THE PRESENT

I carry on my shining blade
a reaper's favourite tool
cut loose the grass and glade
and let eat the hungry fool

venerated, worshipped
its motherhood is praised
its fatherhood is raised
its child is parted ways

its head is split wide open
its meat is taken cold
denied forever, tragic fate
a world where it grows old

Big and broad of shoulder
delicate of haunch
all drink of its excellence
aspiring to its strength

yet greedy still and bolder
now needy of more lunch
new icons are consumed
the wyrm grows in length

its many heads, they argue
o'r what to sup on next
when one parts crystal fangs
and bites the others' necks

Now all necks are tangled
all teeth are gnashed on self
twisted in reflection
gobbled into Hell.

its wreckage lay before it
a town in ruin's dust
nature must reclaim it
reclaim it nature must

historians will wonder
how did the wyrm survive
and what caused it to resent itself
for being so alive?

* * *

They say in a race to the bottom, the ground wins. My clothes sat on my skin with itching and discomfort, and I was annoyed by my own rashing body. I wasn't aware that mead was made from yeast and grain, but somehow even in liquid, I can't stand the shit. My head was pounding, my eyes and lips drier every minute. My head bobbed as the horse cart's tidy wheels dipped into mud and knocked a dry bump next to it. I'd made it to France in only a month, wondering just how far I needed to travel before home was too far back. I knew what helped stop the Plague, but not what it was, or how to kill it. If I turned back now, The Manager would take back the scythe and remove my head. I'd rather take another drink.

I woke up somehow groggier, hours later, to the mooing of cows. A herd of them stared at the carriage as its wheels sunk into the mud and stuck. The jockey yelled for me to help push. I could barely see past my own eyes, which refused to open, nor the grey clouds obscuring all 'round. I tried to remember what I was even doing here as I climbed off the carriage and blindly found my way into a steep patch of thick, boggy mud. My boots squelched up to my heels with each slow step. I finally convinced my eyes to see, and put my hands on a wheel to pull the carriage forward. The jockey looked nervous – perhaps of bandits. I was already annoyed when an arrow bounced off my scythe's blade, and I realized at once its lustre made me a target. The cows mooed like horns to their herd, and paddled their hooves on the grass to run. With blood's rush and hurry, we yanked the carriage hard as we could, and the horse freaked so much it pulled the whole thing out the rest of the way. I tried to jump back onto the carriage, but the jockey climbed up first and turned the whole thing around, back whence he came. I was left behind, with the cold and wet seeping in and the threat of arrows still fresh. I climbed out of the mud and onto a patch of grass, only to find myself completely surrounded by swords. They lowered my way from the outstretched arms of tall men in dull metal helmets, with chain-mail and banners.

I was taken to a stone tower not too far away, three houses wide and two tall, but only in the middle. Red flags with gold lions flowed heavy in the damp, slow wind, lit visible by torches in the windows. It was a small fortress, but for whom, I couldn't guess. I yawned as I was pushed into the grand hall by two soldiers who each held an arm as if I'd been caught pissing in the grain. Which I did do, before I left home. The fort was warmer inside, but not by much. On the throne sat a small boy, with two women behind him. He wore a crown, but they wore serious faces. His glazed eyes lit up to look me over.
He asked, "Is he a prisoner? From the other side?" His accent was French, as expected, but levvy. Mixed home?
The taller woman was white-haired but young yet, strong of chest, back, brow and cheek. Had she not been in a fine blue dress of white detail, I'd have mistaken her for a warrior. She spoke first. "He was found outside, dressed very unlike a peasant, and with a blade too fine for a reaper." Her shoulders straightened with purpose. In her accent, there was German, spoken soft but loud.
A soldier removed my skull helm, and when the boy saw my face, he was both interested and angry.
He yelped, "A bully! An older boy!"
The other woman, red of lock and amicable of face, and curves in bodice like a pirate, spoke next. Her thick red lips moved softly as she said, "He could be an assassin, sent to kill you, my duke." Her accent was neutrally British, the kind almost no actual British person has. Like someone playing a part in theatre.
The boy was alarmed. "No! I don't want to be killed! Save me, Mistress!"
The luscious woman looked not hurt, but slighted. Like The Mistress had won a round. I was uncomfortable to realize The Pirate looked near-identical to my mother, as well as I could recall her. Maybe my memory for faces had improved recently?
"Don't worry," The Mistress cooed, "We won't let anything happen to our duke."
I noticed the way she'd said "duke" was not the same way he said "Mistress"; there was no capital 'd', no emphasis, no sense of importance about him. He was merely a pawn, of little real consequence.
The Pirate saw a light, and snatched it from the moment. "OR! We could send him to kill your rival, posed as no more than himself – without the ostentatious mask, of course."
I protested, "That mask is my father's head into helm. It's a family heirloom... now."
The Pirate grinned, and behind her grin was fire on a wick that's burned for a very long time. "Perfect. We'll hold onto it, until you complete your task. You'll pretend to offer your services, and when his back is turned, you'll take his neck in your scythe and draw."
"Mind me asking," I groaned, "what a Pirate is doing as sir duke's advisor?"
"PIRATE?!" She guffawed. "Ohhh, ho-ho, no. I'm no pirate, I'm his Lover-to-be. When he's older."
Somehow, that made my stomach sink, and I saw the duke as if he'd crawled on my leg at dinner – I wanted to squash him. "He's a child."
The boy sensed awkward air, and claimed it. "She will be my bride when I'm king, and bear my children. She is as lovely as... uh, an apple. A bushel of apples!"
She snickered with charm, and leered at me as she leaned over to kiss and stroke his face from behind. I wondered if my mother had been equally capable of such a plot – but this wasn't her, just her mirror soul.
The Mistress rolled her eyes. "Come, assassin. I'll escort you to lend your presence noble."
She started walking, and I followed, back down the carpeted hall. The mudprints of my boots had left no more stains than what burnt brown had already soaked its way through, blotched across its yellow-trimmed, red fabric. Seemed an utter waste to even have it there, but I supposed it warmed the floor.
The Mistress was impatient with me, staring at the ground. "Assassin, please. Do hurry."
"I'm the Reaper, actually," I replied, "and why would the other duke see either of us?"
The Mistress side-saw me with wry. "I'm this war's mediator, its channel for peace. All words not by mail are by my tongue, and mine alone."
"How are you then to stay blade once suspect?"
She looked forward as we left the big doors and pulled our hoods up. "By being behind whoever's holding it."