Tag: Sad

Top 50 Instrumental Songs (Part 1/5)

Nearly eight months of godless agony later, I’ve finally completed a project I’ve been gearing up to do for years. This is the first in a five-part series to be released daily, in which I unpack my favorite instrumental songs in the history of, well, ever. Narrowing this list down was obviously difficult. There were four “waves” needed to thin out the contestants from my library of thousands, and once we got below one-hundred it was like pulling teeth.

Yet, I stayed true to my original goal of fifty, for my own sake, and not compromise that number. I wanted to know for myself what I believed were my favorites among the gallery of songs I so dearly love.  This following list is the conclusion of those struggles.  They are not in order.  Simply getting a pool of them was hard enough.  I do wish to leave with my sanity.

Many are favored because of their execution and style, while others, because of a particular attachment or association they have with my personal life.  With each entry will be a short blurb, explaining why it belongs. Click the name of the song to open a link for listening. And for a disclaimer: if I couldn’t understand what language they were singing in, I considered the vocals as their own independent instruments, and thus things like Gregorian chants do not disqualify songs from being “instrumentals.”

Enjoy.
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#1 – “The Beginning” by Factor Eight

As much as I’d like to not start with an eight-minute song, let’s open with a splash of happiness and victory.  It’s nearly impossible to listen to “The Beginning” and not feel hope pervade every atom of your body.  Nothing about this song is complicated, and for the best.  We are introduced by way of orchestral strings, dancing on melting snow.  Sunlight comes in as an angelic piano comes baring its gifts.  The drums dive in with a stomping cadence, bringing with it the claps of soldiers who have come home.  That’s a good way of thinking about “The Beginning.”  It is a rebuilding song, a restarting song.  Post-destruction and pain.  This is the spiritual anthem for recovery and renewal, having survived the long night and sown the way for good things to come in the morning.  It’s men and women seeing their families again.  It’s a child leaving a hospital from whence hope was momentarily fleeting.  It’s not only survival, it’s ascension in spite of whatever wreckage or tragedy lay behind.

#2 – “Unravel” by TK from Ling Toshite Sigure

While I can and have listened to the instrumental versions for hours (there’s plenty to choose from, such as the sexy piano cover I linked above), the soul of this track’s appeal comes from the original version.  Unravel is the opening to season 1 of a popular anime called Tokyo Ghoul.  It is famous for having some of the most immediately recognizable opening notes in anime, so much so that my brother, who has not watched the series and only heard the song once, was able to tell me it was the Tokyo Ghoul theme after only a couple seconds, long after hearing it his one time.

I am trying to make a point of not discussing lyrics in any of these posts, but for Unravel, I’m making an exception.  I believe one of the largest parts of the song’s appeal is that it was specifically written and composed to capture the mentality of the series protagonist, Ken Kaneki, and it does so perfectly.  In any of the song’s iterations, both sentimental and intense, the music synergizes with the feeling you get while watching Kaneki develop as a character.  Matched by deeply introspective and existential lyrics, Unravel succeeds in being a catch-all of cerebral, contemplative, violent, haunting, and heartbreaking all at once.

#3 – “Requiem For a Dream” by Lux Aeterna

This song was the catalyst by which my campaign for instrumental music was founded, when I was a fledgling high-schooler just discovering the wonder of high-speed internet. It wasn’t until I heard “Requiem for a Dream” that I ever sought out more music of its kind, and the deviations which naturally followed. My imagination shifted under the weight of these new strains of music, epic battles waging, worlds taking shape. My music library has never been the same.

#4 – “Rylynn” by Andy McKee

I think this may be the only song on my entire list which is exclusively composed of acoustic guitar.  Rylynn earns its place among my top 50 not only for its stature as a song itself, but for the ties it holds to my personal life.  Specifically, this was the theme I associated to my longest-standing crush and unrequited romantic interest, spanning almost three years during my college career.  In my mind, this was her song, and while I don’t much listen to the song anymore, I can’t deny it is a sonic masterpiece, and she is still uniquely tied to the dream-like strums contained within.

#5 – “Dream Big” by Mark Petrie

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHZKnbU61sw

If the phrase “crushing amounts of joy” makes any sense, I’d like to employ it now. This song is immediately and intrinsically filled with hope and overcoming, and for me, is inevitably associated with my favorite series, Naruto. Now, this song isn’t from Naruto, but it reminds me of one pivotal moment in the story: when our scrappy little hero is finally accepted by the people of the village after his harrowing battle against Pain. This song is how that series makes me feel, which is why, despite any arguments against Naruto’s quality which might arise (and being the fan I am, I’m more aware than most regarding its shortcomings) the series means so much to me. No amount of argumentation could divorce that narrative from the feeling “Dream Big” provides. This song is like walking into a pole, but a pole made of buoyancy and tranquility and victory. It makes you stop and be thankful to simply exist.

