Answers in the Basement.

The darkened house loomed before us like some black colossus, hoisting the night sky high above it. We glanced at each other, both shivering with anticipation. Or fear? We couldn't differentiate the two. My hand found yours, the distance between our fingers shrinking to nothing in an instant, as did any doubt. With firm resolution, we stepped onto the cracked driveway. It had long been weathered; tiny green weeks poked their leaves through each rift in the concrete.
Everything was covered in frost. It was deathly quiet; almost like a cemetery.

And maybe we should have hesitated just a moment there. We should have stopped to raise the question. Should we be doing this? But the night was contagious. Any stillness that was in the air seemed to have wormed its way into our brains, stifling the part that should have been catechizing the situation.

We reached the maw of the terrible beast and stepped inside. The air itself seemed to have become stagnant. Abandoned cobwebs drifted in the zephyrs that were stealing in through the door. We exchanged glances once more. Should we be doing this? Of course.

And so we stole into the quiet home in the world of dreams, our scarves wrapped around our necks like nooses.

We slipped in the door and slammed it quietly shut behind us. Turning around brought more than we expected. We were in a den of thieves. Little silvery blue will-o-the-wisps flitted this way and that, snatching darkness and swallowing it whole.

Quiet interludes of piano drifted up from the staircase positioned in the center of the room. Requiem. Nocturne. Bolero. Minuet. Serenades of unknown composers twisted upon mobius strips, writhing and slinking up the stairs.

Bravery must be catching. In the instant that I found firm resolution, you squeezed my hand, reminding me that I was anything but alone. Trampling the mobius strips, we began our journey.

Books. Books upon piles of books upon pianos propped up upon books. Our dream has come.
Our hands flew to cover gaping holes in our faces and our knees rushed to plug the air gushing from the floorboards.

Our hands set their priorities straight, and reached for tomes instead.

This is how we stole through the den of thieves and began to rummage for answers in the basement. We perused the questions in our minds and pondered the answers in the freshly decrepit pages.

They've named cities after us. They've built statues of us and put them underwater.
They've fought wars over us.
They say it's all our fault. What's all our fault?

I don't know.

And this is the story of how we found the little girl in the basement in the quiet house in the world of dreams. Her pianos glowed -- it was the oddest thing. They were filled with candles. Even curiouser, the flames were the same from the den upstairs.

Upstairs, the sun had passed through the glass. The dark was blacker than black. A quiet requiem began to drift through the dark, catching on radio signals that were snagged in our hearts.

And this is the story of the little girl in the basement, who had been born with silver lilies gleaming in her eyes. She was sleeping for eternity by morning with her scarf around her neck. The lilies began to wisp away, curling up over her eyelids and dissipating into the musty, bookish air.

Forever is a long time. I know.
What did we do? I don't know. I really don't know.

And this is the story of how the earth made the heavens and waters collide with such a fury, it was incorrigibly calm. This is the story of how we never discovered what made us so delightfully distasteful. This is the story of the quiet house in the world of dreams. This is the story of the little girl this is the story of how we stole this is the story this is this is this is.

It is so simple, the way the pieces all fit together.

The final piece, the final understanding. Here's a scarf.

No sound at all.

Shaken.

We are the Broken, the Few, the Damned. We are the dust under your feet and the shimmering stars above your head.

We are the fallen birds with broken wings. We are the fists of vengeance that pummel. We are the forces of nature that buffet and raze. We are the swirling clouds that block the sun and rain justice down upon mankind.

We are the channelers of life and dispellers of death.

We are the relinquished spirits whose requiems were lost in the dark.
We are the bolts of energy crackling from the sky and the soft glow of the moon in the blackened evening.

We are the conjurers of dreams and obliterators of oblivion.

We are the Ruinous, and we are back for retribution.