Saturday, May 5, 2012

A Question of Power

Of what you tell me, none may compare. Strange
Tidings such as this may not hold sway, my
Heart is yet grieved for the loss of one fey
Woman that holds her own in the land of
Glosomer, of Statos. Will you go then
And address to the details of your own?
For surely you have guessed the oath has grown
In size and shape; vast, indomitable
Is it's reach on the men who hold it, as
A breeze that passes, but a rumor of
The storm that governs them make haste! is it
Not so with you who come to me with fear
And ask me to shed another hard tear
For one I barely knew, and scarcely felt
From the kindness of his heart for our king?
Have you no answer? wherefore is the ring
That did bind you to our liege-lord's service?
His band of steel wrought in smithies blue fire
For the use of battle? where have you gone
To have lost such a treasure? It would have
Given you great strength to assist the man
You now counsel me to aid and woman
I do forbid myself to abandon. 

Abandon her not then! If you will come
I shall be greater the man, and you shall
Look on the fullness of my power, made
Whole by the likeness of Kings of great age's
Gone by.

Bygones are but a figment of a time
That is hardly well preserved; if time can
Be preserved at all...

Yet you would abandon time by the doubts
That you hold; they hold sway over your mind!

Said I not the same when you came to me?

You did.

Then know that I shall not stir from here, friend.
I am but a poor fool without his love,
I have lost my power; upon my glove
Lies now the vestige of my glory; gone
With the horse that unseated me from her
Reach, and bolted before I could touch. Sir
Brackenbolt I should have called him. The fir
Trees encumbered him in his haste to flee
The plain's where I pursued her to Glossem!

Pursue her once again!

Nay, it is past.

Past tense is but a reminder for we
Who still lay about in the present day!

But it is present for those that have hope,
And I, having lost my power have none.

Yea, and I have lost my power and am
Dumb with weariness from my journey still.
But come if you will! For I see now, friend,
That the loss of your power is your end
And naught but the sight of she whom you did
Chase but a day and night ago would you
Scale the mountain that is your horse to give
Chase once more! Fare you well!

Fare you well sir?

Tis what I said to you.

I doubt not my

What then do you doubt if not that?

My patience at your mocking tone. For it
Bites upon me as a bridle of steel!

If only you could be bridled! For then
You may still be of some use to yourself!

Without her I am nothing!

You mean, friend,
Without your power you are nothing.


Yes. You have relied so long upon it
That you now doubt your worth without it's mold
Sitting upon your hand! Did not your mum
Teach you that mold wears away the man's mind
Until it cannot fathom anything,
Be it measure of worth, time, or long spaces?

Do not insult my mother!

Relax! I
Do not insult her by these jabs of word,
But you who have not made good use of her
Words are little more than a figment of
Imagination, made whole only when
The light of day passes over you to
Reveal your power and splendor of might!
Such power have you when you had it! O!

And can you speak to me when you too
Have lost the power of Glisweir the cold?
Shall you make such vaunted threats, make bold with
My name as having no merit when you
Too have lost, even as I, the very
Power which made you the man you once were?

Peace! You do not speak with your heart, but mar
Your own heart with grief, and through it pity
Shall be given unto you; from my heart
To yours I truly pity the loss you
Endured when she left you in a fey mood!
But do not think that the ring forged before
Either you or I could have made you so
Much more the man that you already are!
It has but worked upon what inside lies
Open to it's presence! No peasant song
Could sing the battles you endured while it's
Fire was about you!

About you and I!

Yea! And about us both was wrought cold fire,
Hot frost, and many more wonders besides
That men cannot name in their waking eyes;
But that you base all you are on it when
It in turn bases what it shall be on
Your own strength, that is indeed is a sore blow!
For it shall never hold a candle to
It's old glory, will not suffer a man
Of lesser stature to wear it once more.

Once more I shall not wear it.

Could not wear.
For it would reject you as the coward
That you now proclaim yourself to be! Do
Not be silent now when I have laid out
All that is wrong in this case. Be not stern
With yourself for having lost it! It fell
Without your knowledge, and for a good cause
That would have increased your power if you
Had but grasped it before it fell to seed!

But it has fallen to seed. Fell deeds now
Are on the rise and I am to blame for
Them. The King would have my head if he knew.

So you have been secret.

Have not you been?

No. I have not. I went straight to him and
Told him of my plight. He told me you could
Assist me with the peril that befalls
My friend, he who saved us both from a death
As violent and painful as any.

I am afraid I will be unable
To assist him in any way.

Not when
You do cower against the wall without
The hope of your own courage to aid you.
Well then fare you well. I shall go. Perhaps
I shall meet thee in hell one day if I
Should fail in my task to reclaim the cold
Of Glisweir. But I shall have tried to save,
Yea, even without it's power, the man
Who gave more than one piece of himself to
Preserve, not one, but two kings of men that
Do still roam the world.

They did roam the world.
Now the world roams within their heightened senses
And blots out all sense of purpose that would
Allow them to act according to their
Desires; because it has shown them that they
Are weak without their power and must give
Themselves over to the despair of night.

Only women, and I mean not true dames
Who do walk without fear into death's
Outstretched hands as St. Francis did, but
Women in the sense that Men foolishly
Take women to be of the weaker sex;
Only these would fall into the despair,
Yea! And some men too maybe would then tear
At their garters and socks in madness and
Run barefoot in the wild trees of Lardon.

Perhaps they may run there without such loss
As I have endured.

Loss has not such fruit
As victory does. For it does not give
It's all until all is lost. Even life.
Fare you well, my friend. May you live, though pain
Take you to the grave as early as men
Who do fall from mortal wounds in battle.

                                  A Question of Power, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

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