Author: thewhimsicalbard PM
My own mythology that I wrote in poetic form. It's very typical, but I had a ton of fun writing it. It got published in our school's literary magazine, too!Rated: Fiction K - English - Poetry/Adventure - Words: 874 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 1 - Published: 01-27-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2769224
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So long ago, in ages past,
There was a king whose fame but lasts
In verse and song, immortalized,
About whose fate the stars did cast.
This King was born on seventh day
Of seventh month, or so they say.
The seventh son of seventh son;
With magic did his Fate cross ways.
For writ in prophecy of old,
His noble destiny foretold
A tale of war and death and lore.
Such majesty, its script did hold.
"A day will come when from the East
Will come on march a warring beast
That comes to feed upon your land.
Your people's fight shall all but cease.
A rising star shall shine soft light
And pierce the deadly black of night.
A trueborn King of old shall live
And bring his people up to fight."
This prophecy, it has been said,
Was giv'n to Stewards now long dead.
In absence of a King of Bern,
The Stewards governed in their stead.
They turned their heads from Fate's true word,
Slayed prophets whom they deemed absurd,
But at that a time a warning rose:
One year until Bern's gates were skewer'd.
Toward the border the war beast comes,
Roused together by demons' drums,
Led by Gen'ral Joanna Hark.
A mournful dirge, the bard now hums.
For weeks the rumors came and went.
"On war, Joanna Hark is bent.
She comes to take our sacred lands
Which we were sworn to ne'er relent."
But it denial the Stewards stood.
"She wouldn't dare, if she but could."
At this, the Reaper grabbed his scythe,
Went out the door, and raised his hood.
With moonlight's glint on thirsty blade,
Joanna hark stood in the glade
In force before the gates of Bern.
In vain, her last defense was made.
All Bern gave in without a fight,
Save fam'ly leaving in swift flight.
Spared by a prophet's final word,
They carried on through dark and light.
They had no home for several years,
And Beth tried to assuage her fears
Of lacking home when they returned.
The travel aged her, as did tears.
And then when Bill was one and ten,
Beth's Hourglass came to its end.
With final breath before she died,
She told them that which prophets penned.
"In one of you, there is a King.
For the others, death's bell will ring."
With that, young William's mother died,
And left alone the future King.
Though his life, his mother saved,
No better was to be enslaved,
That fate for children left alone.
With glass, their road, it was not paved.
His brothers' futures looked quite black.
The cruel whips fell upon their backs.
The bodies, beaten, worn, and tired,
In fortitude began to lack.
Alas for Bill, his brothers died.
By Annabeth, their bodies lied.
And Bill was left, enslaved, alone.
But Bill was strong. He never cried.
He swore to himself in the mirr'r:
Joanna Hark, he would not fear.
In battle, would his sword be strong.
His destiny, his will would steer.
Then, Bill's life in slavery ceased.
He took a trade ship to the East,
Where he did hope to learn to fight,
And kill Joanna, at the least.
He met a man named John of Pell
Who did know swordcraft very well.
He taught young Bill the basic strokes,
And of more teachers, he did tell.
To fight by hand, he learned from Ki.
To draw a bow, he learned from Guy.
To ride a horse, he learned from Kahn;
From Phil, to move by starlit sky.
For years he traveled all around
And found Bern's refugees abound.
He forged them to an army strong
To drive Joanna to the ground.
They marched toward home on drummer's beat,
Prepared to die before defeat,
To crush the horde that took their home.
The air between was stif'ling heat.
Both forces stood so very still
Until Joanna charged the hill.
Bill met Joanna in the glade.
His destiny would be fulfilled.
With force their spinning weapons lashed.
Great whirls of steel and iron flashed,
And as the fight continued on,
The soldiers stopped while their swords slashed.
Their clash alone would earn its place,
From swing of sword to smash of mace,
In all the greatest halls of lore.
With magic, was their battle laced.
Their lightning stokes began to slow,
And Bill's resolve, it fell quite low.
His own reflection then appeared
And said to him, "It's time to go."
He took his sword, Joanna's Bane:
Her spars and blocks became in vain.
Joanna's will began to die.
Her body was o'ercome by pain.
Joanna fell down to the floor.
King Bill let loose a lion's roar
Before he drove the final blow,
And saved all Bern forevermore.
So ends the legend of a King,
A man of whom the bards still sing.
His greatest deed, I just now told:
The peace, to Bern, which he did bring.
I wrote this three years ago, and it was my first attempt at creating my own mythology, a goal which is still ongoing. Tell me if you like it.