One, two, three.
Light snow falls from the moonlit sky. Soft white dust forms upon the cobble streets, longing for the old crowds. The air is chilly and quiet except for the march of metal boots, the clinking of chains. Only those crisp, eternal flames mounted upon those staves keep warm.
One, two, three.
It is just two in the Grand Cathedral again. The Pontiff watches and is pleased by this waltz – a sword dance. He stands and spreads his decaying grey robes. A gnarled hand touches. This one's waltz trembles, recoils, shirks. The Pontiff is displeased by the lack of total submission.
One, two, three.
Irithyll's blue half-moon hangs solemnly above the city's towering spires. In the distance is the old city of the Gods, home now to the grotesque heretic and his grim hordes. These eyes lay their last look on their place of birth. This one's eternal hearth is no more.
One, two, three.
The kingdom upon the soaring cliffs is different. There is no snow, and the streets are littered with the kneeling corpses of men and pilgrims. Decomposing hollows wander the walls alongside knights of great strength and valour. The old woman sits before the beheading statue, the basin of vows clutched in her wrinkled hands. While this one rests aloft, the dog stands guard before the gates by the cliffs.
One, two, three.
The black eye watches ceaselessly.
One, two, three.
There is never respite from its unrelenting gaze.
One, two, three.
No more. No more. No more. No more–
One, two, three.
An intruder has come...the old woman is slain, and the basin has been taken...so they seek the Lords of Cinder, to once more relink the flame as their progenitors have done...this is against the Pontiff's wishes–let the dance begin.
One, two, three.
We dance...the intruder dodges the waltz of blades like a swift gnat..but they cannot grasp the rhythm of this dance–they fall into this one's hand–impaled with this sword of fire.
One, two, three.
The intruder returns...they have grasped the rhythm, and this one can no longer grab them...the second sword...the b-l-a-c-k-s-w-o-r-d...this one dances, dances, dances, dances, dances, dances–
One, two, three.
They have come again and again...the dance continues, and they dance at this one's side, forever their partner, and the whirl of blades sings their skin, melts their flesh–this waltz is eternal, one two three, one, two, three, one...two...three–
One, two, three–
No more the black eye, n-o-m-o-r-e, ever gazing–
One, two–
Come home, heart–for the boreal valley, my last dance, o-n-e–t-w-o–t-h-r-e-e–
One–
I...dance...