Enid & Geraint

By custom and tradition of the Hall, there will be only one post today. I think this will be the last time we observe this tradition. We are now able to see the end of the war that began when Geraint drew his sword, beholding a bandit realm. We have glutted the ravens, but in the end the bandit realm remains; and our own has fallen into darkness, not because of the war but at least in spite of it. 

The story begun on 9/11 has ended. Now it is time for another story.

Enid & Geraint

Once strong, from solid

Camelot he came

Glory with him, Geraint,

Whose sword tamed the wild.

Fabled the fortune he won,

Fame, and a wife.

The beasts he battled

With horn and lance;

Stood farms where fens lay.

When bandits returned

To old beast-holds

Geraint gave them the same.

And then long peace,

Purchased by the manful blade.

Light delights filled it,

Tournaments softened, tempered

By ladies; in peace lingers

the dream of safety.

They dreamed together. Darkness

Gathered on the old wood,

Wild things troubled the edges,

Then crept closer.

The whispers of weakness

Are echoed with evil.

At last even Enid

Whose eyes are as dusk

Looked on her Lord

And weighed him wanting.

Her gaze gored him:

He dressed in red-rust mail.

And put her on palfrey

To ride before or beside

And they went to the wilds,

Which were no longer

So far. Ill-used,

His sword hung beside.

By the long wood, where

Once he laid pastures,

The knight halted, horsed,

Gazing on the grim trees.

He opened his helm

Beholding a bandit realm.

Enid cried at the charge

Of a criminal clad in mail!

The Lord turned his horse,

Set his untended shield:

There lacked time, there

Lacked thought for more.

Villanous lance licked the

Ancient shield. It split,

Broke, that badge of the knight!

The spearhead searched

Old, rust-red mail.

Geraint awoke.

Master and black mount

Rediscovered their rich love,

And armor, though old

Though red with thick rust,

Broke the felon blade.

The spear to-brast, shattered.

And now Enid sees

In Geraint's cold eyes

What shivers her to the spine.

And now his hand

Draws the ill-used sword:

Ill-used, but well-forged.

And the shock from the spear-break

Rang from bandit-towers

Rattled the wood, and the world!

Men dwelt there in wonder.

Who had heard that tone?

They did not remember that sound.

His best spear broken

On old, rusted mail,

The felon sought his forest.

Enid's dusk eyes sense

The strength of old steel:

Geraint grips his reins.

And he winds his old horn,

And he spurs his proud horse,

And the wood to his wrath trembles.

And every bird

From the wild forest flies,

But the Ravens.