Once, there was a dream. Something beautiful, ethereal, and very much real. A dream that lasted many years, and yet seemed a blink of the eye, a flutter of eyelashes, an accidental brush of lips. Easily enough passed off at first as a fluke, a mistake of the mind, the sort of thing that occurs on the mind out of pure curiosity, it eventually came to be that every moment was quite true.
So many stories to remember.
Stories From Another Life
Moderators: Mart, Morgan LaLuna
-
Morgan LaLuna
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Captain
- Posts: 423
- Joined: Sat Jan 25, 2020 10:00 pm
- Location: At Sea
- Contact:
-
Morgan LaLuna
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Captain
- Posts: 423
- Joined: Sat Jan 25, 2020 10:00 pm
- Location: At Sea
- Contact:
Re: Stories From Another Life
Spirit
Thousands of years ago, his body had failed. Had been interred, and mourned. Thousands of years ago, the spirit had refused the beckoning of afterlife… For no afterlife could tempt the spirit that every day settled at the feet of the one that mourned him. If he could cry, tears would have flowed. But none came. There was only the determination that the one that missed him would not be alone. And yet, for many years, he himself was alone. Rarely, he would see the other, come home from some travel, and sit by his side to listen to the stories that might be told. Visitors came and went, and the spirit always settled just out of sight, curled into an impossible place between here and there, content to know the other was attended to, for some time. Many years, the spirit was too weak to stay as long as it liked.
When everything moved, the spirit was confused, at first. For years, it explored a tower that grew with time, tall and bright at first, then falling into a state of vague disrepair, despite his best efforts. Golems could only do so much, even with the help of his spectral touch. Vines grew and were left to do so, for the spirit had always enjoyed the crawl of the leaves. Perhaps he would count them, when the living half of him slept.
Sometimes, visitors still came. Eventually, they became visitors that he did not recognize. Visitors that seemed to upset the occupant of the tower in some way. And so the spirit often settled in the window near the ever busy mage as he researched, and watched for the unwelcome ones. Chased them off, if they did not leave when he let them know they were not welcome. Important work needed silence. Important work needed concentration. They were not the right ones to brush hair from a pale, sleeping face. They were not the ones that would tip forward spectacles forgotten on the top of a white-haired head when the scholar would fluster at their loss. The spirit took care of the slowly aging tower-dweller. When he forgot to eat, he was reminded, gently. When he fell asleep at his desk, a blanket always found itself draped over cold shoulders. When the summer grew too warm, and the researcher huffed toward a window, it was the spirit that wrapped himself around the too-hot body, and cooled the air to something comfortable.
Eventually, the tower was the subject of many rumors. More visitors came, snooping, and it angered the spirit to see them get closer and closer to getting into the tower, into those lower levels the other no longer visited. The first to breach the door did not make it in before one of their small party was struck dead with a spell from a scroll that fluttered from some high up place, as if by accident. And still, rumor grew. The mad old elven mage, raving at the top of his tower, holder of unspeakable power and artifacts of great worth and rarity. Defenses that killed, maimed, and rendered those that tried to enter otherwise useless. Few escaped the wards and the horrifying things in that place.
Until those with just as much power arrived. On the first floor, they easily dispelled wards, and the spirit manifested.
“Please… turn back.” It was the first time he’d ever done so. He knew the little mage at the top, for all of his power, would be helpless in the midst of one final spell that would drain him. One of the members of the group lifted their hand, and he found himself banished, without so much as a word exchanged. It took too long for him to return, by sheer will. They were on the third floor, finishing off the last of four golems originally intended to help and serve, given weapons by the spirit.
“Turn back now!” The spirit’s visage must have been something frightening. He did not understand why they did not understand him. Why they did not see a small man holding his hands up, pleading. Again, he was struck through. And it… angered him. When he managed his return, they’d only risen one floor. And he felt such a rage as to manage to take on a more substantial form, bigger than he’d been in life, tendrils of ectoplasm whipping at these intruders so very dead set on destroying the very person he’d protected for thousands of years. Again defeated, he retreated, wailing through the very walls with pain and anguish. Perhaps one more try.
