By the Pricking of Her Thumbs

The blood drips slowly in her fire
Pierced from each extended thumb
A spell for a hero's return
A future king from battle's hell

She lays him gently by the flames
Removes his cloak and stained armor
He forgets the men that last he slain
Listening to her, rapt, foretell:

"Hush, my warrior, lay thee still
Thou shalt be king within the year
There may be unwary foes to kill
But naught to fear 'til woods draw near..."

His disquiet is soon allayed
Her skills catching the fall of night
She kneels 'fore the morrow's royalty
And her tongue, her lips, allay dismay

Thoughts of glory fill his head
His seed swallowed and pride well fed
The stars quake and hide their fires
Blind to ambition, and desire.