Author’s note- This is an epic fantasy and as such is rather long.
I also use the word Faggot whose real original meaning is “A bundle of sticks and branches bound together”
Photo- Poppy Silver
Old Bard of Tales & the Windswept Castle High On a Hill
Come gather round the bardic tree, it’s time to weave a tale
throw the faggots on the fire, pass ‘round the mead & ale…
the sun has set by yonder hill, the moon is bright as pearl
the lord & lady gone to bed, lads come grab your girl
the time has come the common folk gather by the bardic tree
– for this is their time for fun, their time for feeling free…
The guards atop their helmets sit; they are men among the men
as eager as the stable boy for the story to begin…
… the fire danced, the shadows grew, throwing spectres on the path
a blackened pot of 3-day stew warmed upon the hearth
the stars that lit the sky that night, hung low to hear the tale
when finally the old bard took up his seat, near the keg of ale…
he cleared his throat, downed his mead, a hush fell about the crowd
the only sound- the snoring of the old bards old hunting hound;
*
I tell a tale of loss and love, blood and dust and war
so gather close, for I’ll not shout, I ne’er’ told this tale before—
Windswept Castle High On a Hill
In a windswept castle high on a hill
with rocky crags broken and steep
there stood a rugged mountainous man
who looked out from his fortified keep
and with sword in hand he surveyed his land
from the valley to the alpine peaks
a hound stood by the young man’s’ side
as the moon rose in the evening sky
both listening to the distant sound
of a lone wolf’s echoing cry
campfires shone on the far-off horizon
like eyes with a simmering glow
that seemed to wink at him menacingly
through the falling snow
below the castle’s ramparts tall
his men gathered in the darkening night
with spirited steeds and clashing claymores
they were ready for the coming fight
the young lord turned away with purpose
as the hound followed his master inside
to the safety of the inner chambers
to farewell his tearful young bride
and as the midnight moon rose high in the sky
young lord and men moved as one
while the women wept with the knowledge
that not all would see another sun
for battles are long and bloody
when the men fight for the right of their land
and many will not be returning
this truth they understand
in a snowbound valley ‘tween two distant hills
rang the clash of blade on blade
in a night of bloody combat
that saw many sent to their grave
but the young lord and his men fought wisely
they had the power of honor in their hands
as they fought for their wives and children
fought for the right of their land
and it was many who returned to home and hearth
with lord and hound in the lead
the hound jumping through powdery snow
while his master rode a spirited steed;
In a windswept castle high on a hill
with rocky crags rugged and steep
the good lord and his people
slept an untroubled sleep
for the fields were lush with crops
and the larder full of goods
it was a time of plenty
with deer abounding in the woods;
now in this time of plenty
a son and heir was born
bright and early and howling
one beautiful warm spring morn
and the villagers praised their noble sire
praised his new born son
and gave thanks for the time plenty
and the good things to come;
the people rejoiced the peace times
though ever diligent was their eye
as villages grew and expanded
and families multiplied
at night they celebrated their good fortune
and willingly worked through each day
under their lord’s benevolence, and his watchful gaze;
in a windswept castle high on a hill
with rocky crags rugged and steep
a hound with chipped and broken fangs
sleeps at his masters feet
surrounded by faded memories
and the echoes of yesteryear
neither hound nor master heard
the old gray wolf creep near
the old hound twitched, as his master did
their slumber disturbed by dreams
of heroic deeds and restless steeds
in a land of harsh extremes
as the old gray wolf stood over the hound
his coat was flecked with snow
he watched the hound with yellowed eyes
in the warmth of the fires glow
beside the chair where the old man slept
stood an ethereal ghostly form-
a friend who died in battle one distant winters morn,
the old gray wolf looked up at the ghost
both knew the time had arrived
for while the hound still had breath
the master, he had died,
and as the masters ghostly shape took form
the hound awoke to see
the apparition of two old friends
reunited by destiny
echoes rose to the ramparts
as the old hound howled his pain
echoes rang out across the land
as the gray wolf did the same,
the hound laid his head in his master lap
but the old man did not stir
nor did his masters withered hand
ruffle the old hounds fur
the wolf turned away from the old man
who sat crumpled in his chair
turned away from the ghostly spirits
as they floated into the wintry air
and with sadness, the old hound followed
the gray wolf’s silent tread
away from the windswept castle
and the echoes of the dead;
Now fill me pot, the old bard said, by gods I could eat the moon
… which reminds me of another tale – mayhap I’ll tell it soon.
*
SharonleeGoodhand©9-Aug-14
Written for Image Challenge
