The Drakōnikiad: The Ancestry of Ragimmund King, Enemy of Theodosianople
And Why he was Awesome
I
Sing O goddess,
Sing of the son of Stavros,
I will recount the famous deeds of Bessarion
Who at the behest of Basileus Anicius IV fought the worst of the north’s barbarians
Further north than the Herakleian-Mountains in the Dragon of the field
Didst his fine armies make the enemy yield
Such was the vanity of Ragimmund the Old,
So that of all men he was the most bold,
Heavy was the doom laid upon him,
Scornful of those whom would send him to his tomb
Thereon the fields of the Dragon,
Therapon’s oracle, he did madden.
Thus upon the Drake horn’s call,
He would thus fall,
No long time after,
A banquet he would share,
His vast kin without compare,
Few to none did despair.
Slow was his son’s son to lower his gaze,
Ever watchful if never dazed,
Romanus was he named,
Roma his father’s spirit had enflamed,
Unfettered by wickedness,
Unmatched in goodness,
Valorous in deeds as in nature,
To anger as a glacier,
Yet swift to prayer,
Thus have I described the greatest raider,
Of a line of mighty raiders,
O how the gods did bless his ancestors.
Blazen haired Romanus breaker of horses alone did consider her words.
Thus was the nature of Romanus Steel Arm,
That he sought to shield his kin from harm,
The heir as former bards relate,
By the favour of Zisa, destined to be great
Now I shall sing of the line of Ragimmund,
From the valley of Gormfiata,
Came Theomund, who of old held the favour of Feronia,
Who begat him in the land of mount Gormfiata,
Great were the many deeds wrought in their wanderings,
May the muses aid me in the capturing of their glory.
II
Bold as Mars was Theomund,
Swift as Mercury fleet-foot,
Clever as Odysseus who did much endure,
Great as a dragon, In days of olde,
when men were of same worth to gold,
From his first steps he was hounded,
As one who has astounded all with some grave crime
Thus did he survive in the grime
Deprived of dignity and sire,
Whom the goddess did so desire.
Born amidst snow and grief,
Discarded as might a thief,
An unwelcome false bauble,
Neither did he crawl nor hobble,
But since earliest days didst leap and stride
Left at mountain’s foot
Where none hold themselves aloof
Thereupon high stone near where the lions abode,
Dost stand to his lip she bestowed
Leonine milk and love
All whilst sweet Farona, in shape of dove,
Didst observe,
Many a songs he dost deserve
Such was the majesty upon which he built
name and fortune without guilt.
Long was his voyage
O’er land and hill
So that he didst forage
Til he had his fill
Of his father’s men, both savage and loyal
Many of the slavers he didst kill
From Menelay the Proud, the joyous
Slayer of infants, this he didst delight and thrill
The unworthy king of Jarnmund ere the royal
Theomund didst in his hall, amidst marble gild
Gold bejeweled that left all joyous
There Theomund by water most mild, didst kill.
