(Poem) The Chooser and the Chosen
I should probably apologise for this up front. :-) Not content with writing Le Morte De Buffy in the manner of Arthurian myth, I've now been, um, "inspired" to write the story of Buffy's death after the fashion of Anglo-Saxon/Norse alliterative verse.
I'm very sorry.
Summary: Buffy's a hero, you see. She's not like us.
Rating: 12. Warnings for character death (Buffy) and bad poetry.
Wordcount: Five stanzas of 14 lines each.
Dedication: To beer_good_foamy, maharet83, elisi, and anyone else who claims Nordic ancestry. Please don't kill me.
The Chooser and the Chosen
Through bloodstained battle Buffy danced.
Her keen companion curved around her,
crimson blade drank deep from demons,
sent screaming souls to scarlet hells.
High on a hilltop a stranger stood,
watched the warrior fight her foes
with strength and skill. His single eye
marked her moves with measuring gaze,
watched in wonder the widow-maker
work her ways. He judged her worthy
to stand beside his loyal soldiers
in final battle, when fate decrees
that gods and men go both to glory
in woeful war that ends the world!
So turned he then towards the sky
and whistled shrill upon the wind.
Calling down his cruel companions,
with down as black as darkest night,
curving beaks and claws like blades,
bright black eyes that burned with thought
and memories of men they'd slain.
Then to them the one-eyed wanderer
signalled with his spear, the Slayer
that down below did deeds of valour.
Bade them fly about his business
of betrayal, and bring to him
that warrior woman there who waged
such mighty war on many foes!
No demon's blade could bite on Buffy
nor claw could catch her as she sped
unmarked amidst the mangled slain
that once were foes. Her flying feet
kept her sure and safe from danger.
No fear she felt, until there flew
black-feathered ravens in her face,
blocked her sight and made her blind.
No foe could match her face to face
but now unseen one worked his woeful
harm upon the helpless hero,
stabbed her with a spear. She too
slew him with a backhand blow, but woe!
The deadly wound was dealt; she died.
Her spirit stood amidst the slaughter,
pale ghost that peered from side to side.
Saw her corpse that lay there crumpled,
Sighed and said with rolling eyes
"Oh, not again!" But then she noticed
the heavy thud of horse's hooves
trot up behind. She turned to face them,
Saw a shining silver steed, and on it
a blonde-haired maid in burnished mail,
who signalled to the Slayer to mount. But she
declaimed in doubtful tone, "You're Death?
Shouldn't you be a skeleton?" She shrugged,
but mounted up behind the maid
and watched to see where they would go.
Then the rider raised her head high,
shook the reins, and loudly shouted
bade her steed to bear them homeward
where rich rewards well honour the hero,
rings of gold and songs of glory,
feasts and fights and fame eternal.
Buffy coughed. "Don't you have cable?"
But then she screamed and clung on, scared,
as the stallion leaped into the sky
and galloped high above the ground. She groaned
"I really hate heights" But soon her heart
Grew strong again. Gleefully she gazed
at the land below, and from her lips
her voice sang out that tune from Wagner.
It seemed appropriate, somehow.