Where is my squire Allen?
Where is he now?
I look, but do not see.
Mine armour rusts.
Yet he come not.
Wilt lance fall from my hand?
Or sword shatter on cold stone?
Ere I see the lad.
He, who so oft dressed my wounds.
He, who kept mine weaponry ashine.
I look, and listen, fully expecting him.
Yet, he does not come.
Eyes fail, as night sets in.
The rust sings me to sleep.
Ghosts rise up to caress me.
To embrace my cold flesh.
And yet, he does not come.
No failing of his, I am the loner.
The single mote in a starless sky.
I weep for all the fallen before me.
Weep, and feel my metal carcass.
Feel it as the crimson banner enclose it.
Knowing by morn I shall not rise again.
But sleep.
Sleep at last.
A sweet, lonely sleep.
One of peace, I hope.
One, of finality.
To have worn this armour so long.
And lived.
A warrior, strong.
A man, no less, of undying temperament.
My squire, once more, would I see.
His hand upon my sword hilt.
Once more, ere this sleep take me.
~Ceann~