Of Agretius, none now sing
Because he is no longer King
Many a screams Theomund didst wring
Within his halls, whilst courting
The Queen who in preceding
Days had by needle and thread spent her days decorating,
Of his myriad weeks indulging
In food and affairs, many are the tales that ring
His story in those cruel days,
Thurius from the Northern Plains didst spring
His gaze fierce as a blaze,
Giver of many a ring,
Ne’er one to stand in a daze,
None were more daring
Into the Persean Plains he didst raid
As was his wont dispensing
Treachery and butchery, that his name might ne’er fade
O how Thurius the most slathering
Of his father’s killers, flames barely did abate
This be why, of his evil we do still sing,
In these lands, Theomund of fond memory,
Many a-century
Before, who didst make many a-enemy,
Swept into camp amidst flame, Lo! He broke all serenity,
Therein the dead of night, neither incrementally
Nor didst he appear coincidentally,
Thus, by blade that he didst wield cleverly,
He laid many a men into lowly
filth and earth, made of them but a memory,
Thurius who trapped by reverie
Who by sombrely
Cast slumber, slept whilst his enemy fought betterly
Than son and brothers to Thurius who cast such a disparity
All broke to fly, no matter their hereditary
Chieftain who in prior years slew every enemy,
One and all, until nary
A one could wield blade ordinarily
Or extraordinarily,
Lo! Theomund the most exemplary,
Of warriors by now accustomed to regularly
fought wars and feuds, due to filial fidelity
At last laid into lowly
earth and filth, Thurius who slew Fallronus by reason of jealousy,
Thirty years priorly,
At present with valour,
To house-ruins of dour,
Memories that induced fury
in days of yore,
Such was Theomund’s inheritance that yearly,
Weighed heavy upon more
Than simply his shoulders made weary
By age that didst bury
Many, and hour by hour,
Greater and greater glory,
Was made Theomund’s who in vigour
Remain’d tested yearly,
All while his wisdom in old lore,
Grew and grew alongside his glory,
This was his lot,
All while worldly flesh began to rot,
When an evil thought,
Came to men whom the evil knot
That bound them to him, wished undone,
‘It has indeed run
Full course so that now what fear belongs to far-flung
Past, and courage must now be wrung
From us, as might from a she-wolf draw milk,
Just as from a tape-worm silk
Is drawn, and made in bulk
In northern Lyonesse, where brick upon brick,
Éluan built his myriad palaces,
He of the many gold chalices,
So sayeth the sons of Thurius who gave way to fallacies
Of the maddest sort, to repay the damages
That Theomund inflicted upon them,
In olden days when the stem
Had been planted, and Theomund took their realm,
And the frontier didst o’erwhelm,
III
Brief was his kingdom,
That he garnered by wisdom
As by valour,
And his people’s rigour,
Steel tipped blades aplenty,
Used by many men who succumbed to war-frenzy,
That they might sleep
Bellies full and ne’er leap
From bed to sword
Thereby the northern sward,
In fear as in apprehension
And that they might grow in comprehension,
Of all things natural,
And break from pure pastoral
Livings, in favour of wooden-keeps,
That took many weeks
To build, from foundations to roof
Built as much by men’s backs as horse hoof,
At night as by secrecy,
Each of them sharing equally
In the crime, though none felt guilty,
To barbarous minds this sneakily
Done misdeed be the most naturally
Performed crime in history,
Up the stairway they creakily
Went, up the fort their hypocrisy
Took them, they went in utmost secrecy,
Few they crossed, for many had drunk equally
To the other, little knowing that they had drunkenly
Imbibed wine drugged most unnaturally,
Lo! How they began their butchery
Whilst noble Theomund slept the dreamy
Sleep of the righteous, His reverie
Shared by his granddaughter who fearfully
Clung to him, for fear of her nightmares that had cheekily
Taunted her, to her grandmother’s irritation, she in full leniency
Welcomed her, and awoke in supremely
Disturbed horror that greedily
Ate and devoured her every
Tear and scream, which ceaselessly
Echoed across myriad halls, ere her fearfully
Screamed cries echoed weepily,
Of their butchery, many do still whisper,
Of Theomund many fond speeches still linger,
His goodness many crimes didst hinder,
Such his wisdom most barbarians and Dorians do remember,
In manner most tender,
