“These Cold Hands” is a poem with very murky origins. While it is thought to originate among the Velheim, some instead suggest that it dates to an older time, and comes from other pagan traditions which existed in Corontium prior to the Cataclysm. The tale told is terrifying regardless, and first emerged in records around 140 AC, whereupon it has remained in print ever since. Often used as a scary story to frighten children (as many have heard it at least spoken aloud before), the poem is being re-examined by some in the modern day with suspicions about some Ordial-related connections.
These Cold Hands
I've heard a tale,
Of a fountain of hope.
It's waters restore,
What we have lost.
Never have I,
Looked for its grace.
-
Please, sir Death,
Wait, to reap me.
Spare me, spare me,
Thy ode of demise,
He, prepares his song.
-
I grow old, and cold, cold hands,
Grasp and claw at my being.
Please sir Death,
Wait, to reap me.
Harbinger of all,
He waits for his yield.
-
This fountain of hope,
May it grace me with youth.
He conducts,
As his agents do play,
His, foul, ode.
-
I search, and search,
And have yet, to find it.
The Fountain of Life.
May its waters, grace me.
I grow older, still.
These cold, cold, hands.
-
He has yet to show mercy,
My soul is an ember,
For him to snuffle out.
I search beyond,
To the edges of time,
There do I find a strange spire.
-
Please, sir Death,
Wait, to reap me.
Spare me, spare me,
Thy ode of demise.
He, prepares his song.
-
This spire contains,
The strangest of things,
A stone, a hole bored in its core.
From this pit, this endless cavern,
Waters that shine in the sun.
I raise my hands,
To grasp this cure.
-
Please, sir Death,
Wait, to reap me.
Spare me, spare me,
Thy ode of demise.
He, prepares his song.
-
With a dying breath,
I lower my hands.
I sip from the glory of God.
My soul is ablaze,
The ember restored.
My being is intact,
Sir Death, I laugh.
-
It wasn't I,
Who had the last laugh,
Sir Death had been waiting,
Planning my doom.
He wanted me dead,
But I rebelled and said,
"Please, show mercy,
I've ventured so far!"
-
He shook his head,
Or so I saw.
He raised his hand,
His scythe, of shadows,
Appeared at his very whim.
With one final movement,
He pierced my being,
He harvested the ash of my soul.
-
To this, I warn thee,
Accept your fate.
Sir Death is waiting.
Oh, young boy,
Don't tempt Death.
-
Sir Death is waiting.
-
Trivia
"These Cold Hands" has been responsible for helping to popularize Ailor imagery of a personified Death entity not attached to any known god. While some claim to describe a real god, be it one now from a dead faith or something still active in the Ordial realm, this remains unclear.
A series of terrible murders took place in Ithania in 236 AC where the killer used the poem as both a calling card, and inspiration for how he dressed, and what he did to his victims. He was cornered, and burned in an old mill after escaping a trap set by three Knights.
