you for your time, impresario," I declare, bringing a formal end to the proceeding.

The envoy dissipates on the wind, leaving only echoes of speech behind, "π‘Šπ‘’ π‘‘β„Žπ‘Žπ‘›π‘˜ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘Ÿπ‘Žπ‘£π‘’π‘› π‘“π‘œπ‘Ÿ β„Žπ‘’π‘Ÿ π‘π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿπ‘‘π‘’π‘ π‘¦."

We return to the front of my home, and our petitioner bears the look in his face of someone who has been to war. He rubs at his arms, his hands, his face, as though feeling for something no longer present. Looking closely, I see the honeycomb pattern fading, with every single one of the hexes hollow, as though every single one was filled, and then very suddenly, very forcefully, was not.

"Word of advice, sir," Melina says, stepping around the man to open the front door, "What you had done? Don't." She steps inside without a further word.

I do not expect to sleep soundly tonight. I do not expect him to sleep soundly ever again.
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