Post by The Light on Nov 21, 2012 13:03:08 GMT -5
He stood alone in that moment, in the blackest of nights, as they came for his soul. His was the only heart beating on this place still. He had sent away those few who had not forsaken him with her, to keep her safe. She would not suffer for her father’s sins. Harry knew what to do, would get back to the Isles where his brother would keep her safe.
He had not always been a religious man, had been drowned at a young age like any other highborn child. He hadn’t understand the sacrifice that needed to come with such a trial, hadn’t know what kind of man he would need to be. It was only when he was older that he had been truly given to the sea. He had been pushed underneath that water an empty thing, and was borne out of the salt and water with such a thirst that could not be quenched. He thanked the God below for such a gift, for his unconquerable soul.
They came then, twenty men with such murderous intent. Thieves and liars, doomed men with clubs in hand who do not understand yet their peril. The first is to die seawater in his lungs, the second the claws in his heart. The third and fourth an axe is their fate, the fifths neck to broken and torn. The next few would be lucky, finding their way on deck; to crush this affront to their pride. He would not wince nor cry aloud, for under the bludgeoning of chance his head was bloody, but unbowed.
He thought back to those days, beyond this place of wrath and tears. He built her in the spring, cut the wood for her hull. The nails were made at his forge. He named her for the horse of the friend that he knew; the death that will come in the end. The horror of its shade looms over us all, yet the menace of the years finds him unafraid.
It mattered little the numbers nor how much pain he had to suffer. Again and again he threw them back, in silence and in wrath. He would not abandon that strait. He would not let them pass. They cried at him, in tongues foreign and wild of hells reserved just for he; of his soul in torment, the fate of the damned, a suffering that they could see. His response came out, a challenge loud and proud. He leaped from the ship and landed among them, the Reaper who they would always rue. The harvest was before him, and his scythe would get its due.
Twenty men had come with such murderous intent, yet had left with blood and tears. The reaper had stood unbowed, unbent, and had cleansed his earlier fears. Twenty men with greed in their hearts, and a threat of death that looms, ignorant of the price that would be their final doom. Their threats had come too late, they had paid his toll. For he was the master of his fate; the captain of his soul.
Leman Harlaw's Unarmed Combat to Master (2/2)
He had not always been a religious man, had been drowned at a young age like any other highborn child. He hadn’t understand the sacrifice that needed to come with such a trial, hadn’t know what kind of man he would need to be. It was only when he was older that he had been truly given to the sea. He had been pushed underneath that water an empty thing, and was borne out of the salt and water with such a thirst that could not be quenched. He thanked the God below for such a gift, for his unconquerable soul.
They came then, twenty men with such murderous intent. Thieves and liars, doomed men with clubs in hand who do not understand yet their peril. The first is to die seawater in his lungs, the second the claws in his heart. The third and fourth an axe is their fate, the fifths neck to broken and torn. The next few would be lucky, finding their way on deck; to crush this affront to their pride. He would not wince nor cry aloud, for under the bludgeoning of chance his head was bloody, but unbowed.
He thought back to those days, beyond this place of wrath and tears. He built her in the spring, cut the wood for her hull. The nails were made at his forge. He named her for the horse of the friend that he knew; the death that will come in the end. The horror of its shade looms over us all, yet the menace of the years finds him unafraid.
It mattered little the numbers nor how much pain he had to suffer. Again and again he threw them back, in silence and in wrath. He would not abandon that strait. He would not let them pass. They cried at him, in tongues foreign and wild of hells reserved just for he; of his soul in torment, the fate of the damned, a suffering that they could see. His response came out, a challenge loud and proud. He leaped from the ship and landed among them, the Reaper who they would always rue. The harvest was before him, and his scythe would get its due.
Twenty men had come with such murderous intent, yet had left with blood and tears. The reaper had stood unbowed, unbent, and had cleansed his earlier fears. Twenty men with greed in their hearts, and a threat of death that looms, ignorant of the price that would be their final doom. Their threats had come too late, they had paid his toll. For he was the master of his fate; the captain of his soul.
Leman Harlaw's Unarmed Combat to Master (2/2)