Six hundred years.
Six hundred years of solitude.
Of singing, into a void he could not hear, nor feel.
His senses lost to the merciless marches of time.
His heart, taken by the demon whose cruel pact he had signed.
The moon was the same, as that night, every night. Six hundred years it had shone upon these woodlands, and for six hundred he had remained trapped beneath it, unable to leave.
Fingers no longer his own played the strings of his Lyre, the only original thing left of him, after all this time spent wandering the darkness, though fate had taken any feeling within that which remained.
So many of his parts, exchanged for newer ones, in his own self admitted lunacy, for he knew that she would never recognize his song if not from his own fingers...
He touched the withering grass which grew below his stone, but could not feel it.
...If not from his own heart.
But it was too late.
