Mournful Hearts
Being one of the Chronicles of Cyron
The day Thorvald left for battle, his wife and son were there to dutifully bid him farewell. He kissed her on the cheeks and forehead; a tender gesture which she received with stoic indifference. Like all Skjald women, she was a reflection of their homeland: severe and unyielding. But - most of all - she was achingly beautiful. Thorvald’s heart burned at the possibility that he would never again hold her in his arms, or feel the comfort of her soft body as she yielded to his ardent passions.
The power-hungry king had invaded their lands with his great host, demanding subservience and fealty. Their jarl refused to yield, and summoned his loyal thanes to battle. The small renegade army stood little chance of victory against the might of the invaders, but they were no less determined to defend their homeland against the brazen incursion.
Thorvald’s son was young - not yet three years of age - and yet he seemed to grasp the significance of this day. Gone was his usual precocious demeanor. Instead, he stared gravely ahead as Thorvald affectionately tousled his sandy blonde hair. The boy did not understand why his father must leave, but he instinctively understood the tragedy of it all.
Mother and son held their solemn gazes until the mighty warrior they called husband, father, and protector was too far away to witness their sorrow. Only then did the tears flow.
Author’s Note: This was originally intended to be a proper short story, but, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite get the rest of the tale to unravel. Upon further reflection, I decided the last paragraph was the perfect ending for this melancholy fable.
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Works as is, there is more, no doubt, but it isn't needed. Good read.
poetry❤️