Mary, Mary, Singing Faerie

It was an old hymn, so old that even the language in which it was written had long since been forgotten. A song of light in darkness. A song of making and becoming. A song of promise.

Past the cypress swamps along the horseshoe-shaped lake and the beech trees that lined the banks further into the forest, Mary sang a lilting melody of safety and a rollicking hymn for fruitfulness. 

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The melody she used for their order contained a simple blessing that didn’t require much focus or magick. It was a gentle admonition that kindness would be repaid with kindness.

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 The Ohio began to repeat itself in an Madhyamavathi Raga until Mary’s teeth were vibrating like the missing sitar accompaniment to its listless melody.

The rivers didn’t understand the concept of resurrection, and weren’t assuaged by vague promises proffered by a nymph who hadn’t swum in their waters. 

 Her gospel melody poured over the park in a deep alto that hovered at the very edge of her vocal range. Lake Itasca joined in, pulling at the mages in an exuberant accompaniment of horns and brass.

 "Don't you get it? I don't need you to do anything. I can counter your spells on my own. All your bespelled iron won't stop me."

The tattered purple edges of the veil hung open, but the transparent bridge reflected the luminous sheen enough to show the mages the way.

“Sing something,” Kresimir urged in a low voice as he guided her past the silent fae.