Epic Poem of Graceling

Dew speckled leaves tremble as winds dance,
whispering tales of a female warrior,
a killer of the Middluns.
Invisible darkness sweeps fertile valleys and creeks
plaguing joyous families of the Seven Kingdoms,
knowing nothing of their plight,
succumbed to shrouded fate.
Can no light pierce the evil shadows?
The land of peace has borne themselves
a graced killer of the innocents, the criminals,
Thrust your dagger to uncover the truth,
she who must defeat the darkness,
niece to the Royal King Randa, the Graceling
killer, Katsa

Sacred One chant, share the divine tales,
O Calliope, Muse of the epics, tell daring treks,
enlighten with newfound love and hardship,
snow-capped peaks strewn with ice and terror,
a single mother’s unneeded death, of a child’s fear,
a corrupted father of blessed diablerie.
O Goddess, open your eyes in me,
let magic flow from my fingertips,
guide my hand, pour heart into fine calligraphy.
Release your whims and wishes from soul,
to cherish your works so beautiful.
A fighter’s a hunter’s life be breathed into paper,
Katsa be unleashed from pencil or quill,
defeat undetectable confusion from a face,
so trusting.

Salt spray from billowing gales, wood creaks beneath leather boots,
these scarce known sailors must be rescued,
not from seasickness, but a lost mind.
Bitterblue, a small child, of lost family and friend,
clings tightly to a support, Katsa’s leg;
the torture of travel has near ceased;
rocks like jagged teeth tear through waves on Lienid’s shore
where ally awaits.
Prepare stone traveling, boots on feet,
Katsa takes wary steps on sea-rolling floor
to the homely terrain so yearned for.
Small puddles trickle on black rock
borne of volcano.
Squeaks and taps, boots on stone
carry Katsa with Bitterblue to the top,
Po’s castle,
where steamy cups of tea or soft fabric wait
to wrap so gingerly in for rest.
White walls like seashells line the door to a house
at last, secure and serene.
Friends of the Council and Po,
assist Katsa to eradicate the mind-controlling Leck,
but it is too late,
calm words dribble on shelves from the throat of a
one-eyed man, this Leck.
Cheer is offered and joy is shared
with the happy Lienids
and a doomed Katsa.
Controlling words sift through her ears, clouding mind, sight, truth.
Escape from these trusting lies is impossible.

“A terrible task he’s asked of us,”
warned he, Raffin seriously to Katsa,
on a previous time on a brisk, bright day,
a man has been sentenced to slaughter to Katsa, the killer,
for gold coins of his fortunes.
The slender slip of steel on leather, a pristine dagger
sends shivers down stressed spines,
coming upon the quarters of the wealthy lord.
The burden of their task rests heavy on weighted shoulders;
remove the daughters or kill the man.
Lord Ellis cowers in blatant fear,
but face guarded, cool as ice and smooth as stone.
They know he is prepared; he shall not break.
Alas, the time has come to crumble bone,
beneath her callused fingers,
burst a vein or snap a neck, a task so simple,
but has lasted much too long.
Yes, defy the forceful peace king, Randa,
and face his dreadful consequence;
Lord Ellis jubilates his blessed day.
Giddon and Oll of the Coucil gaze mouths agape;
the deadly wildcat has sheathed her claws
leaving to depart with an air
of bold superiority.

Hooves sweep the rolling waves of fresh green needles
and a wall of firs lay far beyond.
The pressing of hoof-shapes into soft earth,
the monotonous rolling of hearty stallion’s backs,
wanes good moods of great friends.
The sun descends behind purple mountaintops,
the clear pond darkens and the trees,
seem to be much larger.
Soaked but not cold, Katsa emerges,
dripping with a goose in her palm.
Delectable as it is, the simple meat is not enough,
a comforting Inn must rest them for now.
Po and Katsa sit to quench their thirst,
to satiate his gnawing hunter,
and wonder at these men who believe,
so strongly,
that the quaint Monsean king, Leck,
with mysterious sliced animals who cease to mend,
a one-eyed man, is innocent.
Now, to identify a Graceling,
look deep into their eyes,
those liquid pools of vast skill and abundant knowledge,
to see two colors of obvious identification.
A man with no past, odd followers,
a man with an eyepatch,
this man, Leck, is a Graceling,
murderous in his ways of Graced Deception.

