Death Lingers In The Meadow
Posted by
CMG
on August 26, 2022
5 mins read
·
legends
Death lingers in the meadow, so I've been told. the place of elves, of such fair things, such sights as the first light rising over a cold night, the dew like glittering pearls in the sea of green. so many fond memories from days come and gone, now it holds a misty presence, smile and laughter gone silent. For you see precious blood was spilled one day, near the hill, in the shadow of an oak tree. A man who's veins were as blue as the sky, a man of legacy, of wealth and statue, might not have been a man at all, an elf maybe, of ancient history. His life was taken by a treacherous foe, evil itself, to rob the world of such good. It pierced his heart and as he bled out on the hill, the shadow of the oak tree spread across the meadow. His body turned to stone, a stream sprouted from his wound and from the ground blessed by his blue blood grew tall white roses, watered by mother nature's tears, such beautiful sorrow. but mark my words do not pick the roses child, it holds the anger of such loss. such anger, such despair would drive a mortal man insane, so steer clear of the roses, of the meadow all the same. death lingers there, so I'm told...
Death lingers in the meadow my dear, oh I know, my father told me as his father told him. horrible things happen to good people, sorrow follows them such is life. it reminds me of dear Albion, a man with a heart so good, so tender, he fed the poor, cared for the sick. his actions brought him admiration which he didn't understand, power which he wouldn't use. his heart was so pure it seemed untouchable, until finally his actions brought him love. Love so incomprehensible, so wonderful and yet so utterly destructive, it soon brought him woes, then sorrow, and in the end a bleeding heart that knew no relief. only the finality could be seen as a way out misery, and what is more final than death itself. They found him, dangling from the oak tree, near Varons grave in the meadow. Hung by a rope made of white roses, the thorns had sunk so deep they couldn't pry them out. They buried him with all the glory and honor they could muster, how Albion must have hated it. The roses took root under the oak tree, white petals blooming still. Some say the roses had never tasted such pure blood, that they await Albions return till this day. so now you know the story about poor Albion, so stay clear of Varons grave, stay clear of the meadow all together, death lingers there, always have, so I'm told...
Death lingers in the meadow my love, oh I've seen it, felt it, so listen closely I'll only tell it once. It fell upon me to witness a duel, a duel of glory and honor some would say, though what I saw was naught but petty jealousy. The king's two sons each loved a girl, the girl they loved was fair Elaine. Such heartfelt love that did sprout hate, for what is hate but acts of love. Yet only Varon held her tender heart while Aimar held her hand in marriage. Furious Aimar thought love could be taken, so he challenged his brother with the tip of his sword. In the meadow they fought, hard and unforgiving, but in the end only Aimar did prevail. His sword at his brother's chest, Varon could naught but yield. Alas Aimars fury had taken hold, with a slash he set to take her love, but all he reaped was sorrow. It did not become peasants such as me, to meddle in royal affairs, so blue blood bled upon the meadows dusty ground. As Aimar left the bleeding meadow, he took his sword and Varons life, all he left was death. It fell upon my guilty soul to bury Varon deep, with what glory a peasant could muster. Now he lies near the old oak tree, far from the bloody meadow, as far as I could carry him. Had I only known the bloodshed, the horror King Aimar would leave in his wake, the sons and the daughters he would take. Then a peasants life would be a small price to pay, to have kept his fury from his brother that day. So visit Varons grave if you must, but do not linger in the meadow, death will always linger there, so I know...
