Witchdance

Fog and pain make omens travel fast–
When the old seeress entered–
the rift of Alfir–
united with the slain giant–
returned bearing sight–
and opened her eyes–
as her servants dug her grave.

She saw:

the stray
unleashed
howling in the pitch-black darkness

hunting
feasting

Hunger
Lust.

She carved the prophecy
in the undying willow.
The ink, her blood.
Her nails, the quill.

Children will be born–
To end what never ends–
To bear oblivion–

Fog crawls back to soil.

The Grey sent the stray
to the hall of broken limbs.
Their horned soldiers search
women who broke the only law:
no love–but only fog–
shall birth what serves the Gods.

Swords sharp, made by cutting tongues
in the pit of the firesnakes.
Armor made of hardened bones,
from distant Skullhunters.
Their horses pale and gray as ash–
like remains,
from witches burned.

Then they found one.
And she knew.
The mountains
did not echo her voice.
Her shadow
had already left the mirror.
The memories of the dead
rose strong and heavy.
She neared the bonefields,
and those who once were–
remembered her.

A wood-made woman,
crafted from wild oak,
without a womb,
spit her poison:

Uncut, uncut!
You were grown!
What is made of lust
wears an unblessed womb!

Venom in her eyes,
needles in her heart.
The old envy the young–
none shall have
what she cannot.

Horned soldiers build a throne of trees
that reaches toward empty skies.
They demand the witch's dance.
Play their flutes to her cries.
Then–
when she has left these lands–

feed my ashes to your lifeless horses

Fire slowly wakes,
creeps out from its ancient nest.
Farewell, she whispers.
No feet shall dance for you.
No songs.
No scream of one.
No scream of two.
Just none.
Proud mother, strong son.
Still she stands.
Her feet turn black.
Then her skin.
No sound.

In the distance stands a man.
Goodbye, he whispers.
I will join your travels soon.
But your fading light commands me
to seek revenge–
before I seek doom.

†