(Some work from guest contributors!)
Tonight we regret his sacrifice with the tale
of the Brightlord of Eirinn; the Brightfey Ahrendel
We departed as five and gained thirty-eight score,
Thirty sent to wander; not one less or one more.
Blood was returned to show our good faith,
And we promised the children somewhere warm; someplace safe.
They suffered cruel punishments they did not deserve
but carried on bravely with their steely reserve
Their kneecaps were shattered; some wounds could not be healed
Their spirits all but crushed, yet never would they yield.
Long smothered by a tainted mother’s attention,
Stifled by wars far beyond their comprehension
Sent to slaughter by the Matron to serve the Dark King
Their bloom of youth wilted, they attacked in the spring.
They challenged our honor, and some called us craven;
Despairing, one pleaded to find them safe haven.
“The Matron is the reason why every Tyrran father mourns; By the blood of Finvara!
Bring these children to the room where the Thrones are made of Thorns!”
The Fae-King was silent, no help would he send,
though in time, we were answered with aid from a friend.
With the city behind us we herded the young,
And many did die to protect what we’d brung
The five were now four and we sat ’round the fire
With Grandfather, with Scrivener, the hour most dire.
So we guardians ardently planned through the night,
And worked to preserve our wards’ quick dimming light
Hot on our heels ran the hounds of devastation,
While the wise old Fey offered hope for salvation.
The cost it was steep, though the payoff was greater,
We spoke of our terms, and to his we did cater.
Ancient magics were cast as our oaths were decreed
The book that he carries is a strange one indeed
The casting was plagued with a problem unforeseen
I hope we are ready for whatever that means
We four, now alone, carried on with the mission
Seals broken, oaths bound, blood was shed, and we listened
To howls growing louder to baying unyielding
Soul after soul was sacrificed for their shielding
Though it pains us to know, and it hurt us to choose
We knew that this battle was not one we could lose
We offered our blood and a soul most heroic
And lifted the hammer, hearts heavy and stoic.
The Brightlord stood, a beacon bold, ablaze in Eirinn’s glory
Shouldered the unyielding weight of the gaze of the Fomori
And though the Balor stared him down, he never would surrender
Alone he fought, alone he braved what tore him soon asunder.
His fluid greatsword slicing fast, his form bedecked with armor
Sword to hammer, horns to horns, he challenged Balors honor.
Feather light, the sword drew blood as blade caressed the giant
with grace not since been seen as from this sylvan so defiant.
His flurried blows rang true like bells, but ended with a clamour
The valiant fey could not withstand the Chaos Giant’s hammer.
His tragic fall was not in vain, for Eirinn was not taken,
though many lives and homes were lost, so many fey forsaken.
He served his home both then and now, with reverence and with sorrow.
We’d sacrifice this hero to ensure the Realm’s tomorrow.
We had finally chosen, the ritual closing,
To Balor, this hero stands opposing
The gem shattered from Finvara’s hammer’s assail,
extinguishing forever the glow of Ahrendel.
In death, he has opened a safe haven’s portal
for hundreds of dauntless young innocent mortals.
These Sutherland children, once hopeless and wailing
begin their new lives as mortality’s faelings.
They now brighten the realm, once dark and once barren,
Shining strong in the shadow as the new fey of Eirinn.
Blessed are those with the freedom to choose their fate.
© All rights reserved, 2014, L. Bridges & M. Parry.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.