Disclaimer: I am but a pawn.
A/N: More snippets.
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Sometimes we hear music. Music has always touched our souls, or at least a part of us that has hidden, and maybe cannot be found. Some part of us that speaks of compassion and mercy, a part of us we are taught to honour and work hard to build upon, but somehow is only distantly attached to our daily lives. Music. A sweet note played on the air, whether by flute or harp or lute, has always struck us as a sad, sad thing. Sometimes we would gather in the halls, play soft songs through the night. Innocent tunes that drifted past each of us, reminding us of what we have become. Sometimes our voices join the melody, accompanying the harmony.
To us, it has ever sounded tainted, like a scar burned onto pale skin, a fiery brand that we cannot remove. Sometimes the younger leverets continue singing, their voices different from ours. So much sweeter, so much smoother. Without the harsh acknowledgement of life, they continue singing, but slowly, inevitably, each one drops out as the seasons pass.
Not many hares like to sing. We make excuses, saying our voices to rough, or our music sense too amateur, but in reality, music and song have always been subjects we felt wary of.
Song can speak words where words are best left unsaid. Music can compose melodies that stir souls and awaken nightmares. Things that are best left to imagination, and in some cases experience. There is no need to add any more sorrow into a world already filled with the inner taintings of hate and agony and the external factors of death and blood. There is no need, and we have ever been conscious of that.
Sometimes we watch others sing. They sing in ways we can never hope to sing. They sing for joy, for the experience of hearing clear sound on frigid air, laughing the winter away and welcoming the spring. We sing to acknowledge death, chase each summer into each autumn, for release. In sombre, macabre ways, those innocents compliment ours. But our systems are different, and no other creature can change them. For each season we have a song, a song of blades, a song of death, a song of peace, a song of hate. They, they are not like us. They have songs regardless of season, songs of joy, songs of mercy, songs of happiness. They are so, so unlike us that we cannot begin to comprehend how they manage to live their lives, devoid of the fear of ignorance.
We are hypocrites. We speak words when we say they are best left to the torment of silence, we kill when we say we must show mercy. But we are here to balance, to balance chaotic evil with another kind of evil, an evil working for designs only debatable by those to control the fates.
They never thought we could sing songs of death.