{"sf1_id":1713726,"sf2_id":"ynZPgpeY","title":"Ragnarok - I","author":"Rob MacWolf","words":2198,"posted_at":"2021-05-03T05:32:00.000Z","tags":["Epic","Iambic pentameter","Poetry","blank verse"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1713726-ragnarok-i","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/ynZPgpeY","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/76/b0/76b0b4a2-ce8e-4c5f-b914-9fffb50e1925","description":"#2 of Ragnarok\n\nRagnarok is an epic, and I was very intentional about giving it all the characteristics that an epic, by formal definition, is supposed to have. Invocation of the Muses, Epic Question, Heroic Catalogue, Journey to the Underworld, etc.\nI'll be uploading one canto every day that I have time.","content":"Somewhere it was autumn, and the trees  \nHung undecided, torn between the fear  \nOf concrete skies and black obsidian nights  \nAnd clung to fading leaves, yet still they felt  \nA dark desire to let the summer drop,  \nTo scatter to the wind their tattered clothes  \nAnd tile the floor with fragments of the roof;  \nSunset gold above and bronze below  \nBy tarnish-faded silver pillars crossed.  \nSomewhere it was autumn, and the air  \nWas in-between a chill across the skin  \nAnd warmth as of a draft of honey wine.  \nThe light that filtered through translucent leaves  \nWas grey and filmy, like the faded dust  \nOn antique photographs of relatives  \nYou never met, and cast the quiet trees  \nIn serried ranks of cardboard cutout shapes  \nAs if the world were made of scenery.  \nThe colors burned as hot as furnaces.  \nThe smell of leaf decay in every breath,  \nBy coming winter frozen, chilled the blood.  \nSomewhere it was autumn. Nothing moved  \nSave for the sound of breath of one asleep  \nUpon the leaf strewn sand. He slept as if  \nHe only had lain down and closed his eyes  \nTo rest a moment, but he did not stir.  \nHis limbs were thick with work and weariness.  \nHis hair was red and short, as if of sparks  \nShot out electric from the stony shock  \nOf steel fist on solid flinty pate.  \nUpon his hands he wore two weighty gloves.  \nHis feet and chest were bare, his breath was slow,  \nHis eyes were sealed but lightly as he slept.  \nA leaf above his all unmoving face,  \nFor no cause visible, detached itself  \nAnd drifted, fickle, now towards him swift,  \nNow again away, until it stopped  \nAbove his chest, and settled, and he woke  \nLike a volcano, sudden, swift, surprised.  \nHe halted half arisen, and he stared.  \nHe traced the tree trunks skyward with his eyes.  \nHe slowly touched his breast, as if afraid  \nTo find he was no longer there. The rush  \nOf breath relieved was loud enough to stir  \nAnother scarlet leaf to drift and lie.  \nHe rose and cast about with eyes and ears  \nFor some familiar thing, just as a dog  \nWho finds his master absent suddenly  \nWill seek from side to side for his return  \nEre he will take, in sorrow, to the wilds.  \nBut nowhere could he see the slightest sign  \nOf where, or when, or how he came to be  \nIn this place. All around the leaves lay flat  \nQuite undisturbed by any track or trail.  \nOn all sides stood the woods, each way the same,  \nNo landmarks but the trees, no signpost there,  \nThe only compass was the evening shades.  \nTwo passions warred within his mind. The one  \nTo rise and go, and find what place this was,  \nHow he came here, what he was to do next.  \nThe other to remain where he awoke  \nAnd hope whatever agency had brought  \nHim to this place would open the way back  \nSo caught between the two he wandered forth  \nAnd back, and forth, and back again until  \nHe could not surely say where he awoke.  \n\"Now what is this?\" he spoke, and pressed against  \nThe smooth grey bole grown nearest to his hand  \nAs if to see if it would bear his weight  \nOr melt into a mist, \"How came I here?  \nI never have beheld this place before.  \nI never have its like imagined, nor  \nHad any wish to find such silent haunts.  \nIt looks to me as if no eyes save for  \nMy own have seen this place, no ears have heard  \nThe silence of these undisturbed leaves,  \nNo feet before my own have felt this earth,  \nAll looks so virgin here. And yet so old  \nFor every tree is higher than the peak  \nOn the cathedral in my window frame.  \nSo even lie the leaves, as if they fell  \nA thousand years ago. But what is next?  \nBut what am I to do? A moment gone  \nI was locked fast in combat in the ring.  \nWhere has it gone, and my antagonist?  \nWhere is the crowd? Did he who took them hence  \nRemove me here? How was it done so swift?  \nI almost feel upon my body still  \nThe burning of the bruises raining down.  \nPerhaps my guard was weak, and on my head  \nThere came a blow as from a meteor  \nThat jarred my brain awry, so that in truth  \nI lie asleep upon the mat, and dream  \nAll this. I do not seem to be asleep,\"  \nHe frowned, \"Indeed, nor does this seem a dream.\"  \nHow long he stood in thought he could not stay  \nBut while he stood around him stirred a breeze  \nToo slight to feel, the only one to fly  \nSince long and many days ere he awoke,  \nAnd at its touch a thousand thousand leaves  \nThat clung by less than threads detached at last  \nAnd fell as thick as snowflakes round his head  \nSo that the air was for a moment filled  \nAs fully as the trees above. Then as  \nTheir tickling settled on his shoulders broad  \nHe shrugged, and off they slid, and then he spoke,  \n\"I may not know where I have come, or how  \nI may go to return. I do not know  \nWhat wilds these are, their name, where they are found,  \nOr if I wake or dream. I know not if  \nThe blow that felled me cast me to these woods.  \nBut nothing will I know if I stay here.\"  \nSo saying, he set out, not caring where,  \nHe took his gloves and hung them round his neck,  \nAnd through the leaves he pushed his way, that built  \nAnd clung and parted round his knees  \nForming, reforming, rustling papery greaves.  \nBetween the trees the boxer came alone.  \nNo destination nor no object sought  \nInformed his wandering. As he went on  \nHe wondered at the majesty of trees  \nThat built for him a cloister and arcade  \nSpreading beyond the furthest he could glimpse.  \nHowever long he walked there seemed no end.  \nNo herb grew in the ground, only the trees.  \nNo blade of grass emerged between the leaves.  \nIt might have seemed a garden, had there been  \nThe slightest sign that any human hand  \nHad touched it ere he came, for good or ill.  \nThe sun, which had hung high above his head  \nBrushing the topmost leaves when he awoke,  \nSlid downward, burned more fiercely, and engorged.  \nThe slanting beams were threaded through the trunks  \nSo nearly horizontal that the ground  \nLay all in its own shadow, when he stopped,  \nClosed his eyes, and sighed out. \"Now am I lost.  \nSurely I walk in circles.\" Then a voice  \nIn complicated echoes off the trees  \nCommanded him \"You there! What is your name  \nAnd what your business? Answer or defend!\"  \nBetween him and the amber setting sun  \nA man in armor stood, with sword and shield.  \nBeneath his lowered helm and lowering brows,  \nHis eyes were like the points of iron nails  \nHoned down by strength and anger and the sort  \nOf bravery that leads a man to stand  \nUnder a wholly hopeless, starless sky  \nAnd fight, and die, and go on standing; yet  \nMore sharpened by a fear, not for himself  \nBut for another, and of his own strength  \nTo stand for them, that may not be enough.  \nHis knees were bent, his stance was coiled to spring,  \nAnd challenge plain was written on his face.  \nThe boxer swelled indignant, and he said  \n\"I have no need to give account to you!  \nIf all these woods are yours, then rather you  \nOwe an account to me! If they are not  \nWhy should I need your leave to wander here?\"  \nThe warrior placed a hand upon his sword  \nAnd spoke again \"What churl's nonsense is this?  \nYour speech is as the whimpering of pigs  \nThat every time the farmer brings their slops  \nImagine that the butcher comes, and squeal.  \nIt means no more to me. Say better, pig!\"  \nThe boxer laughed as he pulled on his gloves.  \n\"Am I a pig? Then come not near my sty  \nUnless you have a wish to taste the mud.  \nBut two can play this game: you are no pig,  \nYou are a chicken, brooding on the fence,  \nThat squawks and flaps in panic for no cause.  \nBe careful how you crow!\" he said, and grinned.  \nThe warrior did not smile, but drew his sword.  \n\"Your clothes are most outlandish, and your speech  \nDiscourteous. You come in troubled times  \nTo troubled lands. I know not what you are  \nBut know I like it not. You are not armed  \nYet I will smite you, if you get not gone.\"  \nThe boxer only raised his fists and said,  \n\"You say I am unarmed. Well, we shall see!