King Bill

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.

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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.

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For writ in prophecy of old,

His noble destiny foretold

A tale of war and death and lore.

Such majesty, its script did hold.

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"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.

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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."

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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."

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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"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.

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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.

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His brothers' futures looked quite black.

The cruel whips fell upon their backs.

The bodies, beaten, worn, and tired,

In fortitude began to lack.

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Alas for Bill, his brothers died.

By Annabeth, their bodies lied.

And Bill was left, enslaved, alone.

But Bill was strong. He never cried.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Both forces stood so very still

Until Joanna charged the hill.

Bill met Joanna in the glade.

His destiny would be fulfilled.

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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.

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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.

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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."

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.