Such be the love they still bear with such ardour
That his name shall ring forever
Down through the centuries, and through the winter
Of Theodosianople and her every tower,
Many the armies he didst render
To naught forever,
And feed to the crows whether in summer
Or in autumn, ne’er to linger
Thereupon battlefields where tears shower
From feminine cheeks to water each flower
That grows by every corpse, many an hour
Ago, When men didst not cower,
Such be their courage they didst tower
High o’er their children of dour
Mood and mien most sour,
Hereupon his pyre, Cyneberht didst shower
Coin and plum-peddles that the flames didst devour,
From high walls to bower,
The hungry fire in equanimity didst devour,
Ne’er to return home to mother
Or dearly beloved father,
Ragimmund turn’d away his grief in full flower,
IV
Of Cyneberht son of Eadberht much be to tell,
The poets and bards do still yell,
And pray tell
O Singers of Olde, of the doer of many deeds most fell,
Of he who left Bruno in his death-knell,
The butcher who didst most excel
In days of yore all who dwell
In north-flung lands, in the most fell
Of misdeeds, all save Cyneberht who last bid him farewell
By the mountain Nymph’s well,
Vóreia was her name she who cast such a spell
Upon Karlmund, and who gave him love and bell,
Ere he was made to repel
Old Karlmund, ere the other man didst quell
His band, wherefore Cyneberht all still tell
Sent him down to Queen Hel,
Whereupon Cyneberht was struck by such a spell,
That he didst all other men excel
And in her eyes above all others seem to swell
In deeds most brave and fell,
That men will tell
A thousand years hence, when all shalt dwell
In ethereal lands, of many fields and many a well
Of Theomund’s loss, minstrels weep
Until tears an ocean deep,
Hath been shed and sorrow high as the greatest heap
Or Mountain, All while his son didst so leap
From field to field away from the keep,
That didst once guard him from all that dost creep
In darkest and foulest night, those guards who once didst sweep
From shade to shade, to keep
Safe the sons of Theomund, that he might not reap
Savage harvest of steel and none may sneak
From barbarous outlands, into solid keep,
Greatly Theomund once wander’d from valley to farm full of sheep,
That none may weep
Or lack for protection, and be lain onto a heap
Of dirt before his time, and may only sleep
When ready by own volition to sleep
And to in his own bed reap,
All that he should wish sweep
To himself and retain more than solely sleep,
V
Away to the wild,
Went Cyneberht, the child
In his arms away from defiled
Halls great and wide,
Ruined by those most reviled,
By the good for these be men bedeviled
By wicked hearts most unmild
In nature, for by evil they be beguiled,
And thus they beguiled,
Men strong and of mild
Character, such be the mind
Of those sworn to the enemy, who appalled
All other men, both civil and wild,
Cyneberht though no less mild
Than those he loved, and with whom he once lived,
Out into the wilderness they arrived,
Near where many men once died,
By the river Vóreia beside
The Mountain that once surprised
That warrior Cyneberht, who full of pride
Didst challenge wild
Nymph’s wits for the fate of the child,
This she agreed and smiled,
‘By what means might men
Claim that which is not their own,
And that dost bend
Them to its whims ere they be thrown
From reason that they might lend
Themselves their children and all else they own,’
‘That which ye speak be coin,’
The captain Cyneberht didst rejoin,
This ere he was to disappoint
Her high hopes, when he didst not refrain
His own query, ‘What do men anoint,
that they might appoint,
Those who half shalt disappoint,
And the other half enjoin
And bathe them in glory, and give them a voice
Before those who appoint
And offer them no choice,’
Bewildered by this query,
Alarmed by this merry
Guard, consumed by the weary
Duty laid upon him, she of the vast prairie
In the valley of the mountain valley,
Gave way to his victory
Though it ran contrary
To her innermost desire which she didst marry
Though it weigh’d heavy
Upon her, already
By this time weary
And angry,
They in spite of being wary,
Took up this most wondrous victory
In the most merry
Of mood, relieved even as she refused to ferry
Them across her waves, so that they paid for her to ferry,
And thus it was that they fled in a most unmerry
Of mood, properly chastened and wary
