Monday, July 15, 2013

Estermon of Easter Bay

The cup fell from his hands as he gasped his last breath.
A spear protruded from his chest having been thrust through his chair.
The blood oozed from multiple wounds matting his long hair.
As his eyes lost their focus, he approached long delayed death
with the same courage that he lived life far and wide.
Arrows protruded from his neck and abdomen.
His great sword remained undrawn in its sheath along his side.
Around him screamed his children and women.

A hero in reality, he remained one in finality.
Suddenly, with a crash of sliding dirt and plaster,
he rose from his great chair, drew his long sword and
with both hands, drove it four inches into the stone floor!
He looked out amongst his slayers, then laughed a great laugh
and slammed back into his seat, frozen for all time
in that position, sword out in front grasped around the hilt
by massive hands, which, in times before, served as a recipe for disaster
for those who deemed themselves his enemies.
His great hound sat by his side at attention, tail still for once.
His men lay in piles all around him, dying to protect him
from the cowards who struck from afar
or out of traitorous shadows.
Alongside the throne lay his great ruling staff.
Now purposeless, it was, some said, heaven-built.
It came from afar, across the leagues-wide Great Meadows.
There, magic ruled and beings no one could describe wandered the moor.

His light was going out just as his star
was being lit in the sky to signal his arrival.
There was nothing that could be done to stem
the flow of life's blood from his body
nor the gathering of the black crows.
In life, for strength and honor he had no rival.
Though many envious men sought his demise,
they could not slow his meteoric rise.
The crows scattered as great eagles and falcons
flocked to the great king from near and far.

With a benevolent but certain fist he'd ruled the First Kingdom.
All who knew him also loved him but those outside
most often feared him since he sought always to expand his borders.
These were mostly outlaws, thieves and hoarders
of wealth and goods stolen from common men.
These commoners knew him best, knew inside
that he would avenge them.  Protect them.
He would mount his huge white horse and ride
with his loyal armies to do right and defeat evil.
Might did indeed make right under his fiefdom.

Now with his passing, what would become of the land?
For the King was all that stood between his people and chaos.
None shall ever know, for the land was soon forgotten
by the ebbing of the ages and the passing tide of eons.
Only in stories long after was there told his adventures,
of his great rule and the tragedy of his loss.
How he protected all under him, both lords and peons.
And how he led his fabled and merry band
of warriors throughout the countryside
righting wrongs and correcting injustices.

Even through the ages, people believed he would return.
Return to save their wretched lives from
the evils of the day.

And so they chanted on the rememberances of his death,
O Great King!  Return to us!  Return to us!

At that, the strange star in the sky would seem to shine all the stronger.
Giving hope to a hope-starved people.

mindbringer, 14 July 2013