How many nights had she spent in these woods, arms intertwined in the undergrowth that held the edges of this hallowed glade? Her breath ensnared behind the vice of her lips, heart rioting in the ivory and crimson painted walls of its prison.

Truly, those glistening nights were as countless as the legions of ivory sands within the hourglass that drained away her mortal life. But one need merely take a passing glance at her stance, at how eager the woman seemed, to know her voyeuristic vigil was one she regretted not for an instance. An enthusiasm that would not damper even with the biting cold that stilled the hot blood in her veins and lay her eyelashes rigid and alabaster in frost. For never he would disappoint.

He slipped silently into the glade, just on time, a golden man so unlike the ivory boys if her village, moonlight riding his shoulders like seraph's wings and a light, pensive lilt to his head. As if he heard some sweet, serene music in his head meant only for his ears. And all at once she was soothed, yearning to be by his side, listening to the heavenly song he so enjoyed.

And the show began. Like ever other night, the ritual was set in motion. He began to move, head lifted to navy hued heavens and eyes slumberously held open to lap in the stars as he danced, slow and hypnotic. But these graceful movements were nothing compared to the song that had come, just as soon as his lips parted, his own sweet lullaby that riled rather than lay to rest. His siren's song, that fell from his lips in a language she did not know... And already they began to come.

And like every other night she fell in love with him.

How many times he repeated this lonely waltz she did not know, nor was she aware of how much time had elapsed. Even the quiet, familiar fluttering above was barely registered as small bodies drew to the branches in masses. It was only as he ceased abruptly in the midst of the clearing, a pleased smiled lighting up his visage did she turn her eyes to the branches above her, jealously burning in the pits of her eyes.

Who would he choose?

A question greeted, for a moment, in silence… before a young nightingale found him, perching upon his raised fist. And for that slice of time they regarded each other mutely, sweetles as he lay a thumb upon his breast and pressed. In the silence the quiet shattering of the bone was enormous… like her mind shattering as she watched him scoop from the thing's rigid chest a small, warm heart… one he slipped into his mouth, suckling the juices from it like a babe. Thje first of so many of the night, as he discarded the body to the ground. And not one of them would be her's, used to keep his own heart beating. Never would it be she who stood before him in his warm gaze offering her heart up to him, begging to have him keep her within him forevermore. She had no courage to stand as they did, a martyr for his love.