“LEAVE THIS PLACE!” he finally managed to scream. They were too close. Just a floor beneath. And they were tiring. He flung at them icy cold daggers of his very own essence, whipped at them with energy and whatever he could muster, knocked over and possessed and raged and cut and yet… Was pushed back. And he grew ever angrier. His rage was overwhelming. How dare these strangers come into his home? How dare they threaten his peace, his very existence? He could not allow it. Not this close to the end. Not this close to the culmination of millenia of research, work, gathering of materials, the writing of a spell that would change the very story that would be told. They had not heeded his warning. And so they would now be well and truly… punished.
The group made it to the top, and burst into that final room at the top where the little old man, hunched and wizened and in the middle of such an important ritual, was quite surprised and startled, nearly losing concentration. But a blanket of something cold formed between him and the ones that would claim his life, the spirit’s life. He would not allow it. Everything he was went into manifesting. Once more, a horrifying screech piercing the very air, the souls of those in front of him. A great clawed hand reached forth and first grasped the face of the one who had banished him so often, tips of cold digging in and draining… everything. Sucking from this poor being their very soul, their experiences, leaving nothing but a babbling husk that was cast aside. But this, he knew, would not save him. Nor could he truly save the mage behind him. He could only slow them, just long enough. For the first time in millennia, he spoke to his charge, the little Moon Elf in the waning of his life, and yet to the dreadful wraith, still so very beautiful.
“FINISH IT, MUFFIN.” The screech carried, and yet there was the undertone of a man’s voice, something desperate to be heard just the way he once was. The group was pressing forward, and now he had to concentrate on keeping them away. The last words the Dread Wraith ever spoke, before devolving into pure rage, hatred, and feral ferocity echoed in a softness the horrifying being should never have been capable of.
“Go back to me.”
Thousands of years ago, his body had failed. Had been interred, and mourned. Thousands of years ago, the spirit had refused the beckoning of afterlife… For no afterlife could tempt the spirit that every day settled at the feet of the one that mourned him. If he could cry, tears would have flowed. But none came. There was only the determination that the one that missed him would not be alone. And yet, for many years, he himself was alone. Rarely, he would see the other, come home from some travel, and sit by his side to listen to the stories that might be told. Visitors came and went, and the spirit always settled just out of sight, curled into an impossible place between here and there, content to know the other was attended to, for some time. Many years, the spirit was too weak to stay as long as it liked.
When everything moved, the spirit was confused, at first. For years, it explored a tower that grew with time, tall and bright at first, then falling into a state of vague disrepair, despite his best efforts. Golems could only do so much, even with the help of his spectral touch. Vines grew and were left to do so, for the spirit had always enjoyed the crawl of the leaves. Perhaps he would count them, when the living half of him slept.
Sometimes, visitors still came. Eventually, they became visitors that he did not recognize. Visitors that seemed to upset the occupant of the tower in some way. And so the spirit often settled in the window near the ever busy mage as he researched, and watched for the unwelcome ones. Chased them off, if they did not leave when he let them know they were not welcome. Important work needed silence. Important work needed concentration. They were not the right ones to brush hair from a pale, sleeping face. They were not the ones that would tip forward spectacles forgotten on the top of a white-haired head when the scholar would fluster at their loss. The spirit took care of the slowly aging tower-dweller. When he forgot to eat, he was reminded, gently. When he fell asleep at his desk, a blanket always found itself draped over cold shoulders. When the summer grew too warm, and the researcher huffed toward a window, it was the spirit that wrapped himself around the too-hot body, and cooled the air to something comfortable.
Eventually, the tower was the subject of many rumors. More visitors came, snooping, and it angered the spirit to see them get closer and closer to getting into the tower, into those lower levels the other no longer visited. The first to breach the door did not make it in before one of their small party was struck dead with a spell from a scroll that fluttered from some high up place, as if by accident. And still, rumor grew. The mad old elven mage, raving at the top of his tower, holder of unspeakable power and artifacts of great worth and rarity. Defenses that killed, maimed, and rendered those that tried to enter otherwise useless. Few escaped the wards and the horrifying things in that place.
Until those with just as much power arrived. On the first floor, they easily dispelled wards, and the spirit manifested.
“Please… turn back.” It was the first time he’d ever done so. He knew the little mage at the top, for all of his power, would be helpless in the midst of one final spell that would drain him. One of the members of the group lifted their hand, and he found himself banished, without so much as a word exchanged. It took too long for him to return, by sheer will. They were on the third floor, finishing off the last of four golems originally intended to help and serve, given weapons by the spirit.
