The lady was singing. Without a doubt, only she had the right to do so here.
It was a song without lyrics, a soothing poem describing Oblivion and regret.
She stepped into the pool and bathed in its inky waters. The starry sky overhead did not shine, merely providing steady illumination, yet it did not affect the darkness, or indeed anything at all.
Her obese body sent ripples through the pool, while her raised arms splashed black water onto the shore. Whenever that black water touched the leather-like ground, it burrowed madly inside, growing plants like peacock feathers.
They swayed in the wind once more—or rather, they swayed with the song—like the calamus and reeds that commonly grew along the banks of ponds.
Rolling hills, roads like silk, dense and mysterious plants—none of them blocked the mother's song, yet it could only be heard here.
The song was no secret. The nonexistent lyrics were the secret. Perhaps someone could understand them, but they were an Unwritten Poem.
The bloated lady closed her eyes, a smile touching her lips. She lay in the pitch-black pool, trying to float.
Her black hair was like waterweed that could strangle people, tangled tightly against her face. It made that moon-like, plump face appear considerably slimmer.
Distance did not matter, nor did time. This was the Garden of Night, and it was also Mother's embrace.
Deathstroke and the others followed the maid over a small hill, through a garden path thick with vegetation, then around a huge white rock jutting from the ground before finally reaching the edge of the pool.
"Madam?"
The maid gathered her courage and spoke. She could not be sure whether her mistress had already fallen asleep.
"What is it, child?"
Mother asked in a kindly voice without opening her eyes.