The Black Sword

A weary captain sits alone,

His fellows mirthful feast, and home

They wend their steps at break of day,

For long has been their time away;

But gazing into firelight warm,

There, stony, is their leader, worn.

Of noble house and old was he,

E’er ill befell the peoples free

And drove them thence, to live in thrall

Of lowest men and shadows all,

Until, at last, his way was made

To seek his solace far away.

A name he made, as years did pass,

And honor brought his house; at last

A Sword against the evil rose

To vanquish many mortal foes,

And men did flock to pledge their arms,

Who to the Shadow brought much harm.

But though great deeds this man had done,

And proved himself his father’s son,

Yet dark became his quiet heart;

For long ago, the painful dart

Of loss and weariness had pierced

His soul, and made his vengeance fierce.

So by himself his doom he bears,

Through lore of kingdoms, tales of years,

And great his name is ever known

As darkness deep is overthrown;

Though sad and troubled he has lived, 

The Black Sword is a timely gift.