Bound to Death
With the waning of light of day,
three men gather far from view.
They drink their wine and steel themselves
for what they're soon to do.
They travel down into a crypt,
which in secret they've prepared,
bound to their altar, a pale maiden,
thrashing and violent and very scared.
At the bottom of the stairwell,
one white candle each does light.
They take their places 'round her,
at center, left and right.
The robed man at her right
places a powder beneath her nose,
and soon enough, she's still and silent,
no longer throwing blows.
The man at her left turns her head,
his hand underneath her chin.
He looks into her frightened eyes,
and his mouth spreads to a grin.
From deep within his robe's folds,
he draws a silvered kris.
He raises it high, lets it gleam
and brings it down to gentle kiss.
He takes her arm towards him
and in a swift motion cuts her wrist.
Blood runs down onto the runes
to call a witness to their midst.
"Very well, let's begin," he says.
"We have not time to waste."
The other two nod their agreements.
The one on the left begins in haste,
"The harvest last year was meager,
and the grain grows very dear.
We hear tell from those close by
that the blight is treading near.
"You must go willingly for all of us,"
says the one by her right side,
"for if you don't, he shall come for us,
and from him we cannot hide."
"You must kneel down before his might
and kiss him on the hand."
"You must swiftly convince the lord
to spare our fertile lands."
The man by her head opens his mouth
as if he were to speak.
"Dammit man, say your piece!
Don't just stand there looking meek."
"I commend unto Death my daughter,
whom he does deserve..."
"Continue now! We're almost done.
This is no time to lose your nerve."
"for all the grace he has shown us
throughout our many years
despite our previous paltry offerings..."
at this he breaks down in tears.
"Do not worry, my daughter,"
weeps her father by her head.
"You will soon be with your husband,
the god of all the dead."
The man on the right cuts through the air
with a great and fearsome slice.
Through the gash is seen a wasteland,
cold and bleak, covered full in ice.
"This is not the correct portal!"
he exclaims in great dismay.
Wrong and right, he is both,
for Death has fallen to Cold this day.
And in strides in an icy golem
and another and yet a third.
They conjure forth their frozen blades,
all without a word.
Other two turn around to face them,
and shiver and wail in despair.
The chilly warriors hack and slash
until only quiet fills the air.
They turn, then, their frigged gazes
to the maiden on the slab.
The leader wipes down its frozen sword
and prepares a fatal stab.
But as the blade is plunged down,
a hand knocks it from its grasp.
"At last, dear sister, I've found you,"
says a Voice in a quiet rasp.
"I demand to know the meaning of this!"
roars the frozen one.
"If you keep on in that tone,
then of answers, you'll have none."
The Voice steps fully through the rift,
a phantom at each flank.
"You should be mindful of your station,
and who that you must thank."
"I'm sorry, sir! I meant no disrespect.
I did not know t'was you."
"I would not worry about that,
but what you were near to do."
"This woman has been made a servant
of the former god of death.
I was simply ensuring that
she was parted from her breath."
"These phantoms have been listening
and have heard all that has been said.
They tell me she is not bound to him,
but belongs to the power instead."
"I am sorry, sir, there is no excuse.
Throw me into the pits of bone."
"That shan't be needed, I don't think.
There's no way you could have known.
As for the matter of this maiden,
it's not yet time to propose a wife."
"What then shall we do with her?
It would be improper to take her life."
"She's nearly bled-out already,
and it's hardly important as to where she goes.
Though perhaps you speak out of rhetoric.
You have another idea I suppose?"