I dance with shadows. Soft as a whisper of doubt, they approach, tattered revenants of midnight that threaten my light. Bleak darkness forces steps of avoidance broken by violent conflict. My boots shuffle smoothly in evasion, the shimmer of silver notes punctuated by infrequent hisses of pain and the whistle of my staff as it seemingly passes through my silent partners. They've less substance than my hopes, these shadows, and bring no music of their own.

I wonder what they are.

Did fearsome evil gather here and fade, letting substance slip away to be replaced by a dearth of light? When the stars first pierced the canopy of night, did they break out tiny chunks of it and cast them to the earth? Perhaps they were true shadows once, baited in their weakest hour and stolen away at high noon by demons who twisted their nature. If one searched all the forests or the beasts of the land, might one find a single undead crow who never spooked a bunny with the shadow of its wings? A stately pine that did not trace a spiky line across the needle-strewn earth in honor of Sunrifter's passage? Or are they shades of despair and apathy cast by jaded adventurers? Evil intentions? Broken promises? Do any of them belong to me?

I destroy them regardless of their nature. Each dance, I finish swifter than the previous one or with more grace. I spin like the last leaf of autumn upon a winter wind, brittle and occasionally broken by the motion, but guaranteed a soft landing by virtue of my leavened state of mind. Aloof from cares or worries, hedged by apathy, and yet as determined to avoid that state as I am to elude the shadows' briefest caress - I battle still.

The Wall swallows the sound of my bells.