D: Really A?
A: Best. Song. Ever.
(not sure what assasin’s creed has to do with this, but it was the best version… go with it!)
D: You know just how to turn my anguish into a joke. I’m not ready for this A.
A: What’s the matter, D? It’s just a poem. And not the easiest poem that’s ever crawled its way out of my brain.
D: If that’s how it felt for you, imagine what it’s doing to me, woman.
A: I know it needs work, D but it’s for your book – you could try to be nice.
D: Nice? A! This isn’t about you or your questionable prose – this is about me!
A: (eye roll) Big surprise there.
D: I mean, this is about Mairead and me. I think she’s still pissed.
A: Do you blame her? I mean, centuries of waiting, D.
D: I’m not the one who went and got married.
A: She thought you were dead.
D: Sure, that’s what she says.
A: D! God I am so glad I have time before I have to write your story with her.
D: Why’s that –
A: Because if it were up to me now, she’d slap you across the face and empty a tankard of mead on your head.
D: Oh, I think she did that . . . of course, it was after I—
A: I don’t want to know. I really really don’t want to know.
D: Suit yourself.
In whispers, you come to me.
Without words you beg me,
I’ve loved you forever,
And my heart you kept close to your own.
Hands we did clasp, and promises make.
But war and deceit reached out to claim you,
Others had claws that did rend your heart.
Soul gift with magic, you belonged to Another
And with brothers in arms, you did march.
Storms on the horizon scream out in anguish
Mourning the sons who lay dead on the plain
Ravens whispered you lay among them,
Torn and bloody upon the plain.
A choice I made then,
To save us all.
My hand for his army.
Bring them home my only command.
Not dead, yet not alive
Only lost and sore and beaten
Your name on the wind does haunt my waking hours
Damning my days
For misguided honor.
To other lands you wandered
With destiny to fulfill –
The maker of kings,
Who would wake Those Who Sleep,
You fight and die and live again.
Peddlers and bards
Each with a tale to tell
Do sing so sweet with tales of glory.
They do not know they speak of you –
They cannot hear you call my name –
But I know and I hear you truly,
I hear you tell me,
Beyond me, away,
So far from me you roam.
Yet I utter words I know you’ll hear
And I reach for you, calling,
Why all the poetry? A’s on a mission to complete a compendium of source material for “The Ballad of Dubhshith and Mairead” Read about it – and “The Warrior’s Lament,” the first in the poetry series – here.