Storming the Foothills of Mt. Olympus, Pt. 2: Not to Question Why

Yes, the format has changed a tad from Pt. 1. Yes, this is still a draft. Yes, I notice that the line-lengths are drifting. Yes, I know I have a recurring problem with tense shifting, I was looking for help on that.

Awake again. Unlike the dreams, there was no maiden;
only a pile of urine-soaked hay. I regret nothing.

"Queen!" someone yells, "The Queen is dead! Smothered
under feathered pillows, her last breath hot against silk
pillow cases. Will you, can you, may you not weep, sweet
Achlys is dead. Some pious bastard, some fervent brother
of some false prophet, some demon or another of its ilk
stole the life of her who led us to the honey and milk."
"Guards, Guards! Where were the guards? All the guards
in this world are as impotent djinni on a vacuous moon.
Dead by dawn; her life disappeared before birds tweet.
Dead. Now, only by tall tale and legend will great bards
expand her own life. Dead, gone far too soon, too soon,
and my own quest looks just as quashed and doomed."

As others rise from their beds, find our leader vanquished,
they simply shrug and turn toward home. Honorless fools.

"You cowards evacuate even before a funeral dirge reverbs
through this valley," I yell. "Very well! I shall go alone
against the gods. Your leader dies, you run! I won't abandon
this war. You, who would simply turn away, are the turds
that a skunk would not bury. You could not present a bone
even for a siren." Abandoned, I must bury her on my own.
So I set myself with a grimace to the burial of my queen,
I took a shovel from an idle gravedigger (war profiteers,
but I don't envy their task) and planted rocky dirt one
pile on another, down until the ground was unseen
even if I stretched up on my toes. The grave clear
and deep and long: I climbed out, thirsty for wine or beer.

I do not pray; I mourn, but I will
not pray, and I drink deep.

At the end of the day, she lies still under dirt and rocks
and some pitiable headstone, and I sit under a tree. Even
the supply train has retreated out of sight; it is just me,
that pitiable, terrible, white castle, and a dirty loch
choked with algae. Dusk erupts, and some un-heavenly
light flickers from the building. There is no decision
I have made so willingly, to head into that abode to slay
whatever demons, gods, or men that killed or so ordered
to kill my queen. Thusly and forever, I shall forsake the
minor desires of life and love, and my thoughts every day
will be turned to the execution of such a brutal coward.
I know and ignore that such vengeance makes hearts sour.

Sustain me, vengeance. I cannot plead with an emotion,
but it might sustain me for what is a forever war.

I nap after burying my queen, and I hold no hope
the night will slacken my rage, but it turned inward.
How dare I--all hubris and fantasy--make justice? I
shame at the false words I said. I fashion a rough rope
into a loose noose and think. I am not a bard,
I am a fool who makes love sword-in-scabbard
and I am a fool who cannot finish even a fool's errand.
How dare I--all failures in my crowded heart--propose
anything but to dive from cliff to rocks. Why try?
Let me do nothing and not fail rather than to defend
some concept as honor, valor, pride. I can say to those
who doubt me, "I am a coward, written in poetry or prose."

But am I? I have lived through more battles
than memories and I know there is valor in beer!

I face the castle and eye its iron fence and surrounding
curtilage, again the grounds look idle, not gardener nor
soldier disturb the architecture, glamorous white
stones stacked and grouted with more glittering
mortar disturbed regularly with murder holes, no door
visible. This is more keep then castle; a fortress for war
and no other purpose. Fear not, we are at the foothills
of the great mountains, and this keep is but the first
building to fall. "Coward," I tell myself, "before the light
dims in the sky, add at least one number to your kills."
I breathe, close my eyes, and when I open the curse
of fear has cleared and I move to slake my murderous thirst.

The distance collapses as I approach, alone, but the sun
sets fast in the sky. Wasn't it morning not long ago?

The dark is no matter, and there is no restraint
upon violence when I find the throne. I'll run though
that false idol with my hands, and the pitiable souls
he's deceived will be free. Hope and light are faint,
I charge closer to castle, keep, into the row upon row
of gleaming bricks towering over the moats undertows.
There it is! A major door hidden in sight. I traded
grass for rock underfoot. Yes, yes I am afraid.
Wood cut from one tree, two men wide, painted white. No holes
for keys or hands. I push where the wood is faded,
and it moves easily, unlocked. I imagine the ropes, frayed
with time, pulling the door open. I step in to begin my raid--

The sword is comfortable in my hand, and the shield offers
comfort like a mother. I press forward, ever forward.