#6 – “I Could Have Done More” by John Williams

John Williams is so masterful in so many ways. There’s an almost trans-existential ache behind this one.  One heart speaking directly to another, confiding about little demons hidden for years on end.  It’s somebody telling a best friend they want to die.  You can feel it, behind the strings. How that harping violin files down your ribs into chains? Your sternum into a lock?

I mean, it IS a song about the Holocaust.

#7 – “Blumenkranz” by Hiroyuki Sawano

(Get used to seeing the name Hiroyuki Sawano. He shows up a lot on this list.)

Beautiful evil. This is a theme which both perfectly captures the villainess of its series, and transcends her. When I hear “Blumenkranz,” I can only imagine a fallen angel, glorious and lithe and bathed in colors.  But even while shining for all to see, that angel maintains an essence of absolute cruelty.  “Blumenkranz” is the modest seductress, the scheming man with the world’s best smile.  It is power, proud and terrible.  Honestly, most of this is credited to the choir, which really sells the song on merit of its divine, alien sound.

#8 – “One-Winged Angel” by Nobuo Uematsu (The Black Mages Version)

If the spirit of menace could have its own soundtrack…

This song is one of the most well-known video game tracks ever made, and inspires both terror and awe in many a veteran player. It is the theme to Final Fantasy VII’s nightmare pretty-boy villain, Sephiroth. When those staccato strings and slamming drums break in, you need to prepare for the worst. And after about a minute, this childish foreshadowing settles into the ashes, throwing wide the gates for a sound pulled from the belly of hell itself, full of darkness insurmountable and infinite.

#9 – “Spring’s Melody” by Masaru Yokoyama

“She is the journey with no destination.”

There’s a wonderful anime of world-class caliber called Your Lie In April, which plays your heartstrings like a violin (ha).  Whenever this song begins, you want to soar.  It rounds out the narrative beats perfectly, breathing life into the tone of the story and the animation.  This track might be simple, but from the first note it jars me back into that same zeitgeist of joy and sadness I experienced through every poetic second of YLiA.

#10 – “Seigi Shikkou” by Makoto Miyazaki and various others

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xsYdLeeHiu0

From the anime “One Punch Man,” this song is, for lack of a more appropriate phrase, heroic as hell.  Now, unlike many entries on this list, my love of Seigi Shikkou exists independently of the source material (which I am infamously known to dislike among my social circles).  I am enamored by this kickass, pulse-pounding song for two particular reasons (outside the obvious one of it being a mega-dope song in its own right).  First, it works wonders at breaking through mental barriers, and as such it is commonly played every time I go to the gym.  Few things cast my inhibitions to the curb as violently as when those strings break into the song hook, like a superhero taking flight.  Second, I keep the track on hand during the writing of my current and most ambitious story ever.  It is the end game—how I want the conclusion of this story to feel when people read it.  All of my work and creative labors are aiming to inevitably land upon the feeling Seigi Shikkou generates.  It is impressively, almost impossibly cool.

Something Sad, Like Usual – An Original Poem

Half my heart, the dark red part
Took my words when he depart
Senseless creature that I am

I tried to hate him from the start

Our child dear, I lived in fear
Might never know a father here
Yet I reared him all alone

In his face, you’d soon appear

A true man truly, all my life
My husband truly loved his wife
Boy, I know he’d love you, too

Had Death’s clock skipped him August ninth

His love was endless, his strength was not
He sadly left us here to rot
And though it might not be by choice

Every night he’s my final thought

Not yet old, no longer young
Still the words no longer come
My soul now longs for one thing only

The day we pass and you meet our son.

“Papa’s Little Girl” – Short Story

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It just doesn’t seem fair, you know?

I mean, I don’t hold anything against you.  How could I?  You are guilty only of good things, papa.  The warm night snuggling beside you or at the foot of your bed, I loved those.  They were some of my favorite things.  Not to mention the treat you’d grant me from your very own hand, and that smile when you’d drop, look me in the eye and say “That’s my girl,” with a comb of your fingers through my hair.  That was my favorite, too.

