Overture

"What is life but a dream; a thought; a fleeting feeling at the tip of fragile fingers;
and you, my love, you;
will you grant me this one last dance?"

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Small, pale hands picked up the book that looked the heaviest, the thickest - its cover singing of old times gone by and yet the ink smelled as if it was carved onto the many pages just a day or so ago. Upon turning those, the story reads...

It is the record of the Divine, her Grace, and the man who laid his eyes upon Her and could not fathom which he had not seen before. Could not fathom the ghost that had carried all of the world into the world. Could not fathom the light She emitted, had he but known all that attributed to darkness and manifestation of souls long gone, sullying his own in the process.
He would never tell a man about the meetings with her Grace, yet you could see from his face that agony erupted, day by day with more force and frequently --- and yet, those eyes, oh, how they betrayed him with pain and warmer, gentler emotions, for each time Her name brushed his ears.

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