In my fantasy series The Ashborne Chronicles, Kat hears a song written about a king. It is a song of sorrow sung for sorrow. All who sing it find tragedy one way or another:
“Though black and depthless,
His eyes couldn’t hide
The burning of a matchless ire.
His trembling lips
Called death for death.
‘Blood,’ he said, ‘Will quench the fire.’
Bridgette and baby,
Bloody and broken,
He vowed to build a blazing pyre.
With a torch in hand,
The town as tinder,
‘Blood,’ he said, ‘Will quench the fire.’
King Moreland begged,
Borne through the streets,
As the flames burned higher and higher.
Tears would not save him,
His family neither,
‘Blood,’ he said, ‘Will quench the fire.’
Though black and depthless,
His eyes couldn’t hide
The burning of a matchless ire.
His trembling lips
Called death for death.
‘Blood,’ he said, ‘Will quench the fire.’
‘Blood,’ he said, ‘Will quench the fire.’”
He Who Wanders 