There lies among the lower fens of Lochland
A single path of safety through the mires
And there among the dismal swamps and quicksands
He stumbled, wheezing, bereft of horse and squire
Bearing naught but cold air in his sore lungs
His heart lifted to spy a distant fire.
She sat gayly, barefoot and bare legged
A beautiful contrast to one so ragged.
“My lady might I beseech thee for water?
For in these swamps there’s naught that’s fit to drink.
I see that thou art fairest of the daughters
Whom the gods have marked as Seiðrlinked
For Star is bright, and Sun burns every hotter
But you their kin, must be the Moon, methinks.
For pale is the light that shines upon thee
And it grows, and fills a void, within me.”
She smiled then, a pale unearthly countenance
“I indeed have sustenance to give thee
For ale and water have I in abundance
And other drinks more potent and more sundry
But for my price I demand an audience
You must hear my song and sit beside me.
And if thou canst hear it and keep from weeping
I’ll make a gift of these for thy safekeeping.”
He nodded and set down his pack and sværd
She bade him move up closer to the embers
Then made for him a bed of pale gold hair
And bade him lay, and rest and but remember
His days when into darkness he had stared
Her voice rang out at once both warm and tender.
And singing in the old tongue of the heavens
She told a tale known only to the elven.
Her words were honey mixed with ancient longing
Her song was sadness tempered with the dawn
Her melody was sweet matronly fawning
Her chorus a seductress’s axiom
Her cadence sharp spoke oft of not belonging
Her rhythm more of poetry than song.
And all of this he heard but knew not of it
But in his roots he felt the Moon above him.
For he spoke naught of her divine language
But her words yet cut deeply regardless
Wan images sprang to life, a mirage
Memories of fever, fear, and distress
He’d seen her then, and felt her tender caress
As he gasped for air and toiled in madness.
And knew this was indeed not their first meeting
The Moon had come to him, and giv’n him healing.
She sang, and tears of wisdom poured from in her
She sang and tears of sorrow seeped from out him
She sang and tears of happiness covered her
She sang and gouts of understanding hit him
She sang and held him closely there unto her
She sang and all the recognition struck him.
Then silently they lay and held each other
Man and Moon, supplicant and lover.
“You’ve failed, I fear, for I but asked a favor
That you hear my song and weep not of it.”
She said these words, and beheld him quaiver
“Valhalla calls not to those who shrink from it.
A bargain tho I’ll strike for thy endeavors
Though this life so feebly do you covet.
Let go, let go, of worry and control
Die sword in hand with laughter in thy soul.”
There lies among the lower fens of Lochland
A single path of safety through the mires
And in that place the Moon walks hither often
Her song a painful, joyful, stark reminder
That thirst does not but bind one to the coffin
But fearlessness is born of something higher.
Weep not for the frightened and the timid
But weep instead for lives that go un-lived.