Of what she might demand of them after she didst ferry
Them o’er waves fierce, strong and unwieldy,
As they reached the shore
They looked back on days of yore
Recall’d ancient lore,
Fearful that she might bore
Into their bones and recall them to the fore
Of her watery depths, both prepared for war,
Their innermost core
Deep and strong, they as always didst ignore
Fear which is that which dost pour
Itself upon the core
Of all men, and weaken them more
Than all else might, Knowing this, for
He was no fool, he was to once upon the shore
Turn to Ragimmund ne’er one to ignore
Now the chance to teach him,
‘Observe and learn this lesson
Learn the manly arts that ye dost not lessen
In this he didst give expression,
To that most manly profession,
That which requires the utmost aggression,’
This he didst whilst he held him in an expression
Of such paternal tenderness, as to convey the essence
Of all he felt, all while he gave myriad suggestion
To the boy who didst offer up in confession,
No less an expression
Of affection,
Lo! He said ne’er wouldst their bond lessen
No matter what aggression,
They might summon
Against those who might sow division,
Theirs was a most sacred bond of utmost affection,
VI
By love as by duty,
They were noosed,
Many the years truly
Wherein their foes wert loosed
Upon the land where he explored fully,
Land which he perused,
In the most unruly
Manner imaginable, that doomed
Many before him, and which he truly
Didst inherit from Theomund,
Just as he pass’d it to his unruly
Sons, by whom his foes fumed
At and didst fully
Consider no less
Vicious than their utterly
Indomitable sire, whom they wert no less fearless
Than, such was their truly
Great fame for valour and nobility,
Thrice sworn,
To just cause and hard-bitten road,
One by age greatly worn,
The other his shoulders’ still broad,
That shall ne’er be shorn
Of strength or slow’d
By illness nor the thorn,
Men dub age, that other men showed
Whether high or low born,
That in ancient and new days slowed
One and all, be they in the world’s dusk or morn’
Such be mortality that leaves all bowed,
Lo! Didst the youth shorn
Of hearth and home vow’d
That he might someday return, whether young or worn,
This oath he roared
That the heavens that had borne
Witness to countless dauntless deeds and men unbow’d
Might see his deeds in dusk and morn’
That he vow’d
To undertake that of courage he might ne’er be shorn,
VII
In youth, as in dotage he ne’er wept,
And ne’er he slept
Always he crept
That he might the enemy’s home wreck,
And make certain they hath fled
From hearth and home, and prove himself adept
In war, as his ancestors against the inept,
Thus he leapt,
From battlements high, while others slept,
And still many others crept,
This they didst under his banner, that leapt
With the wind, and swept
O’er the battlements that many had once wept
O’er, and which had been kept
Well-preserved in good memory of incredible depth
As in actual fact, Such be their greatness, yet still the theft
Of Theomund’s fort many decades before, when all wert fed
Well and truly, Such that bereft
Of good times, only misery spread
Now throughout the lands, as butter upon bread,
Bread the masses unfed
In sleep as in waking hours many wert left
Utterly to the warlords’, bereft
Of mercy and pity that those left
To the utter dread
Of those they dubbed lords, spread
Throughout darkened lands, keen to spread
Death to those guilty of theft
Of their lord’s lands, he who lost his head
By unjust blades, to Hraban the Red
And his wicked brothers, whom lay abed
Unknowing of the thread
Of destiny they had bred,
Yet still Ragimmund from battle ne’er fled,
So that though he ensured they bled,
Right honourably he fought the Red,
Lo! All wert left
Neither whole but dead,
And to the flames he fed
The keep of that which Theomund once held,
Of his mother Ragimmund knew precious little,
Lesser than his father, yet of nobler blood
By far, she ne’er didst whittle
At his reason or noble deeds that wert the root
Of which many women choose to fiddle,
That they might weaken a child’s mind’s food,
Just as might their fathers’, those whom fate dost riddle
With flaws aplenty, and dost loot
Of all sense, leaving children with naught but spittle
In them that the gods might exclude
Them from Elysium realm of the most beneficial
Men and peoples, lo! long didst she brood,
All while she spun clothe by fingers most virile,