“Turn back now!” The spirit’s visage must have been something frightening. He did not understand why they did not understand him. Why they did not see a small man holding his hands up, pleading. Again, he was struck through. And it… angered him. When he managed his return, they’d only risen one floor. And he felt such a rage as to manage to take on a more substantial form, bigger than he’d been in life, tendrils of ectoplasm whipping at these intruders so very dead set on destroying the very person he’d protected for thousands of years. Again defeated, he retreated, wailing through the very walls with pain and anguish. Perhaps one more try.
“LEAVE THIS PLACE!” he finally managed to scream. They were too close. Just a floor beneath. And they were tiring. He flung at them icy cold daggers of his very own essence, whipped at them with energy and whatever he could muster, knocked over and possessed and raged and cut and yet… Was pushed back. And he grew ever angrier. His rage was overwhelming. How dare these strangers come into his home? How dare they threaten his peace, his very existence? He could not allow it. Not this close to the end. Not this close to the culmination of millenia of research, work, gathering of materials, the writing of a spell that would change the very story that would be told. They had not heeded his warning. And so they would now be well and truly… punished.
The group made it to the top, and burst into that final room at the top where the little old man, hunched and wizened and in the middle of such an important ritual, was quite surprised and startled, nearly losing concentration. But a blanket of something cold formed between him and the ones that would claim his life, the spirit’s life. He would not allow it. Everything he was went into manifesting. Once more, a horrifying screech piercing the very air, the souls of those in front of him. A great clawed hand reached forth and first grasped the face of the one who had banished him so often, tips of cold digging in and draining… everything. Sucking from this poor being their very soul, their experiences, leaving nothing but a babbling husk that was cast aside. But this, he knew, would not save him. Nor could he truly save the mage behind him. He could only slow them, just long enough. For the first time in millennia, he spoke to his charge, the little Moon Elf in the waning of his life, and yet to the dreadful wraith, still so very beautiful.
“FINISH IT, MUFFIN.” The screech carried, and yet there was the undertone of a man’s voice, something desperate to be heard just the way he once was. The group was pressing forward, and now he had to concentrate on keeping them away. The last words the Dread Wraith ever spoke, before devolving into pure rage, hatred, and feral ferocity echoed in a softness the horrifying being should never have been capable of.
“Go back to me.”
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Morgan LaLuna
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Captain
- Posts: 423
- Joined: Sat Jan 25, 2020 10:00 pm
- Location: At Sea
- Contact:
Re: Stories From Another Life
Books and Brews had grown to be quite the place to be when it came to literature, and it was no surprise that when the author of a bestselling book of sailing adventures decided to hold his signing there. A middle aged Korean man sat at the table, chattering at the children that came to get a poster or book signed, hear a story that may have been left out of the book. Those, of course, were not the sorts of stories you told children, and so he simply... Made up a new adventure, every time. Once, he fought a sea dragon fifty feet tall with teeth like daggers and eyes like death. Another story had him and the crew of the Heathen pitted against the very gods of the seas themselves. And epic battle that he had to stop telling, looking off into the distance as he murmured the name of a crew member that had never been named in the book.
His arm rested easily on the table as he signed his name to everything put before him, blackened by ink just as dark as the day it had been applied. Each small Captain LaFey or little Gwen the Terrifying got appropriate responses, the captains challenged to a duel to find the impostor, and small and meaningless bets made with the first mates. Of course, there were a few children drawn to dress as Mart Di'Luna, and each time he gasped.
"Muffin! Wait a minute..." A squint, and he slipped a small stone toward them, nodding seriously. "You know what you have to do..." He would then act as if nothing had ever happened as he signed their books. Because the ones that dressed as the Moon Elf always had the book. More than one, in some cases. Abridged, unabridged, illustrated, paperback, hardback... He once had to sign an entire basket full of memorabilia for a particularly adorable little Di'Luna.
He had leaned to talk to the prim little publicist next to him, asking when he would get a lunch break, and reached to pull a book that was pushed toward him by a well-manicured hand. He leaned to sign it, smiling. "Thanks for buying my book. I do have a new one coming out soon, you should check it out." Still smiling, he looked up, and froze. His heart fluttered, and his breath caught, and the man stood quickly, the chair behind him screeching and skittering away. The woman before him still looked so fresh and young... Immortality did that though, didn't it? Tears sprang to his eyes at the sight.
