Tapestry of Fate

Not really a poem, nor really a story.... I intended this to be an in-universe tale within a story of mine. It tells a part of the history before the story.

There in darkness,
Within his Tower of Iron,
Sat the Elvenking.
His breath was frost,
His eyes were lightning,
There under the canopy of crystal glass,
He watched fate unravel,
Greedily guiding it with taloned hands,
Bent on destruction.

There in the stars he saw a spark,
Which turned to a fire,
Leaving him blind,
In rage and fear he roared,
A challenge,
Which issued across the land,
And was met by the blast of a horn,
From the High King,
Of the kingdom of Maranthine.

Maranthine! Bulwark of men,
High kingdom that basks in the sun,
Place of priests and poets and minstrels,
And knights, brave,
Undeterred by darkness,
Unflinching of death,
Steadfast in their duty.
Out rode the king, alone!
In mail of shining silver, to meet his foe,

Across the land he rode, a gleaming star of the West.
His eyes were fire,
Atop his steed, white Daenoir, mighty and proud,
Rode High King Laskarius,
Wearing Golden Crown,
Thrice blessed and enchanted,
Protector of men and faith,
Sword in hand,
To meet his damnable foe.

But Athedil the Elvenking feared this High King of Men,
For a warrior brave he was, true in faith and determination,
And famous in strength,
With enchanted blade and crown,
And so the Elvenking summoned forth unnatural storms,
Spewing lightning like blue-white branches from the sky,
To destroy the High King.
With a rushing of black cloud,
The storms raced to meet their quarry,

But the High King,
Knowing his foe's mind,
Anticipated this sorcery,
Raising his blade to the sky, did he shout,
"Athedil! Coward-king, you send your magicks to face me?"
And as the first lightning-arc struck, Laskarius was ready,
Meeting spark with blade, he clove the lightning in two,
While Daenoir danced,
Outracing the storm.

Thus was he known as Laskarius,
High King and Stormrider,
Riding through the Stormlands,
Blasted and bare,
With jagged mountains that rose like spears,
Or fangs,
The barrier blocking the world were no match for the will of Laskarius,
The High King, Stormrider, White-blade,
Foe of Athedil, Elvenking, Sorcerer-king, last of the Elven lords, enemy of men.

Thus was Laskarius arrayed before the dreaded Iron Gates,
Of the Sorcerer's Tower,
Black as midnight and wracked by thunder,
When he issued his challenging,
Raising runed blade and striking the Gates,
"Come forth, demon, and face me,
For you are the enemy of men,
And the enemy of my kingdom, slayer of my men and my women,
And no more will you terrorize the world."

Then from the Tower did the Elf reply,
With a hollow laugh, mocking and cold,
With voice that shook earth and rent stars,
And the Gates slid open,
But Laskarius was steadfast and remained firm,
Seeing this, did that laugh come again,
And the foul Elf said:
"As you command,
My king."

Thus did Laskarius, the High King of Maranthine,
Finally meet his foe,
Out came the Elvenking, Athedil the Immortal,
So named for his magicks,
Clad in mail of midnight and wreathed by smoke,
Burning with a ghost-light,
Cruelly beautiful and tall,
With sickled staff,
Wearing no crown or lordship, for he did not need them.

Laskarius then struck out with blade,
Gleaming in the dark,
But his blade found no purchase,
For it disintegrated into dust at the Elvenking's touch,
Scattering into the wind,
Then Athedil reached out with clawed hand,
And with foul magicks,
Claimed the life of Daenoir, trusted steed, mighty and proud!
Collapsing into bones upon the ground.

Then did Laskarius, the High King, quail,
For his blade was broken and his companion slain,
And as he rose in rage and anger,
He was shouted down again,
Bent into the earth,
As Athedil worked his sorcery, shattering the High King,
But again the High King rose,
For fate and destiny was his panoply,
And drew his companion-sword, thrusting it deep into the chest of his foe.

Athedil let out a howl,
But unwounded seemed he,
As he seized the High King by the throat,
His touch freezing and blistering,
And lifted him high,
Smiling, laughing,
And spoke:
"Did you believe you could best me, High King?
For I have peered into the well of the divine and claimed it as my own."

Then was Laskarius shown the truth:
For Athedil had devoured a god,
The Creator, Goddess, of this earth,
Claiming her power for his own.
Laskarius did weep at this revelation,
His Lady, dead, killed by a fiend,
And so did Athedil, Sorcerer,
Last of the Elven kings,
Laugh as he devoured his foe.

So was Laskarius, Saint-King of Maranthine,
Felled by his foe,
The god, Athedil, Elvenking,
Before the Wretched Iron Gates.
So did Laskarius, Stormrider,
Fail to slay his foe,
Athedil, Sorcerer King,
Lord of the Iron Tower,
The Enemy of Men.