I woke to the sound of trumpets and horns
awakened from sweet dreams of Valhalla,
where heroes sung great tales of war
of battles won and dear lives lost,
the fearless men of old...
There was Beodjarin the Fearless
spear-thane of the North
son of Eoman the Iron-Fisted,
who shattered with his mace,
the High King of Westmarch,
when the battle was but lost.
Nay, 'twas fate his life was short
for poor Beodjarin was slain
when in his throat was he then struck
by some stray bolt of bowman yonder.

My mind walked between two worlds
one real, the other distant
and I lay there watching graceful pines
swaying left to the right
left to right
as wind swept through the forest.

I closed my eyes, pondering this image
of brave men and their noble deeds
such brave souls they bore in battle
as iron sword struck oaken shield,
shouts of proud defiance
"For the Thane of Thaendrofl!"
"For our Thane! For the Thane of Thaendrofl!"
and then the battledrums began their fateful chorus
as two lines closed upon each other -
the clash of weapons and of armor
and men and horses
as iron clattered against steel
as wood shattered, snapped -
such din of war was this
that none had seen before
or ever after.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just something that I thought up tonight... I could see this turning into some sort of epic tale.

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