It’s hard not to love you, papa.  I know when I was young I had brothers and sisters.  I remember them vaguely, but I remember.  You took me home with you, so I haven’t seen them in a while, but that’s okay.  Maybe I was scared at first, being removed from my family. Scared of you. I can only hope my siblings were also blessed with such wonderful papa’s.  Thank you for making me safe and not scared anymore.  Thank you for sharing your home with a clumsy little girl like me.  Thank you so much, papa.

Papa, I’m still not sure why I’m not allowed to be a mama someday. I went to sleep around some strange people and when I woke up, well, it just hurt.  Something was wrong inside of me too, I just hadn’t figured out what at the time.  I’m not questioning you, papa.  I know you only want what’s best for me, but I still get sad sometimes.  Is that okay?  Am I allowed to be sad when I have such a great papa?  I just…I don’t know.  I wish I could be a great mama, too.  I wish I could show little puppies all of the love that you showed me.  I wish so bad to be as great as my papa.

It just didn’t seem fair back then.  Papa, you’re a good guy.  I’m sorry you get hurt sometimes.  Sorry the job people didn’t want you anymore.  Sorry that woman didn’t love you.  The tears you cried into my head were warm.  They made me want to cry, too.  When you kept saying “Why am I not good enough?”, I knew you weren’t talking to me, but papa, I wanted to answer so bad.  I wanted to tell you exactly how good you were.   That you were friendly, and funny, and made the sun sparkle, and worth the trust of all things in all the whole wide world.  You deserved the best friends, the best family.  I wanted my papa to be happy so bad it hurt.  I’m sorry I couldn’t help, papa.  You were the best papa a little girl could ask for, and it made me sad that I didn’t know how to tell you.  I’m not very good with words, papa.

But even though you got hurt sometimes, you never gave up.  Papa, that’s what’s great about you.  That’s why I’m proud to call you my papa.  You got a new job, a better job, and you stopped asking if you were good enough anymore.  It helped you be happy again.  Then you bought me my stuffed bunny toy, Squeakman.  I love Squeakman.  Even now, he’s still my best friend, even if he doesn’t squeak much anymore.

But even better than Squeakman was your face when you met mama.  I remember when you came back from your first date.  Oh papa, how you smiled!  You picked me up and spun me around and laughed with a full heart.  The spinning made me dizzy, but I’d be dizzy for a million years if it meant my papa could be happy.  Mama was a good lady, I knew.  We shared that same feminine instinct and class, so there was no doubt in my mind.

So papa, I know you’re no dummy.  That’s why I knew you’d propose to mama.  I’m sure the wedding was beautiful too, but I couldn’t go.  Nah, papa’s little girl was starting to feel tired lately.  That’s okay.  Squeakman and I celebrated from afar and eagerly awaited your return.  I was only sad once, the whole time you were gone, when I thought about being a mama myself.  But it passed and I remembered how happy my papa was.

Our new home was bigger than the old one and full of new smells, so me and Squeakman made a day of exploring it when you both went to work.  We found a secret lair beneath the deck, I chased two squirrels out of the yard, and we introduced ourselves to our neighbor Sammi.  She’s a bit of an airhead, but I like her.

Papa, you have no idea how my heart fell through the floor when mama got that call you were in the hospital.  They said it was an accident and you’d need surgery.  Papa, it just wasn’t fair.  I wanted to go and be by your side so bad, I would have turned over the world to find a way, but mama said I couldn’t come.  I didn’t want to disobey mama, and knew she had her reasons, so I stayed, though my soul was in tatters.  I paced, and cried, and prayed to Big Papa that you’d be okay.

I’m really thankful to mama.  She was there when I couldn’t be.  I knew she was good, but to think she was also the best.  She was the best mama a little girl could ask for, because she knew how to take care of you, papa.  I know she was the best, because once you got better and she was out with her friends for the night, you cried with me.  You cried and thanked Big Papa for sending mama to help you through life when it got hard.  I didn’t know you could do that.  I didn’t know a person could cry and smile at the same time, but you did it papa.

I saw you do it again a while later, when Little One was born.  I saw you cry, but not because you were sad.  No, you might have been even happier than ever.  I was happy too, and not just because of how Little One made you smile.  Little One helped kindle an old fire in my heart.  If I couldn’t be a mama myself, then I would help my mama protect her Little One.  I would do it with all of my heart.

