The end, t’was, for our hero fair,
her hair in ragged strands.
She took her final breaths ‘n waves
of light in distant lands.
With wearied limb, poor Elatklof,
aloft, held right-hand stained,
its crease-lined palm a vital hue
of fire the stars reclaimed.
The blade she’d fallen on – her
own volition; her own thrust –
lay sharp ‘n shim’ring with that
vital hue of life; of lust.
Upon the deep-blue banded grip
her hand came down to rest.
The other clutched the silver of
the blade within her breast.
The pleated kilt of armour o’er
this war’yer’s lap – still knelt –
yet hid the riv’ring tidings that
she had, with horror, felt.
The blood upon the blade declared
a life now fully run;
the blood dried on her fallen hand
told of life ne’er begun.
Far ‘cross, in hope-illumined loss,
Elatklof Esrever
trekked trails to seek a sanctum
where, her pregnancy, she’d weather.
Nurturing what, now, was all
she had of whom she’d loved:
faint dawn-signs of new-life rays
spoke continuation of
the one whom she’d let go
atop the city’s wall, besieged,
falling back as th’routed comp’ny
fell beneath the breach.
Through nights in purgat’ry ‘tween
preparation and assault
their moments ‘way from guard posts
sang of their ‘gainst-death revolt.
A culmination of the years
happening until thence:
a final foray – fraught, frenetic
throes of love ‘n violence.
Long before, a camp lay waking
‘neath a sky that bled
with tidings of a future ‘dorned
in yellow/orange/red.
Unto th’recruiting captains came
Elatklof, clad in clothes
of patchwork adulthood with seams
of frayed childhood sewn.
Her hair, the colour given her;
her eyes, their given hue;
her tone ‘n shape ‘n feature in
their place, ‘n e’er lay true.
A blade a-bound by belt off-cuts
abreast her left-side hip,
her left hand on the pommel, placed
above th’blue-banded grip.
Recruited, she was, merely days
after the one with whom
she’d battle through time’s tempest paths
‘til despair-driven doom.
Out of the prev’yus chapters, she
had ventured t’ward an arc
anew – in this iteration
she’d play her final part.
In morn’ damp grass she’d waked that day,
amidst birdsong ‘n flow’rs,
the clearing of the trees bordered
by risen roots and bowers,
on which she’d end her days outside
law and community,
whence adventure filled her heart
with e’er imminent glory.
A-way a-lone a-last a-loved
along the map she m’yanders,
taking on perso-nigh with an
ease that never founders.
Burdensome to burdenless these
times flow on in flux.
Our hero fair fights, fornicates;
at permanence she bucks.
In one town long she stays, finding
a role as guard’yun-guest,
forced to gain the bluffed skills
to which she did attest.
Her armour – scant – and weapon – long –
she finds, in wand’rings preev’yus,
upon a man, upon a path,
with wounds legion ‘n grievous.
“Take” (the man implores the one
whom lifts aloft his blade)
“my sword and let it make of you
that which of me it made…”
With this, his eyes absorb their
final message from the sun;
the missives of his mind fall
quiet – each ‘n ev’ry one.
She practices, in mem’ry deep,
in a long, sloping garden,
imaginary parries, thrusts, with
swords by trees begotten.
She moves into that past ahead,
t’when th’wanderings are younger;
to when she’ll take least travelled roads,
the unknown fast upon her;
to when, beneath twin setting suns,
she’ll choose between their flames:
the order found b’yond valley dark;
th’chaos if she remains.
She’ll be/She is/She was a child
for whom adventure grasps.
Elatklof Esrever can now
begin her tale at last.
And ne’er shall she, our hero fair,
look back ‘n softly pine
for the home she’ll always leave
behind her, once upon a time…
Image credit – Best HQ Wallpapers
william altoft 