In the keep thereupon the hill that didst include
A moat of flames one that didst so bristle
At men of good nature, and held a sorrowful-mood,
Such that men of the most little
Valour not of the line of Hrambert the Good,
Didst quaver and swivel
Upon their steeds though she was the least rude
Of the northern lines, that which
Dominated the north and didst feud
With a great many of the witch’s
Line and didst much to root
Out the sons of Hrambert, and filch
Them of all they had in lewd
Spirits unjustly stolen from those less rich,
Wealthy and good,
They won this by the slaying of the witch
And her brood,
Ne’er valorous, ne’er loyal,
She didst thus defile,
All that is sacred,
When her sons’ fates she refused
To share, and left them to suffer,
This she didst and ne’er didst utter
Other than curses,
And a great many verses
Against those Ingram call’d kin,
Ere their ranks she didst thin,
Thus she didst foil
Their victory, and leave them to boil
In defeat,
His tale one replete
With such heroism,
That he achieved by way of wisdom,
Of his many wars,
Against scores
Of Ingram’s sons,
along northern shores,
Against they and Dwarves
Most fell, he didst lunge,
He whom their father abhors,
Many implores
Time and again, under the sons’,
For she that adores,
Justice and wars,
He show’d little pity before the walls,
Of their cities,
This fathers
And sons’
Ne’er didst forget nor could ignore,
VIII
Of Ingunn’s father, men also speak well,
For him many art the bells’ that toll still,
Therein the far north where the Valtherii dwell,
They for whom life depends on will,
By steel and fury they thrive,
They whom drink fine wine and swill,
In eager spirits, that which dost revive
Even the least lively
Of folks, and whom far and wide
Hath all hear’d his finely
Woven tales which abound even in fair Doria,
He of the most lightly
Disposition that ne’er inspired nausea
In his foes, as he rightly
Lived therein the north, away from arboreal
Civilization that didst eradicate dishonesty,
Many the dread beasts they in memorial
Of blood most innocently
And unjustly slain, that they might on manorial
Earth and those wildly
Untamed that they might by primordial
Sense of right, lay in lowly
Manner those monsters forged by bestial
And unearthly
Hands, those sons of Hydra
That Herakles didst not justly
Lay low, they slew and after the Hydra’s
Brood the mightiest of wickedly
Wrought cubs of multi-faced wolves,
Those many they slew decidedly,
As easily by arrows that pierce doves,
Of his son’s claims to fame,
He who none couldst tame,
Nor seize and take,
Ingomar was his name,
Father and son, whose glory ne’er didst wane,
Both brought to shame,
By the bitter flame
Of Kunibert who didst defame
The son and his bride, that most famed dame
Leutgard, of renown’d beauty, that all didst proclaim
The fairest dame
In all of the land, she of unlimit’d fame,
She whom Kunibert didst profane,
That he might slake
His hunger for her mane
As he didst for her name,
Lo! The untold pain
He didst inflict upon her, why none couldst explain,
Though he had little to gain,
Such was his profane
Nature that he didst so maim
Her in spirit and fame,
Ingomar didst venture
To seize in northron forests,
The shadow’d King,
Who by his seizure
Of the dainty lady who in abhorrence
Of him, didst cry and sing
In a flurry of tears of how he didst censure
Her by word as by actions,
And whom had by dint
Of these sacrilegious errors
Won for himself, the abhorrence
Of Ingomar and his father the King,
That they might thus spread terror
To he who unleash’d evil in torrents,
Lo! The vast number of those he didst fling,
To their doom out of fervour
For cruelty such be the way of tyrants,
By strangulation as by swordsmanship,
He didst demonstrate refusal to worship
He who sought to steer the ship
Of tribal states, away from steady waters
To murky places ere he falters
Between wicked glee, and uncertainty to please his daughters,
They whom didst seize command,
Ere they made endless demands
Of men and beasts, through the land,
Aflame came he, to hearth and home,
Ere he set aflame, after years wherein he didst roam,
He and his father, aid’d by many a gnome,
Those Elves that didst love always blade
And slaughter, and didst bade
Lord and daughters farewell, ere they set them aflame,
IX
Lo! The glories of the line of Kings,
Who didst precede Theomund King
They who as he didst give over many rings,