Watching Little One grow was one of the best things in my life.  You were a great papa to us both and I loved showing Little One that you didn’t need to be afraid of people like me and Sammi.  People with four legs.  Thank you for allowing me to be there when Little One began to walk.  Thank you for letting me be a protector when you were gone.  I promised that until the day I die, I would never let any harm come to Little One.  On my honor as a mama.

But as Little One got bigger, I started to feel something strange. Papa, it happened every time you came home from work or kissed mama.  It happened every time you woke up in the morning and began to move around.  There was something wrong with all of it.  But the problem wasn’t with you, papa, it was with me.  I was broken.  I was changing and you weren’t.  The stairs I climbed to reach your bedroom, they seemed further apart, but you didn’t think so.  My legs which helped me run to your side everyday were made of heaviness. Why didn’t your legs seem heavier, papa? Why could you still run when I could not?

Eventually it became too much for this little girl.  I tried so hard to keep up with you, papa, but you were moving too fast.  Everything hurt and I was always tired.  But why?  All I wanted was to stay by my papa’s side.  Why couldn’t I do that anymore?  What was wrong with me?  It just wasn’t fair.

One day I woke up when Little One accidentally fell on me.  My body hurt something incredible.  I knew it wasn’t Little One’s fault, because I’d felt the pain growing deep inside of me for a while, but suddenly I couldn’t move.  I could barely even breathe, papa.  Do you know how scary that is, not being able to breathe?  Thank you for taking care of me though, and please let Little One know it wasn’t their fault.  I was a broken little girl.  I take full responsibility.

Still, it just wasn’t fair.  You took me in to see that doctor person.  I didn’t like that doctor person because he smelled like the people who stopped me from being a mama, but I trusted you knew what was best.  He placed cold things all over my body and shined a bunch of painful lights into my eyes.  He asked you to sit down in the chair so you could talk, but I knew what he was going to say.  I was starting to get the feeling that I wouldn’t get to leave with my papa today.  The words he used were big and confusing, but I understood the fear in your face.  He said I was broken, didn’t he?  I was too “old.”

What is old, papa?  Are you old?  Please don’t become old, it’s really not very fun.  I hope Little One never becomes old.

You left me with the doctor person for the night.  Papa, that was the loneliest night of my life.  I was so scared and I only had Big Papa to comfort me.  I could do nothing but lay down and wait and hope you’d come back when the sun rose again.

Thank you for coming back.  Thank you for bringing mama and Little One to see me.  This is going to be the last time, isn’t it?  I can tell because nobody is smiling.  I mean, you’re trying to smile, but you can’t trick me, papa.  I could smell your sadness when you stepped through the door.  I can feel your heart breaking, just like mine.

Papa, did I ever tell you how much I love mama’s voice? It’s so tender, like she’s apologizing to Big Papa for every bad thing everyone has ever done.  It’s so sweet, like a magical rain made of candy.  You are so special to have her, papa.  She’s a better mama than I could ever be.  Please take care of her forever and always.  I know you will, because that’s the kind of papa you are.

Little One doesn’t know what’s happening, do they?  That’s okay.  I protected them, just like I promised I would.  Please keep Little One safe when I’m gone.  Please show them what love is.

And Papa, it really, really isn’t fair, you know?  Why do you not look any different?  I spent my whole life with you.  You were there from the beginning.  Had you had little girls like me before?  Will you find another once I’ve left?  If you do, please be the papa I know you are, and show them how to be happy like me.  Fill them with wonder and hope and joy.  Little girls need those things from their papas.

Because I’m old now, papa, and very tired.  Thank you for placing Squeakman beside me, so I don’t have to go alone to find Big Papa.  Thank you for being here, even though I know it hurts your heart.  You’ve always been here, haven’t you?  I’ve seen you every day since I could remember, and you still look exactly the same as when we first met. That’s not fair.  I want to spend more time with my papa, but I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.  Why are my eyes the only ones that have to close?  Why do I have to go into the dark without my papa?

It just doesn’t seem fair, you know?

“Ghost” – Short Story

In evenfall there was a ghost, one who took kindly to others, but found all his company alone. Children share their tales, as children do, about when they met the ghost and what they’d done together. About what they might do, should they ever again meet this apparition. But while their stories were only by the fond side of the heart and meant no ill, they were also the sorts of false expression expected of children. Unlike their tales, the ghost never housed a guest, as guests never made it so far into the woods without turning back. More than that, it had been a long age since the ghost last knew anything of friendship. But should any wandering souls find themselves lost in that wood, and if perchance they stumbled upon the ghost’s home, they would find something lovely. Lovely, maybe, but terribly austere and lonesome in all the gentlest ways.

