The night provided good cover,
but the moon was bright enough to keep him back,
far enough away so she wouldn’t see or hear his approach.
But then he saw where she had stopped,
and realized he had no right to be here for this.

He’d been about to turn away when she lifted her face to the moon and sang.
It was not in any language that he knew.
Not in the common tongue, or in his , or in the languages of the knights
or anywhere else on the continent.

This language was ancient,
each word full of power and rage and agony.
She did not have a beautiful voice.
And many of the words sounded like half sobs,
the vowels stretched by the pangs of sorrow,
the consonants hardened by anger.
She beat her breast in time,
so full of savage grace,
so at odds with the black gown and veil she donned

The hair on the back of his neck stood
As the lament poured from her mouth,
unearthly and foreign,
A song of grief so old that it predated the stone castle itself.
And then the song finished,
its end as brutal and sudden as the man's death had been.

A death by his hands,
He'd been so blinded by his rage and jealous heart,
He hadn't thought twice before swiping the chloroform from the armory of the castle,
Padded feet,like a hound on a scent,he'd trailed this lovely maiden,
And waited until their breathing was deep and serene.
The sight of his lovely maiden entangled in his arms are been enough for him to see red as he sprayed the chloroform over them.

The sapphire eyed prince had fought,he'd had to strangle him,careful not to disturb the maiden.
With a deep clean slice across the neck his work had been done and he'd returned to the castle,proud and elated,waiting for his maiden.
But she hadn't returned
So here he was,
As he  stood there for a few moments, silent and unmoving.

The loss she felt,
the stillness with which she kneeled,
So the knight walked away,
her lament still echoing through the night around him,
carried on the wind like the pealing of distant bells.