"It's about me. Of course I'm buying it." The horned witch's lips split into a grin, and he rounded the table to throw his arms around Mallory with a choked laugh. The author waved a hand to the publicist... He'd be taking his lunch break early... For he had to catch up with an old friend that had disappeared... Years ago. Nobody had known where she'd gone to, or if she was even alive. Some said she's ascended to godhood. Others still said she simply got bored, and moved on. And yet a few had dared to whisper of the death of Mallory Maeda, to the detriment of their teeth. He didn't look back at the crowd as he linked arms with the woman, too engrossed in quiet conversation as they made their way to the back of the bookstore where they passed a few young girls wearing horns on their head that paused their adorable little ritual involving a teddy bear as they gawked to see the grace and beauty of a goddess pass by with an aging man on her arm.
The last poster they passed, of course, on their way to a quieter spot, was an advertisement for the very book he'd been speaking of before.
"Blood Goddess: The Mallory Maeda story."
His arm rested easily on the table as he signed his name to everything put before him, blackened by ink just as dark as the day it had been applied. Each small Captain LaFey or little Gwen the Terrifying got appropriate responses, the captains challenged to a duel to find the impostor, and small and meaningless bets made with the first mates. Of course, there were a few children drawn to dress as Mart Di'Luna, and each time he gasped.
"Muffin! Wait a minute..." A squint, and he slipped a small stone toward them, nodding seriously. "You know what you have to do..." He would then act as if nothing had ever happened as he signed their books. Because the ones that dressed as the Moon Elf always had the book. More than one, in some cases. Abridged, unabridged, illustrated, paperback, hardback... He once had to sign an entire basket full of memorabilia for a particularly adorable little Di'Luna.
He had leaned to talk to the prim little publicist next to him, asking when he would get a lunch break, and reached to pull a book that was pushed toward him by a well-manicured hand. He leaned to sign it, smiling. "Thanks for buying my book. I do have a new one coming out soon, you should check it out." Still smiling, he looked up, and froze. His heart fluttered, and his breath caught, and the man stood quickly, the chair behind him screeching and skittering away. The woman before him still looked so fresh and young... Immortality did that though, didn't it? Tears sprang to his eyes at the sight.
"It's about me. Of course I'm buying it." The horned witch's lips split into a grin, and he rounded the table to throw his arms around Mallory with a choked laugh. The author waved a hand to the publicist... He'd be taking his lunch break early... For he had to catch up with an old friend that had disappeared... Years ago. Nobody had known where she'd gone to, or if she was even alive. Some said she's ascended to godhood. Others still said she simply got bored, and moved on. And yet a few had dared to whisper of the death of Mallory Maeda, to the detriment of their teeth. He didn't look back at the crowd as he linked arms with the woman, too engrossed in quiet conversation as they made their way to the back of the bookstore where they passed a few young girls wearing horns on their head that paused their adorable little ritual involving a teddy bear as they gawked to see the grace and beauty of a goddess pass by with an aging man on her arm.
The last poster they passed, of course, on their way to a quieter spot, was an advertisement for the very book he'd been speaking of before.
"Blood Goddess: The Mallory Maeda story."
-
Morgan LaLuna
- Seasoned Adventurer
- Captain
- Posts: 423
- Joined: Sat Jan 25, 2020 10:00 pm
- Location: At Sea
- Contact:
Re: Stories From Another Life
(To listen to the song that inspired this piece, please click the title! 
)
Hundreds of eyes in the room but yours found mine
I asked you to dance and by chance our hands intertwined
What lasted for minutes seemed like eternity
I had no clue this one dance would lead you to me
The two met, strangely enough, in an arena meant for duels and fights. They spoke over their respective drinks at the bar, and eventually, they stepped into the ring together. Their duels became known to be like a dance of sorts. Morgan was graceful as Mart was skilled, and they eventually became comfortable with each other’s styles, and began to match the other move for move. Much laughter was had when they dueled, and Morgan often found that those watching were hardly on his mind after some time. It was just the two of them.
