I see a box.
Adorned with an ornate design, splendid and proudly it sits atop a child’s dresser. The child opens the lid of the box, and a beautiful song plays from within. A melody equally as ornate, flowing and melancholy as the woodcarving of the box itself.
For this is not just any box. It is a music box.
It is said that this particular music box is equipped with the power of sleep. Even the most alert child unable to sleep will hear the music and be lulled into the land of dreams before the song’s end.
Such is the power of the music box. The trance is places on the child makes for a quiet’s night sleep. But what happens when the box is left open?
The song continues to play.
And in the morning, the child never wakes.
The power of the music box can bring rest to the most restless of minds, but it can just as equally tear families apart when sleeping souls never wake again.
One should never mess with the natural order of things.
Sleep, death. They exist as they should. They are not for manipulation.
In the world of Arcadia, there is a fabled guitar.
One with the power of the eternal sleep. Its ornate design is equalled only by the beautiful tone that its notes create. Flowing, melancholy… And all powerful.
You are the hand that plays that guitar, El Mariachi Muerte.
You are the one that opens the box.
The music you play creates the trance that lulls the children of Arcadia to sleep.
Only, it is not merely sleep that you create.
It is eternity.
Death can be a welcome friend. At the end of a long life, when sickness has riddled the body with pain, death can be the very escape that one seeks.
But you are not in the business of letting people die from old age, are you?
You are in the business of reaping.
Claiming souls before they are ready. The death that is accidental, the murders, the disasters.
You are an agent of tragedy, Amigo.
Too many souls are put under your spell. Swayed by your song like the child lulled to sleep by the music of that beautiful box.
I hear your song, Mariachi, but I am not swayed by it.
I listen to the notes your guitar plays, but I cannot see the magic that consumes others into believing your death tales.
When death comes for the Third Eye it is a choice, embraced as a friend. Not thrust upon our souls by some music box playing a lullaby.
I can see what the others who blindly follow your songs cannot.
I can see past the music, past your melodies.
My vision is clear.
To silence the Agent of Death, one needs to shut the box.
Stop the song.
Only then can death take its natural course, and will you be powerless to meddle any further.
I come to stop the music.
Then, the children can sleep peacefully… as the Third Eye wills.