The Blade's Prodigy

Part 2: Poem

Don't speak to me of tortured souls,

Of heroes great and warriors bold

Who live to see their works short-sold

And their scarring nought but loans.

For in the night, I hear him groan;

A legend, a king, sits all alone.

He wears a crown but has no throne

And yet his reign will not be questioned.

I've watched how through the nights he quested,

Heart and soul and life invested

While tyrants slept and orphans rested,

He struggled till he was strong.

When at last his hour dawned,

The grave for all his enemies yawned

He spoke but measured words of taunt

And watched the cruel dominions shatter.

But in the end, what did it matter?

Injust deeds against him clatter

And at last, it left him tattered

To gaze upon the violent round.

This dread rogue knows no other sound

But clash of steel and war drums' pound

Until an upright leader's crowned

Anarchy must prevail.

But even if he groweth pale

At the winding of this tale

His lot in life he cannot despise;

Behold the one who never dies.