Despina sat here, on all fours, and no-longer-mother Nell played The Swan by Saint-Saëns with her no-longer-daughter’s teeth. She didn’t play Flight of The Bumble Bee anymore. The smile on her face wasn’t one that enjoyed her suffering, but rather was unaware of it. In an elegant and gentle recital, she helped no one except herself to her music, and Despina sat here, on all fours, with the desire to scream as her muscles were stretched to play a beautiful song. She was a tad off-key. 

A mysterious cloaked figure walked in, but she recognized him immediately.

“This must be the piano you’d like taken away. Is that right?” asked Death.

“Yes,” said Nell, the only word she had the strength to utter. She must not know she just gave her no-longer-daughter away to a God of Death. Somehow it was far lonelier for her no-longer-daughter not to see no-longer-mother enjoy her torture. At least, before, she acknowledged her. What is wrong with no-longer-mother?

“Alright, Despina, once you send out your invites, the marriage may begin,” said Death.

“Are you sure you want to marry an out-of-tune piano? I think Nell would make for much better company. She’s got her hands back and everything,” said Despina Her bone legs left streaks on the floor.

“I could have Nell, I could even have Belfree if I wanted. But you ruined Nell, and I have seen such delicious evils in your heart. I want a taste,” said Death. A woman with luxurious red hair walked by Despina and Death with a smile on her face. She carried a cane and wore a caped hood. Despina recognized her by the formal attire she sported; a dark crimson blazer with a bow tie. The way was claustrophobic; she shimmied her way past as the piano took up her walking space. “Good day, Corwyn,” 

“Good day, Death,” she said. Death showed no discomfort that she saw the scrawniness of his fingers with how all his flesh was torn and mangled as though ravens made a constant meal of him. Death was grotesque, yes, but beautiful in the way that healing was beautiful; in the way that grief teaches to appreciate what we have and remember what we lost.

“She’s still alive? And she knows you? How?” asked Despina.

“Well, yes. Because you never took your mother’s hands, Corwyn never burned, Gawain never died, Angela was never born. And we’ve always been close. She’s a descendant of Sylwen, after all.” said Death.