A voice. Male. Singsong. Bored.

“Look, look, look my lady. Not dead yet. No not dead yet is he? Survived you, survived the Fae and survived the fight. Will he survive to light our night?

"Leo, Leonis, Leon. Oh dear. Tried he did and failed. Naughty boy, but who am I to blame a trier?

"What fights our boy had. Loss and pain he learned. The living did he pole across the Styx. Not easy the first time. Easier the second time. After that why bother to count? No cost but another scrap of your soul. Will it break him? If he holds, then what will break him before broken he is? Always they break. Weak as they are.

"Different, different, different. The rules are twisted and warped, bent but not yet rent. Why for him? Why the interest? Why the aid?

"Could he be? Hope will kill you. Not as swiftly as the blade, but just as surely.

"And back now he is with the beater of metal. Bing-bong. Clank. Bang. Long, not long, ago high hopes we had of the metal beater did we not? As high as ever we have. Which is to say low. So low.

"The elder was a killer and a maker. So much promise. Turned by the lure of a warm hearth and a soft bed. So much we expected but it was not to be. Not he. Not he to be.

"But this one, will he learn the tune of the hammer and the tongs? We know he can kill but can he build? Anyone can deal death. A drop of poison here. Plop! A blade between the ribs there. Swish! So many of them would say to Death: Yes, this day.

"Oh, aye, my lady, anyone can end. But can this one start? Is he the maker of worlds, or the destroyer of lives? Why choose? You choose I lose. I snooze and choose and lose and you abuse.

"But this one. Oh, this one. Can he make as well as break?

"If he can my lady, then what shall we do? What shall we do, you and I, if this murderous child is a creator? Why, we shall do what always we have done. Wait and see. See and wait. Tick, tock. Tock, tick.

"Dance my blood-washed child. Dance.”