Spear Mother: A Tale of the Fourth World by Brandon M. Lindsay

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  It may have once been a jolly little tune, bouncing and skipping, playful and happy, a perfect counterpart to the utter blackness that had swallowed her. It could have been, but was not.

  Nor was it hummed. She could not keep it within her, this song, restrained or filtered, but let it flow through, full-throated, squeezed out her soul by every muscle in her stomach and her lungs, by every tear in her eye and every beat of her heart.

  It began as a dirge, funereal and gray, implacable as death and just as bleak. Yet threaded throughout these beginnings was a glimmer of hope, of yearning, of beautiful remembrance.

  That thread of joy soon overwhelmed the darkness, washing it with blessed light. That light dazzled, induced shudders, created ecstasy that rivaled the voice of the one it was supposed to mourn.

  An ode to those she lost could not be filled with pain. No, the memories of them could only bring her joy, and it was with joy that she sang of their lives.