Eventually, the two decided they would try their luck with hand to hand combat, Morgan dipping, bobbing, and weaving, and Mart gracefully taking down the acrobat many times. More often than not, the two ended up winded and laughing in the middle of the ring, and went on to share another drink. It became commonplace to see these two great friends together in the ring, and some stopped to watch their matches. So many saw the moment Morgan’s hand went out to deflect against Mart’s, and their fingers wrapped around each other so perfectly. It was, in their eyes, a defensive move that stopped a strike that nearly hit him. They could not know that a warmth spread across cheeks, and a strange jolt of electricity made hearts shudder under the weight of some unseen meaning.
It was a dance of friendship, the very beginning of the song.
Hundreds of friends in the room and you're dressed in white
You walk down the aisle and I smile to know that you're mine
We cheers our champagne and wait for our song to begin
The band starts to play and you ask me to dance once again
Many years later, Morgan found himself fretting over silvery strands in his hair, tucking them this way and that as he looked into the mirror. He gave a long, shuddering breath, and brushed his fingertips over the pale pink rose that sat on the vanity before he joined the rest of the people outside. It was a lovely ceremony. Small, with close friends. Tears were shed happily, and a union was formed with the gentlest brush of lips, a tentative brush of fingertips along a jaw.
The first dance of the reception, of course, was theirs. Morgan carefully led, and those that watched saw the Captain murmuring into the Moon Elf’s ear, a shared laughter rippling between them and seeming to ring out like a distant chorus of the most harmonious chimes. The words that passed between them were unknown to most that were there to celebrate the long awaited rite between the two.
“I love you. And your two left feet.” Mart wasn’t nearly so skilled at dancing as Morgan, but the Captain more than happily led. They complemented each other in this way, the dance led by one, and the song led by the other. Mart was humming beautifully along with the song, perfectly in tune and in time so that only the one that held him close could discern it.
It was a dance of lovers, with the swell of chorus and verse written to tell their story.
Fifty-nine years have gone by since you said yes
Even now in your hospital bed you still look your best
We might be old but there's still one thing we can do
Put on a song, let's pretend to dance round the room
So many years later, Morgan lie in their bed, warm and comforted by the presence of Mart beside him, feet tucked beneath him as he curled next to him. They talked idly of memories, and did not speak of the impending end, of the sunset to come that would plunge all into the dark of night. In the fading light Morgan turned to look at Mart.
“Do you remember when we danced at our wedding?”
“I do.”
“I’d like to do that again. Please.”
The Moon Elf carefully helped the aged old Captain from the bed, and it was he this time that held the other tight, and tried to lead. Morgan leaned against him, resting his head on his shoulder, and gave a low, rough chuckle. “You still have two left feet.” he remarked, and eventually he was happy to simply wrap his arms around Mart and sway gently in place to the angelic sounds of Mart’s voice, singing the very song that had signaled the beginning. His eyes closed, and when the song was over, he sighed. “I’m tired.”
“Let us get you back to bed.” the Elf replied gently, and they moved together, once more finding comfort in stillness and quiet and the presence of each other.
It was a dance of remembrance, those last notes gently drifting through the air.
Thirty-five hours have gone by since your last breath
Memories of dancing with you are all I have left
Just a few seconds before it's my time to go
Hello my god and my love at last I am home
Days later, Mart held the wrinkled hand of the Captain in his final repose, silent and unmoving with a look of peace on his aged face. The tears had stopped, only because there were no more to fall. He finally let go, and laid that hand on a still chest, rising for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Strange, how those short moments seemed to last so long, until they became memories. The last words of Morgan had been spoken softly, a gentle request.
“If there’s another chance… find me.”
It was hard to tell what he meant, in those last moments. Perhaps he was simply stating that when the other had passed his years, he would be waiting in that place of eternity, if such a thing there was. However he’d meant it… It became a mission, perhaps. They would find each other again, in some way or another.
This was the dance of mourning. The song had passed, hauntingly beautiful and heartbreakingly sad, but the notes would carry on in the hearts of those that sang it best.
)Hundreds of eyes in the room but yours found mine
I asked you to dance and by chance our hands intertwined
What lasted for minutes seemed like eternity
I had no clue this one dance would lead you to me
The two met, strangely enough, in an arena meant for duels and fights. They spoke over their respective drinks at the bar, and eventually, they stepped into the ring together. Their duels became known to be like a dance of sorts. Morgan was graceful as Mart was skilled, and they eventually became comfortable with each other’s styles, and began to match the other move for move. Much laughter was had when they dueled, and Morgan often found that those watching were hardly on his mind after some time. It was just the two of them.
