The green light spills from her form, an ever falling fountain. His mind registers it as the luminosity of black magic but his eyes only acknowledge its exoticness.

She sits on a small rise of moss and is surrounded by a circle of birch trees. Their bark reflects the odd light and casts deep shadows where it curls back. Branches nearest him are lifted out of his view by a passing breeze. Leaves shower down and swirl around her slight frame, her black hair drift around her face before falling back down to her shoulders. More moss blankets the open circle. A small stream cuts between him and the other being. In the green light, it is a line of volcanic glass and reflects none of the unnatural seen in front of him. But in the normal blue moonlight, he notices the faint reflections of trees and a starlit sky.

Holding her attention, for the moment, is a giant loom. It lies in front of her and its frame bears thousands of thin threads. Each one has its own shade of light that pulses different from any of the other's, reminding him of a heartbeat. The whole creation shimmers.

Green light grows brighter and the shadows become an even more extreme opposite. The trees frame her dark hair as her thin fingers twist and pull the threads. Her work creates some kind of pattern, incomprehensible to his mind. Brighter points of light (things nearest to the threads) begin to appear white. There is no grey or any other color. The shadows come in only one type of midnight. Everything is opposite and wrong but he can't stop looking.

He shifts and a branch snaps beneath his hand. Looking toward the noise, the Lorelei stands. She towers above the ground. The cloth of her gown shifts and moves with its own life; folds swirl in their own private breeze. The sight pulls his breathe away. Every thought fails him, his strength diminishes, and he sits down on the ground. He feels the wet ground under his fingers and takes a fistful, hoping he will be able to collect his sanity as efficiently.

Graceful steps. She takes such fluid and graceful steps that all the words in his head seem too barbaric to describe her movement. She does not touch the ground but steps on air: her body to sacred (or anathematized) to touch the ground. If she happened to put her feet down on the living carpet of moss, would plants die for miles around? Would the dead walk again? Would clouds fall to the sky and smother everything? Or would the world just cease to exist, leaving all of its minor accomplishments to be forgotten?

The green light is directed toward him and he is blinded. He looks up into her colorless face. She has no eyes, he finds. In their place are two reflective white-green orbs. Whether or not she is looking at him or at something else he cannot fathom.

"Come to me," she whispers. Not one thought of life or faith or the wife and daughter he abandoned can keep him from disobeying her. He tries to find forgiveness, but it is too late and his sins are too great, all his efforts are pointless. Like Adam after he had eaten from the tree of wisdom, the only thing there is to look forward to is death, the ultimate escape from life.

The human looks up at her with the most innocent, halcyon eyes that she must let loose a smile. In her mind, he is the fly caught in the spider's (her) web. All that is left to do is reel in the prey and sink in her fangs, the poison melting mind and flesh alike.

Laughing inside, she raises her hand and beckons him forward across the stream again. He stumbles through the foliage but doesn't fall. Dirt covers his hands and knees and leaves cling to his rich clothing. It seems she has caught a butterfly.

Kneel before me, her eyes say, I am everything. There is no past left for you. Your future has been spent and your present is running down to nothing. You are mine, now. No one can take you away. Not for happiness, joy, or love.

He sinks to his knees before her and takes one more look at her face before loosing any conscious control he had. Light fills his mind.

Reaching out her hand, she touches his forehead with her first finger. A fingerprint begins to glow underneath and she waits. Magic sifts through his mind, deleting the memories of useless things until she finds the source of his will. The strength of a person's mind isn't just there. During some point of existence, a human would find a reason to exist. Wither it was just a fear of the unknowing of death or because of someone loved, it didn't matter. This memory isn't some wispy thing like others, it is tangible that can be pulled from a person's mind. It can't be broken by a bad experience or two, and must be fully removed to disappear completely. The only reason why some resist torture or discomfort better than others is because they have a stronger memory.

His falls apart at the slightest touch of her mind. Blood drips from the corners of his mouth; it leaks out his ears and nose. Every vessel in his brain has burst but still his eyes strain to see her finger on his head. She pinches her first finger and thumb and pulls a thread from him. It comes slow at first, but then falls out as a clump into her cupped hand, a giant knot. He fades an turns into a foul smelling vapor easily dissipated by the next zephyr.

The thread of the man's will is untangled quick enough. It begins to pulse with light rapidly, mimicking the man's last heartbeats.