An Eternal Debt

An Eternal Debt

A maiden as pure as the mists of the dawn,
a widower, worn, and a warrior strong,
answered a calling to right an old wrong
giving voice to the words of a forgotten song.

In a tower so high that it dwelt in the clouds,
unseen and unheard by the citizen crowds,
they joined hands together and chanted aloud,
for the beast in their midst to be vanquished or cowed.

The beast writhed and squirmed as the spell gathered force,
then wove spells of its own, to turn theirs off course.
Attacking the three, it reached for the source
of everything evil, the darkness endorsed.

The three chanted louder, for one and for all.
The clouds roared with thunder, so great was their call.
Innocence, Grief and Honor stood tall---
Not one among them was willing to fall.

The assaulted beast saw its coming defeat.
It belched forth bright flames, attempting retreat.
The three were like statues, unmoved by the heat---
None would withdraw, ‘til the spell was complete.

In a dazzling flash, the fire was spent.
The beast burned with fury; it would not repent.
So to the young maiden it hastily sent
a sharp blade of steel; her cassock was rent.

Naked among them, she stood in despair,
but refused to pull back to effect a repair.
The two men before her locked her eyes with theirs,
and she knew in her heart that her honor was spared.

One more challenge lost, the beast changed its shape,
seeking a different means of escape.
While the widower watched, eyes wild and agape,
his dead wife enjoined him, screaming of rape.

Aware of deception, he turned his sad eyes,
and shut off his ears to her heart-rending cries.
Steadfast in his chanting, he looked to the skies
and prayed for an end to the beast’s cruel lies.

When the warrior knew that his own time had come,
he shielded his heart; he would not be undone.
But his shields were ill-formed; he wanted to run,
from the voice of the wind as his praises were sung.

The beast knew him well, for it told his whole life,
from the day of his birth, to his courting his wife.
Then came the finale: the pain and the strife,
he had given the world with the blade of his knife.

“You have no honor!” the beast told him then.
“What kind of profession is the killing of men?
Each blow you strike falls again and again,
on the widows and orphans to whom your blade extends!”

The warrior wept, but he held the spell fast.
Soon it would end; they were down to the last.
The beast howled and raged with the final words cast.
Then the world’s three protectors stood mute and aghast….

For standing before them, in place of the beast,
stood a man well-remembered, whom they’d thought long deceased.
He was clad in white armor, like an angel of peace,
and crying in gratitude for his welcome release.

They dropped to their knees out of awe and respect,
but he bade them to rise, his voice hoarse with regret.
Then he bowed to them, and vowed not to neglect
the service he owed them---an eternal debt.