* This is a traditional marriage vow, which has since largely fallen out of favor. However, it was still well known enough that the meaning would have been apparent to most audiences who heard the story.

"I will swear if only you will too,"
she answered then. "Oh say you will and joy
will fill me up, like sunshine off the sands."

"I do so swear — and now that we are wed,
may I convey you to our marriage bed?"

"There is no force in all the world that could,
prevent me dragging you right there myself,
save just your word and poss'bly heart attack."

And when that they were wed was known about
the town, and their friends had assembled there,
they sponsored such a great and filling feast
that not a single person went unfed.

And it is now that little ears who do
not wish to hear the end, but rather think
that ended well the story of Sangmir
and Orðan, should take themselves off to bed.

For Orðan turned to her wife and said this:
"Now that you will my secrets keep, I have
one more that I may now divulge: though I
have been to many places here with you,
there is one more where I enjoy to dwell.
Come in, and down, and let me show you where
I play the greatest game that's known to man."

Sangmir was glad to follow her new wife;
there is a wisdom that is often taught:
that lovers may always prove a surprise.
And this is true, but not how it may seem.

She led her down the stair, where it was dark
and deep, to a door that she had not seen.
And drew from her breast pocket a fine key.
She turned it in the lock, and waved her in.

Sangmir was startled at the sight, of blood
poured out upon the floor, a mangled corpse
suspended just above. And as she turned
to ask her wife just why, she saw not just
the key, but silver glinting in her hand.

"My love!" Sangmir exclaimed. "How blessed we are,
to have each other found. For do you know
what I was most afraid to lack, when I
moved up the hill for you? A place to dump
the bodies when they were not fresh — water
is most convenient for that, you see."

And she rushed to her side and clasped her arms around
(and pinned the knife where it could not be used)
and kissed her deep. The fear lent her a fast
beating, fluttering heart — that she hoped took
her wife for love, and not for what it was.

"My sweet, there was no sign at all of this!"
she said. "And yet, I'm glad — I had only
intended to ensure you would not come
at some inopportune moment and see,
without sufficient context, my pursuits."
Dark Orðan smiled and asked Sangmir to tell
who she had killed, and why and where and when.

And good Sangmir — until that point a sweet
and faithful wife — told now a lie that served
her well: "My first, he was an accident.
I crave not Persea fruit, as you're aware.
But that young man, he did not care. And so,
rebuking him, I shoved him off. He fell,
and cracked his head right there upon my wheel."

Sangmir in false remembrance closed her eyes.
"Of course, at first I was at this distraught,
and took his body to the bank that none
may know what had befallen him. But in
my dreams, I could still hear the crack his skull
made then — and at my hand. It was sublime!"

"My second, then, I sought to recapture
that feeling of control. I searched for just
one chance — someone to bind and take to have
my way in some controlled spot of my own.
It was fair fortune that one night I met
a sailor lost amidst the fog that rolls
o'er bank and field each spring, making all the
world white and still. I took her back with me,
and threw her to the floor, my way to have."

"Oh say not one word more, for you are mine
and mine alone! Suffice to say, you had your way,
and then, when you were done?"

                             "— yes, I then slit
her throat, with a pott'ry shard I had forged
for just that purpose. No one would find
it strange, for a potter to have some waste
about. And when my fun had run its course,
it was simplicity itself to weigh
her down, ensuring she would not be found."

And Orðan threw her arms about her neck,
to hold her close (and possibly to free
her knife, still held so close at hand). "My moon,
my stars, we now should celebrate and find
some pretty person to collaborate
upon — I know just where to find someone
at night, when blessed darkness conceals all."

"My jewel, I think nothing could please me more,"
Sangmir replied. "Let us away and find
some quarry that does please us both. Have you
a plan to lure them here or should I fetch
a rope and bag to bind them there upon the spot?"

"I have a plan," her wife assured. "And mean
to follow through." She led them once again
upon the stair, ascending now, to the
courtyard, and from there to the gate op'ning
to face the city and the dusky sky.
She took them by circuitous route throughout
the city dark and still, until close to
a party they did pass.

                       Sangmir broke then,
at quite a run, toward the crowd and said:
"She is a murderer, my wife! Beware!"
And as she wheeled upon the square she felt

The cold stab of the knife betwixt her ribs.

"But why?" she whispered, falling to the floor.

"Better to seal my fate than have a wife
unfaithful to the point of breaking vows,"
mad Orðan spat. "You said my confidence
was yours to keep, but I must now doubt that."

"'Tis true my marriage vow I broke," Sangmir
replied from her place sprawl'd upon the ground.
"But I had no choice that would see them whole —
for seeing what you wrought under the ground,
I knew our purpose could not be the same.
At least, though I am honorless, I have
a stop put to your mad pursuits. I die
the last of all your victims now: at peace."

"I'll not so easily let you out my grasp,"
she cried. "Though I am guilty seen and judged,
you will not my last victim be!" And plunged
the dagger through her own fair flesh as well.
"Together in the afterlife shall we ...
remain ... forevermore."

And so ends the sad tale of Sangmir and Orðan — or at least this, most common version of it. As is frequently the case with historical poetry, there are multiple versions preserved, with unclear lineage. In at least one version, Sangmir's gambit works, and she leaves with no worse wound than a broken heart. That version ends with an evocative comparison to Kintsugi that harkens back to the metaphor of a heart of clay. In another version, Sangmir kills herself after delivering her warning, being unable to live with the dishonor and Orðan's betrayal.

The story expresses themes of honor and a refusal to accept things for what they are that are common in Marnesi poetry. However it also acts as a subversion of the common love-story trope of two people who are extraordinarily well matched finding each other on opposite sides of a conflict — here, the fact that Sangmir pretends to such a preternatural matching is a driver of the conflict, instead of a casualty of it.

Ultimately, the tale of Sangmir and Orðan is both cautionary and inspirational, encouraging us to consider what we would have to learn, to extricate ourselves from a relationship that has become unhealthy.