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SLAVE TO THE SONG

The song.

It haunted him, tormented him, demanded it be played, night after night after night.

Resistance was futile. He had to acquiesce.

Every night, he settled into the bench in front of his organ, a gift from her.

Every night, he played.

The pulsing rhythm carried him away, into happier times and memories, when love didn't equate itself with tragedy and she was there, always there, always with a cooling salt spray or gentle patter of rain to remind him of her presence.

But sometimes those sprays would turn to gales, the rain to hurricanes. She was a tempestuous goddess, prone to violent mood swings, and she never hesitated to let the world know when she was displeased. She reveled in discord, triumphed in human suffering.

He knew that far too well.

He should never have taken up her offer for him to ferry those souls for her. Why hadn't he known it was merely a game? She loved to make a man's wildest dreams come alive, then rip it all away at the moment it would wound the most.

In spite of this, he had trusted her, hoped against hope that maybe, just maybe, she loved him enough to keep her promise and show up.

What a fool he had been! What a lovestruck fool, blind to everything, even his own lover!

Now he was a monster, scarred by the ravages of love lost and vows broken.

He supposed he deserved it. Anyone foolish enough to trust the goddess of death surely merited a wake-up call, however brutal it may be.

But he hadn't taken his punishment lying down. He had hurt that wicked creature as she had him, enslaving her in a despised form and and separating her from the one thing that gave her life meaning.

Calypso, goddess-turned-human, severed from the ocean.

Davy Jones, a tentacled beast, severed from his lover.

Tit-for-tat, eh?

Now the song was all he had. So he played every night without fail, wanting her, despising her.

The music thundered on.