Merivel of the Broken Sword

A wanderer drifts on shifting breath, Where famine walks and war brings death. I sang for camps where sorrow bled, And gave what healing I could lend. His frame was slight, his step was plain, Yet from his eyes poured love’s domain. Pink pearls of helem, steady, kind, A crown of horn, a burning mind. We spoke of peace till dawn was near, Of future days when none would fear. In four long bends our love was sown, Through courts of kings and fields of stone. No sword he bore, nor shield in hand, But words that calmed a ravaged land. His fire was peace, his hope so wide, It drew me ever to his side. But warlords strike where peace takes root, With sharpened lie and armored boot. He went to parley, bold and brave. I begged, I pleaded, still he gave. I followed swift through smoke and cries, To where the tyrant’s banner flies. And there, his head upon a pike I- [Spoken] I- [Spoken] I-. I’m sorry. I can’t!