Sons of Caélor

Chunks of ice fly off in twos.

I tighten my grip

On this rock-salt sledge I use;

I refuse to slip.

With heart as numb as my hands,

I shift to widen my stance.

Chunks of ice fly off in eights.

While I keep the pace,

Salt-serpents hiss in escape.

One spits in my face.

I'm struck by a reflection;

An arduous connection...

What the elusive thought brought:

There, stands a person;

With pale skin and red crown-clots,

By a thick curtain.

Me - in the Halls of Lightning;

But this is not surprising.

A whack, a thump, and a splash -

Stars of black and white

Shine like the boot on my back.

Brackish gunk swallows my plight,

Mud steers way down my windpipe,

To fill up my insides...

A voice from beyond the cloth!

"You, young child, have died.

A fate you could not have fought.

But, now, you are alive.

You were killed by your master;

Your father with three-fold bastards.

"Know, boy; I am your father,

Commander, and lord.

They have deemed you a bother -

Now, you are Caélor's."

Caélor of Nösaavmi Sea

Inhaled, and gave birth to me...

...But yes, I'll forget, of course;

My last, earth-laced breaths, 

Swallows pummeling my corpse,

How I'd not protest

Against that hydraulic press...

Eventually, I guess.

Chunks of ice fly off in fours.

My smudges of thought; blurry.

This is my duty, my chore.

Though our North Sun is fury,

I must bulldoze this slurry.

Spring has sprung, in a hurry.

I push a glacier aside, 

I find ship's remains.

Dusk waters high-five my thighs;

Waves, sailor-stiff, like spilled grains.

In that current choked with men, Weaves and bobs a wooden bin.

Within, this is what I find;

A soaked saddlebag,

Dull and scabbed by wind and tide.

Where, like cataracts, 

Contrasts a child-kind, brined white,

With bruises black as fright.

Serpents weave between my knees;

Fangs grind soggy limbs.

As mud starts to suck my feet,

Stiff fins scrape my shins.

They want my acquisition,

It's nothing to resist them.

And an empty gust growls past,

Like a feline, spooked,

To bat at the tiny lad

Aloft my mouth-chute.

Down the one-way route he falls;

Onward, to the Lightning Halls.