\"  \nA moment time moved not, but held its breath  \nWhile there they stood and nothing moved. They might  \nAs easily from everlasting stone  \nAs from temporal flesh been sculpted there.  \nAs soon as time began again, they flew.  \nThe warrior had his sword, whose deadly edge  \nGave surety of blood with but a touch,  \nThe warrior had his shield, both broad and thick.  \nThe boxer only had his naked pride  \nAnd practice long, at staying out of reach.  \nSo as he rained down blows so thick and fast  \nThat they were as a sole battering force  \nLike countless wheels upon the interstate,  \nHe ducked and bobbed both under and around  \nThe weapon tip that sought him eagerly.  \nTwice he evaded it. Twice did it bite  \nThrough nothing but the air, and struck the ground  \nAnd left a furrow, like a plowshare, in  \nThe orange of the leaves, of chocolate earth.  \nTwice the warrior backward hauled the hilt  \nTo jerk it free, then twice the boxer struck  \nAnd scored brave hits his foe seemed not to feel.  \nThe third time, and the warrior swung again  \nAnd when the boxer swerved, he forward lunged.  \nHe was too close now. Now the bitter tip  \nSlashed right across the shoulder and the cheek.  \nThe boxer cried aloud, words not for here,  \nCollapsing to one knee. The warrior laughed.  \n\"What, have you not known pain before? Or does  \nMy sword cut deeper than you did assume?  \nKnow you now, fool, that here we do not play?\"  \n\"Then do not!\" spat the boxer as he rose.  \nHe charged, bellowing. As he did he struck  \nAside the hostile blade, but not enough.  \nThe tip scored him again, across the side.  \nThe steel cruel tasted again his blood.  \nHe stumbled, fell again. The leaves were stained  \nA deeper red. Through eyes screwed shut in pain.  \nHe heard the warrior saying \"I regret  \nThat I should slay one so unwisely brave.\"  \nThe sunset blazing off descending steel  \nRang like a crystal chime. The sword came down  \nAnd halted with a smack, as of the ice  \nOf an inevitable glacier cracked  \nInstantly, in a thousand facets, by  \nSome rising warmth allied unto some crag  \nToo stubborn to endure the grinding down.  \nJust was the sound of leather boxing gloves  \nThat clapped around the blade and held it fast.  \nThe boxer's eyes were blazing as he shoved;  \nHe slammed the pommel in the warrior's trunk,  \nHe wrenched aside the sword, and struck again.  \nThe warrior raised his shield, the other fist  \nCame up around and knocked him breathless down.  \nHe swayed defenseless, staggering. Enraged,  \nThe boxer struck him on the mouth: once, twice,  \nThree times. The warrior toppled like a tree  \nAnd landed on his back. \"Where I am from,\"  \nThe boxer growled, \"We call this victory.\"  \nThe warrior pulled himself upright, and reached,  \nCaught up his sword, and caught the boxer's eyes.  \nThen thrust it in its sheath, and laughed, and hugged  \nHis former foe as if he were his kin.  \nStill laughing, he then clapped him mightily  \nUpon the shoulder, saying \"Well met, then!  \nYou are more unexpected far, I own,  \nThen I expected! Well met, friend, indeed!\"  \nThe boxer blinked at him, as at the sun,  \nMore struck by this than by the sword, and said,  \n\"This is not like a greeting, to attack  \nWith deadly weapons. Who are you? And where  \nAm I? I understand you not at all.\"  \n\"All this,\" the warrior answered, \"can I cure.  \nBut come! Your noble blood yet marks the path.  \nIt is not far to fire and board, and there  \nWill I tend both your wounds and wonderment.  \nAs for my name, which rudely I required  \nOf you, I am called Varr the Last-To-Flee.\"  \nThe boxer, noticing that still he bled,  \nFollowed and answered him, \"My name is Shane  \nFalconi. Though I cannot say I have  \nAny grand title now, I once was called  \nA champion.\" Declined he more to speak.  \nThe warrior said, \"Here, you shall be again!\"  \nBehold!\" Raising his hand to wipe his bloodied lip,  \nThen pressed it to boxer's arm, \"Here do I take  \nForevermore by oath of mingled blood  \nYou for my brother, Shane the Champion!\"  \nEmbraced he him, and Shane, bewildered sore,  \nWith nothing else to do, clasped him as well  \nAnd laughed. The last rays of the setting sun  \nSlipped from the flame-souled leaves, and left them there.\n\n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Ragnarok","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1713724-ragnarok-prologue.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1713731-ragnarok-ii.json"}}