The ghost made its days cultivating a modest cabbage patch, with rough carrots intermixed. This gave credence to the white-washed stone gardening walls, put up only a few years earlier. It was all that could be done to keep out intruding hare and all manner of invasive critter. A rickety sign clicked overtop the doorframe of a home that the innocent and friendly might envy. Scrawled in black ran across its face a single word: ‘Ghost’. This was its home, the only place it knew. Perhaps a mystery to the ghost, but this was also a prison. Thoughts and memories of its life were all trapped here, and for that reason, it could never leave. And because it would never leave, it would never find something new.

Still it stayed, and it was happy. Lonely on bad days, but it was a cheerful ghost with the knowledge that bad days couldn’t last. So it remained inside when the rains came and made its home well, so that when somebody might finally brave the wood and find the gentle cottage beyond, it would be ready for them. There would be festivities of the sort only a ghost could satisfy. It would be a celebration with warm, butter-baked bread and the ghost’s favorite kind of chocolate. Pumpkins might be carved with the ghost’s perfectly polished tools and marshmallows would be roasted in a quiet fire. There would be music, because of course the stranger would have a spirit for song and dance. Maybe ghosts struggle to dance, but this ghost would try. It practiced often, when nobody was looking.

But this was all just a dream, one of the happy dreams meant for a good day. Today was a laundry day, which meant it was neither good, nor bad. The ghost was thankful that it was cloudless outside. It preferred its labors at night, and night was awfully solemn without any stars. You’d think a ghost would have no need for laundry, but you would be wrong. This ghost loved each of its four sheets more than anything else in the home. They were simple, often just as dirty as they were now.

Everlasting fingers of mud had saturated deep into their white. A light tattering could be felt in the surface of each and along their edges. These made them imperfect. But imperfect was most usually the best way to have something. The ghost knew this and liked them all the same.

Sometime long ago the ghost cut little circles in the sheets. The circles were cut in pairs and, because ghosts aren’t very coordinated, they were laughably asymmetrical. Some were too high, others too low. Nearly all of them too close or too far. But the sheets were already imperfect, and so surely they understood how difficult it was for a ghost to cut proper eye holes. This only made the ghost love and nurture them that much more. So as it was, the ghost would wash them, grinning as it churned through popping bubbles and suds. The companionship of the moon made these evenings warm and before long the ghost would finish bathing its sheets.

A slash of string was spread across the yard, suspended between two rods of timber. Since the sheets would need a chance to dry, the ghost used this line to hang them and let the night air have its way. During this period it sank into a deep patience. Sometimes the ghost would sit in silence and wait, other times it might hum the progression to a sweet autumn song. You know, something red and yellow, but mostly orange. A song that smells of nutmeg and cinnamon. One of these days somebody would be sitting nearby and humming along. You don’t have to be a ghost to appreciate the small things like a humming comrade.

When finally the sheets were cured of their wetness, the ghost would pull them off the line and smile. It would smile a tender, forgiving smile. Something it learned from children’s books. Armed with that smile, it would carry the sheets over and drape them on four posts, standing no more than three heads from the ground. If assorted properly, the eye-pockets would look straight back at him. Or as straight as possible, with the ghost’s handiwork. In that moment, the ghost would fondly share its musings and happenings with the sheets. They were usually a kind audience, with a generous ear. On bad days, they never said anything. But that was alright, because usually it was a good day, and on good days the laundry would talk back. None of them bore scars of rudeness or malign gestures. Instead they were friendly, and often times their stories were better than any the ghost could tell. Together they would reminisce of young life games, younger sweetheart loves, and the adventures known to dwell in far lands and amidst the sea. Naturally there was laughter, and even though there may not have been music, they always sang.

In time a wind would come and snatch the sheets up as a futile attempt to steal them away. But the ghost had a big yard, and though the sheets might tumble and mar with dirt, it would always catch them. There would be a pang of sadness in its heart as the conversation drew to a sudden close. For a moment the ghost believed the sheet might not ever talk again. If anybody has ever lost a friend, or said goodbye for what they knew could be the final time, then they understand much of how the ghost felt during these moments. But it was a hopeful ghost, with a big heart and keen understanding. The sheets could get dirty over and over, and the ghost would always be ready to clean them anew. So it would, so it would.