Eventually, the two decided they would try their luck with hand to hand combat, Morgan dipping, bobbing, and weaving, and Mart gracefully taking down the acrobat many times. More often than not, the two ended up winded and laughing in the middle of the ring, and went on to share another drink. It became commonplace to see these two great friends together in the ring, and some stopped to watch their matches. So many saw the moment Morgan’s hand went out to deflect against Mart’s, and their fingers wrapped around each other so perfectly. It was, in their eyes, a defensive move that stopped a strike that nearly hit him. They could not know that a warmth spread across cheeks, and a strange jolt of electricity made hearts shudder under the weight of some unseen meaning.
It was a dance of friendship, the very beginning of the song.
Hundreds of friends in the room and you're dressed in white
You walk down the aisle and I smile to know that you're mine
We cheers our champagne and wait for our song to begin
The band starts to play and you ask me to dance once again
Many years later, Morgan found himself fretting over silvery strands in his hair, tucking them this way and that as he looked into the mirror. He gave a long, shuddering breath, and brushed his fingertips over the pale pink rose that sat on the vanity before he joined the rest of the people outside. It was a lovely ceremony. Small, with close friends. Tears were shed happily, and a union was formed with the gentlest brush of lips, a tentative brush of fingertips along a jaw.
The first dance of the reception, of course, was theirs. Morgan carefully led, and those that watched saw the Captain murmuring into the Moon Elf’s ear, a shared laughter rippling between them and seeming to ring out like a distant chorus of the most harmonious chimes. The words that passed between them were unknown to most that were there to celebrate the long awaited rite between the two.
“I love you. And your two left feet.” Mart wasn’t nearly so skilled at dancing as Morgan, but the Captain more than happily led. They complemented each other in this way, the dance led by one, and the song led by the other. Mart was humming beautifully along with the song, perfectly in tune and in time so that only the one that held him close could discern it.
It was a dance of lovers, with the swell of chorus and verse written to tell their story.
Fifty-nine years have gone by since you said yes
Even now in your hospital bed you still look your best
We might be old but there's still one thing we can do
Put on a song, let's pretend to dance round the room
So many years later, Morgan lie in their bed, warm and comforted by the presence of Mart beside him, feet tucked beneath him as he curled next to him. They talked idly of memories, and did not speak of the impending end, of the sunset to come that would plunge all into the dark of night. In the fading light Morgan turned to look at Mart.
“Do you remember when we danced at our wedding?”
“I do.”
“I’d like to do that again. Please.”
The Moon Elf carefully helped the aged old Captain from the bed, and it was he this time that held the other tight, and tried to lead. Morgan leaned against him, resting his head on his shoulder, and gave a low, rough chuckle. “You still have two left feet.” he remarked, and eventually he was happy to simply wrap his arms around Mart and sway gently in place to the angelic sounds of Mart’s voice, singing the very song that had signaled the beginning. His eyes closed, and when the song was over, he sighed. “I’m tired.”
“Let us get you back to bed.” the Elf replied gently, and they moved together, once more finding comfort in stillness and quiet and the presence of each other.
It was a dance of remembrance, those last notes gently drifting through the air.
Thirty-five hours have gone by since your last breath
Memories of dancing with you are all I have left
Just a few seconds before it's my time to go
Hello my god and my love at last I am home
Days later, Mart held the wrinkled hand of the Captain in his final repose, silent and unmoving with a look of peace on his aged face. The tears had stopped, only because there were no more to fall. He finally let go, and laid that hand on a still chest, rising for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. Strange, how those short moments seemed to last so long, until they became memories. The last words of Morgan had been spoken softly, a gentle request.
“If there’s another chance… find me.”
It was hard to tell what he meant, in those last moments. Perhaps he was simply stating that when the other had passed his years, he would be waiting in that place of eternity, if such a thing there was. However he’d meant it… It became a mission, perhaps. They would find each other again, in some way or another.
This was the dance of mourning. The song had passed, hauntingly beautiful and heartbreakingly sad, but the notes would carry on in the hearts of those that sang it best.
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