There were five of them. One for each voice part: a soprano, alto, tenor, and bass. And one to stand on the side and play the flute as they sang. That in itself was strange; it should have been a piano, or an organ. But a flute was lightweight, easy to carry and move as they ran for their lives. It was soft, like wind through leaves. It was darkness, like in the old stories, where the Pied Piper led children to drown.
The flutist’s name was Sol, and she was named for the light.
Together with the others, they made up the Doomsday Choir, a group with the sole purpose of singing as the world crumbled. To beckon the angels who would save them, though that was simply superstition now. The end was inevitable, and no one could save them from it, so they were told. But still, they were selected to play, to give some small comfort to those trapped in the rubble, their breaths slowing, knowing that the world were ending. Hoping someone might still save them. Sol wondered who would comfort the choir, playing from the tallest hill in rain and smoke and earthquakes, drowned out by thunder. Still, she attended the practices daily. She cared for her flute daily, wiping it down and taking it for maintenance. When they practiced outside, she strained her breath as the others strained their voices, trying to play louder. They would need to be loud, to be heard even faintly.
It was Doomsday, and all that practice had gone to waste.
The alto had gone first, slipping into a sinkhole deep enough that they couldn’t see the bottom. His brother, the bass, had jumped in after him, shoulders tense and eyes sharp. They called down for both of them, hopeful, but neither of them could be heard, and so the remaining three stumbled from the pit and continued walking, to their hill. The soprano could be heard singing softly under her breath, until she suddenly stopped.
They turned, and she was gone, vanished into thin air. Sol’s heart gave a heavy thump, and she stood there, frozen. They hadn’t even heard her make a sound, a scream, anything. She was just gone. Sol turned to the tenor, an older boy, eyebrows furrowed as he leaned closer to her, sensing her fear. “Don’t worry, Sol.” He said, but didn’t continue; what could he even say to reassure her? They all knew this was the end. Knowing couldn’t block out the fear. He pulled her under the awning of a shop, though it was tattered and did nothing for the rain. “Can you play?” He asked, voice shaky. She nodded, drawing her flute out from its case, assembling the pieces. She lifted it to her mouth, beginning a melody, even as the notes emerge muted. The rain is merciless, driving into the thin metal and changing the sound. Still, she plays, and the tenor sings, and for a moment there is music.
The wind picks up, and the strain to be heard, his voice cracking, as her flute warbles.
There is a clang, and his eyes widen. He shoves her to the wall, and she manages to grab hold of the window ledge to steady herself, as a pole catches him in the chest and sends him flying backwards, airborne. The wind swirls, and Sol watches, helpless, frozen, as he is carried off. She holds on to the ledge, desperately, the wind threatening to drag her away as well.
There is no one else left.
She holds her flute, staring at the cool metal. It will never be the same after this, the rain having pushed itself into every crevice. Even now, as she plays, certain notes have gone silent, and others sound off in pitch. Perhaps that is fitting. Perhaps there is no music left in the world. It certainly feels like it. She closes her eyes and waits for the dark times to end, and end her too. She had known her entire life that the end of the world was near, and here it was, and everyone she had loved and known was gone, so surely Death would come for her, too.
Death came with warm hands, hands that grasped her own and pulled, forcing her to her feet as she opened her eyes. And wasn’t Death supposed to be darkness? Shadows? A writhing figure created solely of bats and spiders and other feared creatures? Where was the scythe, and the hood, and the evil glare? Death smiled, eyes sparkling, as they spread giant glowing wings. “Hello, Sol.” They said, softly, as she stared, openmouthed. Behind them, in the distance, the storm raged. They were no longer in the city, but on the hill, by some magic, Sol didn’t know. It was the hill that the choir should have played on. The hill that was, miraculously, untouched by the storm.
“Your city is being attacked. I came to save you.” They said.
“You…Why me? What do you mean, attacked? Who are you?” Sol demanded, half-spluttering, snapping out of her daze.
“You have magic inside of you, Sol, which is quite rare nowadays. You’ve channeled it before, through your flute playing. I thought, perhaps, it might help, and, well. It isn’t Doomsday.” Sol tenses. “Your city is being swallowed by some very dark forces, likely being controlled by another being with potent magic. I just–I didn’t know who else could help. As for who I am…” The figure paused, dimming slightly as they avoided meeting Sol’s eyes.
“...I am your guardian angel.”