Her shrieks cry out in horror, she falls to the ground,
hair flapping behind her and a girl fleeing;
the Queen Ashen has fallen,
the one-eyed man stands before her,
singing his hazing song of enchanting words.
Why does Po sound so cruel?
“Shoot him!” he cries out in hopeless dismay.
But the cloud of lies has coated and settled
her mind, her sight, the truth.
The undeceived know this a murder scene,
hero knows this an accident.
She feels herself pulled to the forest haven by yank of arm,
covering ears and eyes, heels grazing soft vegetation;
Leck knows he’s been found out.
Truth slips from Po’s parted lips,
creeks seep between toes, splash to ground,
leaves flutter from above, squirrels scurry up sturdy branches,
they must escape, Katsa and Po,
Bitterblue,
to the fortress in the bark canopy,
on a leaf-baring thick limb of the tree,
honest and safe, for now.

Obsidian arrows thunk into yews and maples,
whizzing past her hair, she flees.
The one who cannot be swindled, prince Po,
must be left in a cave, concealed,
by bitter, cold, frozen waters.
Mother killed, Bitterblue clings to Katsa;
the man of deception is close, too close.
Ducking close to the mare’s mane, sprint faster,
there is only one choice.
The child’s eyes widen in sheer dread;
Katsa has determined their path to protection,
Grella’s Pass lay close ahead.
Be Graced and survive, Katsa,
let snowshoes convey across the icy road.
Dart-like snowflakes pierce numb skin and frostbit fingertips.
Alas, the celestial ball of fire lay ahead, setting for the day,
the torrent ice tempest has ended.
Beyond Monsea, beyond Nander,
secure from the frightening blizzard they conquered,
they cross the sea, the saltspray, the foam
and rolling teal waves, like charging horses,
to the island of Lienid,
where Leck lies in waiting,
a spider’s spun its web and lay in darkness and plain sight,
Katsa’s fateful end.
Sea-wary legs up in Po’s abode,
captured by the deceiver’s snare.
The trap, of fog and dishonesty becomes the fake truth in her ears.
Patience and remaining,
Leck’s web of lies spins thicker, deceiving,
but the truth can kill.
Electricity of honest triggers reality,
in Katsa to fight, to survive;
what she is Graced for.
Defile the white laced royal chairs, to stand,
dagger flies through misted atmosphere,
to the open mouth of the liar.

The spell is broken.
Glazed eyes stare in a stupor as slowly,
slowly veracity comes and fills their senses.
Cautious, unsure the Lienids are
of the King Leck’s fatality.
The leader of the Council stands,
thankfulness as a grin on her face.
Katsa has survived,
the one-eyed swindler has died.
She must return now,
over steady ship and roaring waters,
across the snowy mountains,
ride the horse to death,
the mist of deceit lifts gradually off Monsea,
and Po is there.
The ragged breathing of the steeds
is not a fine omen.
Katsa moans frustration, surely they can go faster?
The voice so loved, known, trusting,
a cadence wisps on the breeze,
winds whipping her hair;
Po is alive,
hair ragged, the gold and silver of glorious eyes, duller.
Katsa’s face, and water, sky, earth,
is no longer seen in his eyes, blind.
Tears and hugs, and amends are made,
another secret to keep
their youthful love so strong.
Embrace an agree,
the next king, Randa, must face Katsa, soon.
I praise and pray to you, Gods,
hear my pleas of easy adventure;
there are terrors and storms of every travel,
yet shield Katsa from enemies,
guide her by glittering stars, O celestials,
lead Katsa to victory over every tale,
to a safe return to home.