Amalitae - The song of the shades
A Mhel of ‘Laicia
‘Neath the white city the Chasm of ages,
Beckons and wails as it calls you by name,
Down where the shadow men rattle the cages,
Ten thousand souls and the undark’ned flame.
Picture the prisoner slave of the mages,
He dreams of his lover, remembers the pain,
Lost in the folds of history's pages,
Ten thousand league lengths of shadow forged chain.
--
Picture the prisoner, bright copper riding,
Damascene gold o’er tight clinkered mail,
Riding to where his princess lies hiding,
love without ending, world without fail,
A king without equal, high duty calling,
For the love of a maid will his duty forsake,
Astriding across the great plain of Erin,
Down to the riverbank, down to the lake.
--
Amalitae waits there, the bright waters riven,
by the light of the stars that hang in her hair,
And she clutches the rose that her bright lord has giv’n,
A promise of love to a maiden most fair.
Amalitae, spark of the dawn on the meadow,
Amalitae, fresh as the spring in the glade,
Amalitae, lithe as the reed in the tempest,
She sang as she waited, the songs of the shades.
--
But her voice was of sweet, summer’s deepness unbounded,
And the Shadow Lord heard her; desiring her song,
He sent out his servants with orders to find her,
To fetch her; to bring her;
to seal her; to bind her;
To drag her soul down to the Shadow-lorn throng.
Up came the shadow men, up from the water
Clambering up from the unsunn’ed plaines
And they unlatched their bows and their thin fingers drew them,
The barbs of the men of the undarken'd flames.
Amalitae ran from her place by the water,
the place where her lover had bad her to stay,
But the shafts of the night are not easily slighted,
With heavy tipped arrows; black feathers aflighted,
Barbed promise of shadow-lorn love unrequited,
They pierced her,
They slew her,
She fell in the green grass,
The moon of the day.
--
Picture the prisoner, his heart strong apounding,
the king of day’s dawning o’er Erinthor’s lai,
He rides down to the river bank, love full abounding,
he seeks out his princess, the bride of the day.
And the hooves of his horse are the ring of bright thunder,
But his heart that was hot, becomes still as a stone.
At the vision that renders his hopes all asunder,
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The sight of his lover, dead, cold and alone.
For her eyes that were bright are now food for the carrion,
And the rose that she clutches is faded and blown.
And the arrows that felled her, like the shafts of Fentallion,
Are black as the heart of the unliving throne.
--
Picture the prisoner, setting his bridle
T’wards Amalitae’s soul all his passions now bent
And he vows he will seek her, will bring her, will bind her
Though the shadow has claimed her, he vows he will find her
‘spite death, he will never relent.
--
The paths of the shadow are narrow and winding,
Close are the ways of the unsunn’ed plain,
The gates of the shadow are not for the finding,
but find them he does by the strength of her name,
He rides out with his host and he calls forth his armies,
To a man, they lay siege to the gates of the night.
Oh their spears are as bright as the sun at the dawning,
And their shields: like the stars as they ready the fight.
--
Picture the Lord of the dark now arising,
Picture his bride, fair Amalitae’s shade,
And the rose that she clutches is black as the chasm,
And her fingers are bones, and her body unmade,
And she sings for her love, and cries out to her lover,
And she wills him to stay, to return, to retreat,
But all of the forces of Erinthor gather,
At the place of the shadow; laying siege to the gate.
--
Picture the Night King arising in splendour,
Stretching his hand to the throng of the day,
He touches each soul and he finds there - the darkness,
It grows and it spreads till the light flees away,
And where once there had crowded a clamoring army,
Now long fingered shadow men, silently sway.
--
The chasm is calling, the chasm is hungry,
Its mouth opens wide to the bottomless deep.
Amalite’s shade watches over the turning,
She will not shed a tear for the dead cannot weep.
--
The shadow men clamour, who once were his brothers,
They carry him down with their hooked hands unkind.
The fate of the man who lays siege the shadow:
To the depths and the darkness unfathomed, consigned.
But the prisoner breaks from the dread army, roiling,
With the light of his shield and a spear in his hand,
And he slips from the grasp of the shadow men, coiling,
He scales to the gates where the shadow king stands.
He seizes her hand, the dead hand of his lover,
Amalitae’s soul, now her soul he has won,
And he slips through the gates from the mouth of the shadow,
And they travel the ways to the land of the sun.
--
But death is not kind to a body untended,
For ravens had taken her eyes that were bright,
And her body though living now cannot be mended,
And the stars in her hair are now black as the night,
And the voice that was clear as the sweet summer dawning,
Is swinging about on a fulcrum of mourning,
Now her song tells of men into chasm mouths, falling,
And her soul hates the grass and longs to take flight.
--
He carries her home to the white crested city.
The people are glad that their Bright Lord will wed,
But applause turns to cries of confusion and pity,
For the army he took is now lost to the dead.
And she snatches his knife and she presses it to her,
The tip breaks her skin, but he catches her hand,
For she longs for the peace of the gates of the darkness,
And she longs for the rest of the Shadow Lord’s land.
--
He locks her away in the highest of towers,
A strong gilded cage; he forbids her a blade,
And she sings as she sits and waits out the hours,
Songs of her new love, the King of the Shade.
Oh, the chasm is waiting, the chasm is patient,
He dreams of her songs as he lies on his bed,
His mind filled with shades of his shadow-lorn army,
They sway and they watch at the gate of the dead.
Picture the prisoner silently sitting,
In the uppermost tower of the ring gilded keep.
Picture Amalitae silently yearning,
But she does not shed a tear for the dead cannot weep.
Now the songs that she sings are songs of her new love,
Songs of the Dark King who sits on his bleak throne,
And the sounds that she makes are sounds full of yearning,
Of desire for the chasm - desire for her home.
And the months turn to years, all her beauty is faded,
She sits in her cage at the top of the spire,
And she sings of her true love - the King of the Darkness,
And dreams of the pit of the undarken’ed fire.
--
The chasm is calling, the chasm is turning,
The years flee away, for this is man’s fate,
For life, it is fleeting and love is a candle,
But death is eternal, the chasm awaits.
One night filled with passion, he ascends to her chamber,
He opens the cage in the tower of the keep.
He snatches her hand, and gladly she takes it,
Then he opens the window and together they leap.
--
But the chasm is churning, the chasm is boiling,
The chasm is there where it always has lain.
Beneath the white city, the city of honour,
The deep and the unliving darkness remain.