Régnwald sat just outside the door of Mead hall, waiting, listening to the sounds of the night. Wind, old songs, laughter... His eyelids grew heavy. He drifted off ...into a vision of a feral boy standing before him. The child handed him a huge sword, which Régnwald took thereafter.
The boy stared at him in bitter sorrow, then opened his shirt, exposing his tiny chest with what looked like dark stains of violet color, covering all his pale skin. He looked from the sword to Régnwald, nodded and spoke in a sound like whisper ''Go on.''
Régnwald, heavy-eyed, watched him a beat, blinked then he jolted awake to the glare of daylight.
He strode back into the long hall, half nodding to the guards as the large wood doors squeaked opened then shut with a small thud behind him. He walked forward, dusting his hands on the front of his clothes until he reached a table with a mug of mead on it and tilting his head back, took several long drafts from it, not bothering to pour anymore into it.
There one of the elders were speaking out loud to an audience, letting his wise words be heard by all who listened.
''I know it truly,
that it is in men
a noble custom,
that one should keep secure
his spirit-chest, mind
guard his treasure-chamber, thoughts
think as he wishes.
The weary spirit cannot withstand fate,
nor does a rough or sorrowful mind
do any good.''
And so spoke the wise man, mindful of hardships, of his innermost thoughts. Régnwald stood there and listened silently, drawing a bitter sigh in his chest as the words sunk in.
