Bone needle,
Jarred in wooden skin.
Silver thread glistens
In murky crimson sap, blood-akin.
Disciple Ajörn,
Squints beyond yonder.
Sap oozing in steady streams,
Into High Witch Åy'lla's beaker.
'Dryad, dryad, come
Foundling lost in Mireswamp.
Bless the Father of Lies,
Solitude begone.
Breathe fluid,
This wound I inflict.
Seep, drench, drown me
Beside you this moon I sit'
Seven quarters turned,
Blighted, glazed and dead.
Moon spanned all skies,
While Ajörn lay in a stranger's bed.
Reckoning came,
As sudden as his unfortunate arrival.
Witch and Dryad stirred ,
This night the moon, in denial.
'Stop, please?'
Hungry cackle, a shift of pose.
Needle removed, so gently
Soulsap collected in whole.
Åyll'a's bones, deft, finger blades
Nipping and knotting,
Slipping and sliding,
Silver of her thread, red of his being.
'Now we begin'
Sap and thread entwined.
Needles countless descended,
Pain silencing her whines.
Elder craft, this magick,
Dirge of the deathless.
Blood-bone colour of threads
Weaving over her breasts.
Weave, weave, my gentle love
What was two can be one.
Bounds known not to sentient life
Awake once more beyond bodily strife.
Through her skin, by her hand,
His sap she sewed unplanned.
Rivulets and lanes of High Witch blood,
Danced black and dark over skin, bland.
A tiara made flesh,
A finger bound in rings,
Ruby fluid flowed freely
Dancing with it's silver twin.
Moans ensued,
Pursuing now departed cries.
The Ritual of The Weave,
One death from being complete.
Like sawdust, he fell,
Strong disciple Ajörn.
Soul, sap, life taken in turns,
An undead Warlock was born.
Not corporeal, fatally surreal,
An existence wrought in threads
Strung by unearthly hands,
A partner in despair and dread.
Dryad lost,
Witch no more.
Two lives threaded
As one, forevermore.
'I'
'I'
'am'
'am'
Wheezed two voices in unison
'we'
'are'
Chanted the Witchlock in delusion.