Because today might be a good day. Maybe. This ghost was an ambitious ghost and not taken to long-suffering or hardship. Strangers never came to visit, so it had time to do the laundry. And once it had begun, it could sit alone and wait according to its custom. Though strangers never said hello and children never ventured near its home, if the ghost waited long enough it would always have someone that might listen. Some sheets with little holes for eyes. Some sheets that fluttered upon a post. Friends with which it could sing and not be disheartened. Because at evenfall there was a ghost with homemade friends, and nobody knew their stories but him.

“Daughter of the Rain” – Short Story

A chord of aching compassion sifted behind Ira’s chest. He unfurled one hand slowly, reaching out towards the lonely creature under the wagon. With a pout and limp, it fell back over itself. Ira drew his arms to his core for warmth and sighed.

“How long have you been here?” He cast a half-attended glance to his side, maybe looking for somebody. An owner possibly, or someone that might be able to help. They were alone, so he returned his attention to the young beast. It was longer than his arm and slender like a crystal river, smooth tufts of hair gathering where scales were absent. Ira stirred. Between its dainty paws and the mercury glow of its eyes, the fledgling creature gathered old thoughts of a runt hound from his youth.

But this was hardly a hound or even a mutt. Something in its build reminded Ira of a gargoyle, or one of those spirits from his father’s library.

It whimpered something low and rolling, scratching its broken claws into wet earth. Ira pursed his lips and settled both knees into the mud. Whatever it might be, it was hurt and made the distinct cry of having been betrayed. A sound shared by men and beast alike.

Fumbling in his coat pocket, Ira broke off a chunk of stale butter-bread. The rain reached down and made it soft. He extended the supplement until the whole of his arm was beneath the wagon, his cheek against its hardwood carapace. For a long minute there was nothing, but soon after, something nuzzled his fingers and lapped the food from his hand. It tickled. Ira dipped his head under the carriage to watch his new friend lick up the last of the bread. “I don’t want to leave you here,” Ira fell back on his haunches and cast his head low, “But I don’t know where to take you.”

Curious silver rings peered back at him, now suddenly interested, but resilient in wariness.

“I would never hurt you,” Ira said. He did all he could to keep his tone soft and distinctly motherly. “But words are fickle, aren’t they? Like water.”

To his surprise, the young creature moved closer, one leg damaged enough that it could only drag. Ira eased back into the rain, providing a space for it to join him. The gargoyle’s eyelids flittered as the rain came against them. Several deep lacerations crept along its sides, staining the surrounding fur in a blood darker than oil. A swell above one eye seemed to be in advanced stages of healing, but that was the best of it.

Reciting the importance of caution to himself, Ira made clear for the beast that he was a friend, and then reached out until they were touching. It purred meagerly and let him run fingers along the scales of its crown. “I’m sorry.”

The gargoyle rustled its jaw and came closer.

“I’m so sorry. Please forgive us. I forget how cruel we can be.”

If the creature acknowledged or understood any of Ira’s words– which it may, he couldn’t be sure it didn’t– then it would be a hideous deed of him to abandon or send it away. Ira was dirty and unwanted even among his own kin. What could he offer? If it came with him, it would die before the week closed. There was no home with warm hearth-fire to greet them. No quiet place that was safe from the rain.

Perhaps sensing his own conflict, the gargoyle slid its head onto Ira’s lap and closed its eyes. Ira heaved a single dry sob and clenched both fists before laying his head atop the beast’s own. “What is your name, I wonder?” A rhythmic, throaty tremble came from the beast. A noise and feeling like a great cat’s purr. The rain bid forth with greater fury, crushing the wagon’s steeple. The collapse startled them both, and the creature looked back to Ira with a gaze of mixed pity and comfort. An idle wind tossed the rain slantways.

“I think I have something,” Ira grinned with a trace smile like honey, “Ysuna. Hmm? A Southern word. I think it’s religious. ‘Daughter of the rain’. How does that sound?”

As woefully inadequate as Ira felt most his decisions were, this one seemed right. Seemed strong and pure. The creature must have agreed, because it licked a frothy pink tongue against the flat of his arm.

Gathering the injured creature into a cradle, Ira made a point to avoid hurting Ysuna any more than she already had been. “Come on, let’s get out of the rain,” Ira laid Ysuna on her better side, back against the inside of the wagon’s wheel. There was just enough room for him to crawl underneath the carriage and rest beside her. “We will rest here, and when the rain stops we will find someone who can help,” Ira stroked the beast’s brow, “Hold on until then, okay?”