From word of wind the king of youth,
Tell tale the journies thereafter,
Sunk low beneath the churning waves,
The gails of seas from oceans far,
He ne'r brought his treasure home,
To feed upon his spoils of war,
His long await return slipped,
Beneath he churning waves...


I
Bestilled by beauty the mid-wife froze,
Upon the birth of Benthrock,
Gallant of war, his father's renown,
His heir to bring the kingdom glory,
From western shore to eastern plain,
From northern sea to southern mountain.
His father rested soul upon,
The tell of sprites that danced with fire,
In lakes of ale and fields of virgins.
(Forsaken minds drift wandering woes,
Bestilled by Wyrd's dreadful lay,
Subtle wreck of thoughts) the ruler was,
For swift, amiss a dreadful board,
On which his hoar-head drank the laughter,
Of things which not exist. Speaking,
Nothing of value, giving the words,
Of meaningless thought and pointless actions.
Craven was the ruling body,
To dispose, a subtle thought,
Of their leader with such reason,
As could be seen. But with the birth
Of Benthrock, sparked was hope of days,
Without he, helpless King,
So plans were made. Set in stone
To bring the kingdom glory, no matter,
Was Benthrock's bearer, Gildrentheal.
She brought at once her fruit of carrage,
To the coucil of the kingdom and pleaded,
For the heir to take the throne, his fathers,
Upon the hour, no hesitation. And so
Anonymous was a vote for action,
To descend the king of kingdom glory,
Placed instead upon his seat his heir,
Yet weened. But the king ne'r knew
His present position, and it was
That upon the follow 'our he took,
To fall upon Wyrd's mighty call.
(Defined as head of council's sword)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For 53 seasons Benthrock ruled,
For short his mother gave order,
And decent was the time. Until
Darker 'imes took ponder of paths,
Took plesent of ways, and spilled,
Thoughts of grappling fears and realities.
Forsook fornot the spoils of demons,
One 'amed Torngath spilt the blood,
Of Benthrock, and into Hades,
Crept back to swallow prints of 'uture's.
The weeping rose and fell with dawn,
For barren was Gildrentheal. Soon
She fell as he who dreamed of sprites,
Into the hands of Wyrd. (Yet
Bearing his same bloody sword)


II
Fourscore past and found the council,
Heading the kingdom glory. With spawn
Of he who handed Wyrd's right hand,
Into the chest of those who brought,
The king of youth upon the earth,
Leading eye o' head o' snake.
And so 'twas the evening cry,
Malicious death dared a look,
Upon the kingdom glory.
Ignash, head of coucil, was,
To meet with death that very night,
Discussed would be the terms of after
Life and how his family
Would follow. Death came
To the eye's window and forsaw,
The death of Ignash, but not his family,
So Ignash was content with these,
Words from death, but still yet more,
Was kept from Ignash until he asked,

"Troubeth tho, who doeth the cause?"

And replied the Hadesian,
"May't do good reminding thou
Thy gentleman's early target?
I took him, lo, 'fore yours could grab,
Altho' he'd 'one the same."

"Thou speak of none but he, king of youth,
Who-so begot him throne,
Forsook not single 'he sacred oath,
But fell 'pon your blood thirst,
Thy gor' lust, thy need for no'ore
Living in 'he land, living in 'he land.
Sayeth truth, doest I?" Death snarled with glee,

"Say truth thou must, but sayeth not
For pleasing mine ow' ear,"

"How cou'd I , be'eth not my 'ears,
That 'wait me on the 'morrow?"

"Say truth thou must, thou sayeth not
For pleasing mine ow' ear,
So answer shalt receive attention.
I took the boy 'fore morn came round,
My 'irsty mace forewanting,
The tasty tre't o' royal bones,
Break fast. But this is why,
I trouble so, for 'ears there-after,
I findeth no 'race of he,
Him king of youth, he oath forbearer.
Him body I, Death miself, layeth in the ground,
'or such beauty fleeteth here, I see
No likeness in this land I roam.
Las' moon I crep' upon him ground,
Sacred with my name, and findeth
I that oath hast broken, lo,
The bonds of captive 'ouls, the bonds,
That any Hadesian kno'eth well.
Bonds of cord that breaketh ne'r,
No sword nor spear nor eve' mine mace,
Cou'd te'r 'nto, 'n find cord fleeting.
So reas'n findeth I for this? Not.
But still yet rest'n 'r him boy cloth,
Still stained with blood upon tha' chest,
'n cap still crushed 'rom mighty a mace,
My own. Inclined to listen be,
Forgone men's logic, for sayeth I,
That oath hath broken bonds of 'ouls,
That king of youth walk now in light.
Aye, Benthrock lives."

"Thou findeth cloth and empty grave,
Thou sayeth, 'Lo! He raiseth!' but come!
Men's logic ne'r forgone, be not
To taketh up so fast the opinion of
Material beings rising up as if
Logic hath no place. My word,
Being as is needed, be robbers.
Robbers of thy graves and tombs,
Tooketh Benthrock from his chamber,
Selleth he for weight in gold,
And spoils flourish on ale and virgins.
Needeth ne'r be worried, friend,
Let not this poor joke begilet' thee."

"Believe thy logic, for now it true,
But when the king of youth comes forth,
Seeking vengeance on him 'leeder,
Thou wilt nay fin' me here,
Thou wilt ne'r fin' me here.
Fare thee glad to Hades w'en,
I com' with dawn's shuttered eyes,
If ne'r I come, thou handle sword
That brought the mad and barren to me,
And send thyself to Hades 'fore
Benthrock takes his best to thee."

III
So presently the future past,
To him who's blade was heir'd him from
The one who took the life of youth.
And 'pon the morrow all
Of eye's spawn saw the room
That Ignash bound in countless dreams,
That he who heir'd the sword
Had slept for many an 'our,
Caked with blood of darkest
Complection. In the way
It dripped from wall t' wall,
From curtain t' curtain,
From sheet t' floor t' window sill.
Still they cried, not for their father,
But yet for he whom fallen fast,
Upon his hands, for still they not,
Believ'd their father dead. And so,
No fun'ral he receive, or ev'n
A batted eye 'r tear.
Assumed they all for his return,
Upon the death of he
Who took flew away from sword
Of Ignash.

IV: CONCLUDING REMARKS
Sit well it should to thee, who
hath heart for an ear,
That history is one too easily feared,
But who's will canst be bended,
And once so, never again to be mended.
History, to speak of, not only past,
But of present and future: til long at last,
Every minute of every day becomes history,
And every day of every minute becomes a lifetime.
So think ye now upon the story,
Filled, thus far, to fate's brim, no glory,
And yet is the end so predictable, hmm?
Canst the raging waves fortold be subdued by history's ever changing tides?
We must wait and see, for knoweth not even I...