Arrow Lake danse macabre

the mist curled around him as he stepped from the shadows, his approach slow, deliberate. the lake was a mirror of the sky, an unbroken expanse of silver under the winter sun, and at its edge, the woman lay still—pious, serene, lost in her communion with something unseen.  

lucifer did not pray. faith had never been a luxury afforded to him, and yet, he recognized it in others. the quiet devotion, the unwavering belief. it was rare in a world like this.  

you rest as if the heavens themselves cradle you, he murmured, voice low, almost reverent, though amusement ghosted the edges. tell me, sacerdotessa, does your god whisper back?

he stepped closer, not yet intruding, but near enough for the mist to coil between them like a living thing. his ashen gold eyes, sharp and watchful, traced the curve of her still form.  

or is it silence you find in paradise?