Barrow Fields and all the world was devils

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he watches, his gaze never once leaving the auburn-furred wonder's. not his eyes, not his body, no, for ysen wants only to burn this image into his memory - even if it is to scar his mind forever and raise welts of flame-kissed treasures in its wake - the boy wishes to remember. when he is old, and when his bones know not how to move as they once did, he desires to tell the little children about this one. a youth, like him, who sang til the nightingales cried and the earth stopped spinning to hear his voice.
you serenade death. says the nightingale, for that is what ysen has taken to calling him, simply and quickly. he pauses to think on this, for he wishes to recall every single word this angel has spoken to him. "does death mind?" and now, the dreamspinner is quick to reply, rejoicing in death's laugh. "death has a beautiful face, and an enchanting voice. you compel the tune of the birds to become flat - in the wake of death, the world will be grey, and this boy seeks to find the colour that death brings."

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