They that glittered in spite of the many sins
Countless in nature,
Due to the rupture
That didst occur
Betwixt they and Doria, which sought to nurture
Peaceable bonds and good cheer,
That they might rear
That which men hold most dear,
And be kept away from the leer
Of vicious, cruel war and her grasping hands,
That might tear apart countless lands,
This was the line of Ingunn’s kin,
Thick was their blood,
And their heroics ne’er didst thin,
Their ways rude,
Wert to rule
O’er all the Valtherii, mightiest of the tribes,
Alone they refused Dorian bribes,
By dint of strength,
As by their lives’ length,
They wert most revered,
Yet ne’er didst they endear
Themselves amongst their neighbours,
Such was their labours,
In days previous,
That they fulfill’d by devious
Means, that they might lord o’er northern woods,
That neither hurricane nor floods,
May o’er take and destroy,
Just as no god may disrupt their joy
Or so they didst claim,
And ne’er to reclaim
That which they held dearest,
And which lay nearest,
Of these great deeds,
None of them destined to mislead
In judgment or in act those they freed,
Of a far greater breed
Than most, they wert ne’er to lead to the weeds,
Or into the fens, nor make bleed
Their own, such be their creed,
As Kings of olde, that they sought to exceed
One another in deed
As in songs told o’er mead
And hallow’d halls, such be their creed,
That they had need
To do so, this none disagreed,
For all agreed,
That their shared glory didst supersede
That of the individual’s greed,
And profaned need
To be heard
Above the voices of the rest, that they might mislead
Their kindred and all those of shared breed,
Such be the northern barbarians creed,
And magnificent ways, Lo! They ne’er be weak-kneed,
Nor didst they revealed
In high and lowly acts, ill-conceived
Glories, but rather well achieved,
And ne’er keen to hath review’d
Their own actions, such be their high-achieved
And highly agreed,
Yet all such deeds
Wert acclaimed
All throughout the most wide
Of lands of Doria also, and thus they wert widely well-received,
X
Much affect’d wert the warrior’s
Line that claim’d a hero’s
Fame, won by many wars,
As by heroes
Of olde, who more than courtiers,
That so awed the victorious
Champions’ who won glories
Untold and unheard of to noble Dorians,
Treacherous as praetorians
Noble as champions,
Such be the honour of barbarians,
Along the north’s coasts,
They didst toast
And roast,
Pigs and cows, and boast
Of wealth unequalled, gotten by they and their devotees,
The finest of hosts,
None dared to suggests,
They be the worst
Of men and lords that exist
In the north, greatest of north-folks,
Barbarous as beasts,
Lo! The vastness of Ragimmund’s tribe,
That didst in war didst thrive,
All whilst they strive
East that they might contrive
Always to seek to derive
Glory and satisfaction from war and strife,
That their enemies might describe
Their peoples and deride
Them as barbarous, ne’er didst deprive
Them of their own opinion, or leave them cover’d in hives,
Such be their indifference and glory, their design,
Where might they thrive?
Why in the wilderness, where all must survive,
And what be their wilderness where they strive?
Why in battle, that be where they derive
Satisfaction and joy,
These be the ancestors
Of whom to this hour
All sing still,
Their ancient glories
Their lives incomparably dour
Neither farmers nor mills
Wert they, nor cowards,
Fierce as lions, ne’er didst they sour
And shake, or wear frills,
Such was their courageous
Disposition and valour,
XI
O Goddess let us sing now
Of the heroism of Ragimmund the Bold,
Of how in his youth
Ragimmund didst slay the most foul,
Ne’er one to fold
Before King, lord or duke,
Always didst he choose,
Fierce and bold, three ladies he didst woo,
Ne’er once didst he lead them to woe,
Save for the Lady of Demoé
She whom many sought to woo,
And who was most true
To Ragimmund, after he didst pursue
She and others, this she knew
Yet still she chose him, so that she didst subdue
Her own envy, and gave him not a few
Children, but a great many that didst dispute
Doria’s claim to northern lands all knew
To be true,
Of the Lady Rufiana, his mighty wife,
The Red Lady,
Who gave for him her life,
And ne’er gave way to lazy
Habits or lax morality, who gave in gift the knife
Of her father’s father, fond was his memory
Of that day, though it be rife
With strife and hazy
