I stand in the village center, ringing a bell. The cobbles are hard under my feet, but I’ve stood for a while, shouting until my lips crack, hoarse and loud. The sky seeps, overcast, roiling above the pricking spire towering behind me.

          Most ignore me, hardly looking up.

          The words I now whisper hardly matter. Each toll rings out a new phrase, grasping for attention from the passing man driving a cart, a robed woman clutching a child close. They’ve already known me. I’ve loitered outside the council meetings, read the posters hammered into alleyways by a cold guardsman. Warnings have spread, outstripping my own words.

          Some shy away, simply afraid of the innate confrontation my existence demands. Others hiss and bare their cross at me, shielding themselves through some arcane ritual I don’t understand. I hardly think it works – I feel no magic surge through me, sending me flying backward. I simply stare. Worse, though, are the self-proclaimed protectors of the village. The priests and the guards and the moneyed men shaking their fists, demanding that action be taken against me. I’ve heard the tremble in their voices as they scream and gnash, stamping their feet. I shudder to think of  what fallow bones rot in their closets, how they could never withstand the scrutiny they extol.

          My world is hardly a landscape of suffering. But some work to make it so.

          Eventually, the day winds down. The edge of rain has left the air, drifting farther into the mountains. The blue pines shrill in the distance, a sweet call to where I can never return. While in the city there is a loud, angry resistance, in the farmland only quiet death lurks. I’ve heard the baying hounds. If you run, you run for your life.

          But the clouds part as I wind my way home. A rare cut of sun, dripping down from above as if meted out. My shadow changes, and I roll my shoulders, tossing my mane. I leave the city behind, joining others like me in the clearing. In the lucent beam they shimmer, their coats painted in dazzling hues. Unicorns, once thought to be a rare and precious beast, now for me an everyday occurrence. Friends and lovers – Easily found for those that know the signs. We lift our heads to sing, the lilting notes harmonious.

          We sing of rage, of impotence, anger and euphoria and simply being.

          Tomorrow I will face the same thing. Ringing my bell, shouting myself raw. Pointing to the tower and the red dragon wrapped around it, the mountain of rotting gold He rests on. The circling buzzards that pick His teeth clean, and the stinking excretions that He floods the city with. His claws, inching into every street. His tail, encircling the city.

          The thought overpowers me for a moment, and I falter.

           But my companions’ voices catch me, and I redouble. The shining light, these rare and precious moments of beauty – we sing for thee.