At last, with little ceremony, the man’s eyes went lonely.
“Dead,” whispered the raven boy. “Dead.”
The salt formed in his eyes, and he did not bite it back.
Taking his friend’s cold hand, he held it to his chest,
Whispering forth into the cold air, so that Death might hear,
“Mille Feuille, death be new to your newly-departed soul.
I pray secretly that it is, and I know it must be.
Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Your lips have not felt Her kiss, nay, never.
All these who lie here are virgins to Her embrace.
Pass on, friend, I pray you, and I shall soon follow.”
Saying so, he set down the Knight’s palm,
Flat to touch his mother ground,
And he stood then. He closed the eyes with gentle fingers,
Mourning shortly for his lost comrade.
With this, he stood, turning onto the battlelands,
Knowing his purpose then and there.
Sorry for all that had come to pass, he walked,
As one dead, to the bridged river bank.
Crossing to the middle of the dark bridge,
The boy acted upon his designs.
Without rail in its age, and weak and rotting,
The noble bridge did yet support his small weight,
Although it knew not of the sin in its doing.
“Nor heaven nor earth has been at peace this day.
The souls of the warriors slain, perhaps,
Rest, but they have gone alone.
It is I who must bring them together, it is the call.
The Weavers of the Strands call to me,
Whisper my fate into each of my over-late hearbeats.
They pull me, they take me, they guide me.
I owe these people nothing less, and so much more,
But to leave their hearts at rest is all that I can do.
It is my destiny. I am bidden by the Strands
To complete it, and complete it now.
Death, you shall not have these men’s hearts.
They are now, and forever,
Mine. Great Mother, here is your sacrafice!”
The angels cried out, seeing what he meant to do,
But even they could not deter his means.
He moved, a flurry of white and black and blood-red.
As he descended into the icy wild river,
The angels wept and the sky rippled with their fury.
The water enfloded him in her cold arms,
Carrying his freezing body with her runnings.
For fear, pray that his life did not last long
In those frozen seas, for cold it was, like
Death’s first kiss. And indeed, this came,
Harsh yet soft, to his unsullied lips.
He cried not out, he spoke nary a word.
His passing was silent, under the cold-winded river,
Like the monster Zaha’s should have been.
So Fate has written the tale, like many others,
Shining among reality in its forlorn beauty.
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