Peace, that bespoke to a poor life
One that he might regret and fight
To redeem from, and in this he was ne’er lazy,
XII
Many wert his heirs’,
And many their own heirs,
Not a one short of hair,
Ne’er fearful and always keen to dare
Where others might not fare
Half so well, and might despair,
First among them was the Fair-hair’d
Adalwin, whom he didst rear
To greatness and majesty, for he was heir,
Adalwin, mighty and fierce,
Didst father thrice
The sons of others; Stavros, Ælfstan and Bertrand, each one a prince
Of greatest virtue, who ne’er shirked from conflict,
Adalwin who’s spear didst pierce
Foe and villain, and hero alike, myth
And legend that he was, he who fill’d many with bliss
His bravery none e’er could dismiss
His spear like Gungnir, ne’er didst miss,
Always didst it pierce,
Not once but thrice,
All who didst oppose the mightiest of Ragimii’s princes,
Stavros came next,
Ne’er was he at rest,
Always he didst vex,
His wits such that he didst perplex,
Even the finest of generals, against
Whom he didst test,
Always didst he best,
Them no matter if from east or west,
His greatness many came to expect,
Always his nobility his prisoners didst express
Admiration for, and always didst respect,
Of his axe, none didst suggest
Was any less
Sharp, than that of his perfect
Brother, whom he ne’er didst object
To, or place himself against,
Such be the beauty of their brotherly bond, that they ne’er didst vex
Nor wish to see the other put to rest!
Of Theomund the third child,
The fiercest in battle and most wild,
Barbarous and long-bearded, yet mild
Of mood, yet easily the most beguil’d,
By womanly charms, as by gestures most kind,
Thus he didst depend upon Stavros, and required
His guidance, though of the reviled
It where women wert concerned, such was how he lived,
Of his sons, nine there wert! And well-defined
They all wert, each one derived
Their nature from their brave and kind
Father; of Ragimos the eldest and least kind,
Minstrels still whisper’d
When last in the north and west
Went I, and of Theowin of immense pride,
And quick to anger, his guide
And younger brother, Theomund the Younger, who didst ride
Far and very wide,
Both born of one mother, she who obliged
Her predecessor with poison, and whom all feared,
Next came Sugimmond the Kind,
All didst love him far and wide,
Ælfwin of the lovely bride,
Whom always didst quarrel and despised
Those who longed for his bride,
Sixth was the pride
Of the pack, and least despised,
Cynesige the seer, who revised
Always his father’s schemes, and advised,
Seventh was the mountain-sized
Chlodulf the Strong, fierce-eyed,
Eighth Burghead the most refined,
Always he longed for the south that he eyed
Wistfully, best of all musicians of those inscribed
In the lineage of Ragimmund, ne’er he lied,
Ninth Dunstan who thrived
In ill and misfortune of others, such be how he lived,
Next came Eadwig, always eager for a quarrel,
He of the most feral
Temper, and most foul strength that endures all peril,
Set before him, and left many sterile
Cadavers, such be his glory and more than several
Deeds of utmost heroism,
Thence came Eileifr the Devious,
Where the previous
Brothers good and true, Eileifr was lascivious,
Offering the least amount of obedience,
His daughter though easiest
To name, was also the least obsequious,
She of the kindliest
Of mien, and most ferocious of warriors,
The Lady Farahild, most beauteous
Of the shield-maidens of the north-west,
Faroald the youngest of all,
Who ne’er didst suffer the same fall,
Mighty in arms, and limbs tall,
The minstrels still do recall,
How he ne’er didst crawl,
But rather galloped, and raced, until the final
Days and hours stood before him, and he with a pall
O’er his head threw himself forward, no one’s thrall,
Of these mighty sons Ragimmund was utterly proud,
Ne’er didst he fall foul
To rage or to lay upon their women-folk their shrouds,
To leave their men bow’d,
Without reason or honour, such was his spirit made profound
By faith as by manly nature, even as he was foul
And cruel when enraged, and of untamed faith and quick to wound
Those around him, such was his nature proud,
For this as for much else, his women wouldst bear their shrouds,
And his sons’ would be left unproud,
Grandchildren to sorrow bound,
Such was the price of his greed that didst resound
To Doria as to heaven, and o’er the waves and mounts,
I love it.
Amazing poem!